Unlaced by the Outlaw (Secrets in Silk) (4 page)

Even when she’d first met him, he’d been proud. He’d refused to take help from anyone, and she respected that. His parents were dead, and he’d had a younger brother to care for. Cain had been hot-headed, rebellious, and he was the sort of young man who secretly fascinated her.

She closed her eyes, burrowing into his coat. Sleep would not come, but she took comfort where she could.

Hours later, a loud cracking sound woke her. The coach swayed violently, sending her flying across the space. She gasped when she fell against Cain, her knees striking the floor of the coach. He gripped her tightly, shielding her. “Hold on, lass.”

“What’s happening?” she blurted out, terrified when the motion sent them both against the door.

Her question was answered when the coach swerved. She was battered and flung against the interior, and Cain landed hard on top of her.

He shielded her with his body, but none of that mattered. Seconds later, the coach overturned.

Chapter Two

TEN YEARS EARLIER

C
ain Sinclair stared at the young woman, who was wearing a white frothy gown that resembled whipped cream. She held up her skirts, struggling to keep them out of the mud, while the good Scottish rain poured down over her.

“Of course, this would happen to me.” The young woman sighed and stared up at the sky. “Why won’t it ever stop raining?”

Her voice held the cultured accent of Britain, marking her as an outsider. He didn’t know why she was here, but he suspected she was wealthy.

Women like her didn’t exist here. Not only did her clothing proclaim her riches, but she was tiptoeing across the grass as if trying to avoid any speck of mud. The dirt road was sodden from the rain and would be slippery to walk upon. At the far end, the land shifted into smaller hills, where a manor house stood. Undoubtedly the young woman was now living there.

“You’re in Scotland, lass,” Cain answered. “It rains most every day.” He stepped out from behind the oak tree where he’d been watching.

The young woman glanced around, frowning to herself. She eyed him as if she wasn’t certain whether she should speak to him.

“I am Cain Sinclair,” he told her. “I suppose you’d be one of the Sassenachs who arrived just yesterday.”

“You make that sound as if I have a dreadful disease,” she remarked. Wincing slightly, she took careful steps through the mud. When she drew closer, she tucked a strand of blond hair back into her creamy bonnet. Every inch of her was delicate and composed. She was easily the most beautiful girl he’d set eyes upon.

With another glance around, she said, “It’s not proper for us to speak together without a true introduction, but I don’t suppose there’s anyone around to do the honors. I am Margaret Andrews. My father is a lieutenant colonel in the army, and his brother is the Baron of Lanfordshire.” She raised her chin and added, “And yes, we do live at Ballaloch in the stone house. It’s a smaller estate that belongs to our family.”

The manor house was large enough to give homes to over a dozen crofters, Cain thought to himself. From her curious gaze, he grew self-conscious of his appearance. He was wearing the same kilt and plaid he’d owned for three years, and the colors were faded to a dark green and brown. His shirt was too large, for it had belonged to his father. Mud and water seeped through the holes in his shoes, and he stiffened as if she’d passed silent judgment on him.

Pride made him walk closer. It didn’t matter what she thought of him. She was naught but an English lass, fair enough to look at. Yet he suspected she viewed him as one beneath her.

He wasn’t. This was his homeland, and the blood of his ancestors had watered the fields. They had fought for their freedom, and damned if he’d let her look down on him.

“The rain’s going to get worse,” he told her. “You should go home before that gown is ruined.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I was trying to escape the house. I don’t suppose it worked very well.”

“Escape from what?” He stared back at the large manor, wondering if she had cruel parents.

“Lessons,” she admitted. “Mother is training all of us to be ladies. We have to spend hours on embroidery, watercolors, and music. Sometimes dancing.” She winced at the idea. “I would rather be outside where I can walk without a book on my head. Where I don’t feel so imprisoned.” Lifting her face skyward, the rain spattered against her cheeks. “Only, I didn’t think it would start raining this early.”

“You shouldna wear your best gown when you go walking,” he advised. “Save it for
cèilidhs
and fancy balls.”

She sent him an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to change my gown whilst I was making my great escape. My mother will be furious with me if it’s ruined.”

“Will she thrash you?” He wondered exactly what this woman would endure as a punishment.

“Worse. I’ll likely have to sew a new gown. I’ll be trapped inside for days on end, sewing until my fingers bleed.” She shuddered, but he detected a note of humor in her voice. “I should prefer the sound thrashing, actually.”

Cain was beginning to wonder if she was even real. In all of his seventeen years, he’d never met a woman like her.

“Do you know this land very well?” she asked.

“Aye. Since I was a wee lad.”

Her face brightened in a smile. “Well, then. If you were trying to escape, where would you go?”

Cain pointed toward the grove of trees in the distance. “There are many oaks and rowans over there. Some are good for climbing, and the leaves are so thick they’ll shelter you from the rain.”

Her green eyes held a glimmer of mischief. “I’ll remember that, Mr. Sinclair.” She took a deep breath, smoothing back her wet hair. “One day, I hope to wed a prince or a duke. Someone who is so busy with his own affairs, he won’t care if I want to walk in the rain or climb trees.”

“I wouldn’t care,” he heard himself say.

Miss Andrews laughed. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wed you, then, won’t I?” The words were spoken in jest, but they startled him.

“Aye, lass,” he responded. “One day you might.” It had never occurred to him that he would encounter someone like her. But beneath her gown and mannerisms lay a girl who wanted freedom as badly as he did. Her prison was made of rules and restrictions. His was being responsible for his four-year-old brother, Jonah, ever since their parents had died.

