Nine

Despite Catherine and Martha’s best efforts, their patient developed a fever, and for three days and nights they didn’t know if he’d survive. One of them was with him at all times, changing his dressings, giving him liquids, cooling him down, and making him as comfortable as they could. He was often delirious, and when he wasn’t shouting, laughing, or joking, or muttering sweet nothings to Mary, Molly, or Bess, he was pawing at Catherine’s bosom or trying to kiss her, but by the fourth day, the fever was receding and the worst had past. His back was healing nicely and the swelling around his nose and face was almost gone.

Catherine sat beside him and brushed back his hair. There was something boyish and appealing about some men when they slept. Martha had been by earlier and shaved him and washed his hair. She seemed to be enjoying Catherine’s husband just a bit too much. There was much to appreciate, though, from a physical standpoint. He was a strikingly handsome man with a beautiful body, as Martha delighted in pointing out. Catherine had admired the statue of David while in Europe, but she liked her husband’s body more. She spread her fingers, absently caressing his shoulder, and squealed when he caught her arm, pulling her down against him.

“I’ve caught you, minx,” he growled “and now you’ll pay the forfeit or I’ll send you back to your husband.”

His hands were everywhere, reaching under her shirt and tugging at her clothes. She tried to push him away but he rolled on top of her, trapping her with his chest and leg. He took her lips in a searing kiss, almost devouring her, and his hands wandered to her breast, tweaking its peak through her clothing, between thumb and forefinger. She squealed and struggled to push him off, but as the kiss deepened, she started to respond. She stopped her struggles and relaxed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck, remembering another kiss that had tasted of whiskey and rain, what seemed a lifetime ago. He was her husband. He’d soon be gone, and she might never have a better opportunity to enjoy a man’s kisses. She closed her eyes and felt his lips as they nibbled and caressed hers, and she tried to respond in kind. She groaned when his tongue plunged into her mouth, causing sensations that tingled throughout her body. His fingers still played at her peak and she arched her back like a wanton, inviting more.

“You love that, don’t you, Molly girl,” he whispered.

Molly again! “Damn it, get off of me, you oaf!” She shoved him away and sat up straight, clutching at her shirt, red-faced and humiliated. She should have known. He was delirious and he was adulterous! Making love to another woman while he was in bed with his wife! “Bastard!” She shoved his shoulder hard and tried to climb from the bed.

“If you touch her again I’ll kill you. I’ll cut off your balls and shove them down your throat. I should have killed you years ago. Hit me if you want to