Miss Andrews didn’t respond to his answer but adjusted her white gloves and eyed the sky once more. As soon as she did, the skies transformed from a light rain into pounding drops.

“Have you an umbrella, Mr. Sinclair?” she inquired, trying in vain to shield herself from the rain.

Cain unpinned a length of the wool plaid wrapped around his shirt, and he raised it over his head. “I’ve only this. You can share it with me, if you wish.”

He could tell from the hesitant expression that she didn’t want to.

“I’m afraid that isn’t proper,” she informed him. “To be so close to you . . . my mother would not like it.”

“As you like.”

He started to walk along the path leading home, but she called out, “Wait, if you please!”

He turned back, and she hurried toward him. She reached out for the other end of the plaid, shielding her head from the rain. “I said it wasn’t proper. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to escape the rain. I do need the shelter.”

Standing this close to her, he could smell the enticing vanilla scent of her skin. Her gown was soaked, and though they didn’t touch, he was entranced by her.

Cain escorted her back toward her home, and she grew strangely silent. Once, her footing slipped on the wet grass, and he caught her by the waist, steadying her before she could fall.

“Thank you.” The plaid fell from her fingertips, and she lowered her gaze. “I suppose I should be going now.” Without waiting for a reply, she began to hurry up the hillside to her house. He stood watching, and when she reached the door, she turned back and waved. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Sinclair!”

Her insistence upon proper manners struck him harder than the rain. He’d never met anyone like Margaret Andrews. And likely never would again.

Cain’s skull was pounding with pain. The image of Margaret faded from his mind, the forgotten memory disappearing the moment he opened his eyes. It was pitch black outside, and he couldn’t see anything. A dampness upon his forehead revealed that he was bleeding, and his head was swollen from where he’d struck it hard. Dizziness passed over him, and he took a steadying breath.

“Margaret.” He tried to call out, but his voice barely broke a whisper. Was she alive? He vaguely remembered the coach tipping over, before they’d rolled down a hillside. The faint odor of lamp oil seeped into the space, but it was the silence that made him uneasy. He used his hands to feel his way around the coach, and when he touched a pile of silk, he realized that Margaret was lying motionless against one door. The other door was now the ceiling, from where the coach had tipped on its side. He tried to reach up to the window, but his fist met with jagged glass. If they tried to fit through it, they’d be cut to ribbons.

“Margaret,” he repeated, reaching down to touch her. She made no sound, and fear ripped through him at the thought of her being dead.
Let her be alive
, he prayed silently. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

He carefully felt his way downward until he found her neck. Her skin was warm, and beneath his fingertips, he felt a slow pulse. A rush of relief flooded through him, that she was still alive. He managed to pull her onto his lap, trying to determine if she was bleeding in any way. The moment he touched her arm, she let out a moan of pain.

“Lass, we need to get out of this coach,” Cain told her. “Can you hear me?”

She didn’t respond, but at least she was breathing. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw that her eyes were still closed. Her face tightened with pain when he removed her bonnet, searching for a head wound. When he found none, he breathed a little easier. She remained unconscious, and he held her close, hoping that she would awaken soon.

Margaret was the saint, while he’d sinned at every chance he had. It was little wonder that years ago she’d spurned his offer of marriage. But he hadn’t stopped wanting her. Even now, with her fragile body lying against him, he wanted to claim her lips, tempting her into ruin.

She stirred against him and moaned. “What happened?”

“The coach overturned,” he told her. “How badly are you hurt?”

She didn’t answer, and he realized that she’d fainted again. Gently, he laid her back while he tried to determine the best way to get them out. Likely he would have to force the door open at the ceiling and try to lift Margaret up. Or else break the remaining glass and hope they could squeeze through the small opening.

But as he stood on one of the seats, reaching for the door handle, a strange scent caught his attention. It was a blend of burning oil and smoke.

Fire.

The lantern must have shattered and ignited the oil when the coach overturned. Damn it all, he had to get them both out fast.

The sound of a man screaming broke through the stillness, as if the driver was trapped in the flames. Cain reached up to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

He let out a foul curse and tried to ram against it with his shoulder, but he suspected the metal handle had bent when the vehicle had rolled. There were no tools, no means of forcing the door open.

What could he do now? The only other exit was at the bottom of the coach, and that door couldn’t open farther than a few inches.

The driver’s screaming suddenly ceased, and God help them both, Cain knew what that meant. When he peered through the crevices of the window, the bright flare of flames illuminated the space. The fire was spreading toward them, and if he didn’t get them out, both of them would die, trapped inside.

“Get up!” he shouted, shaking Margaret. There was no time for gentleness now. “Lass, we have to get out of here.”

“C-Cain?” she murmured, her voice sounding sleepy. “What’s happening?”

“The coach is on fire,” he said. “And we’re going to be burned alive if we don’t force the door open.”

She went silent, and he pointed toward the roof. “The door at the top willna open, and the fire is approaching swiftly. Is there aught we could use to pry the door open?” he asked. “A shoe or . . . anything?”

She stared at the obstructed door, and he sensed the horror dawning within her. “I’ve nothing. I’m so sorry.” Her voice held back her terror, as if she were a pane of glass, about to shatter.

“Ne’er you mind it, lass.” He would put all of his strength into breaking the door, even if he broke his own bones in the process. Once more, he turned the door handle and rammed his upper body against the wood and shattered glass. Pain reverberated through his shoulder, and it didn’t budge.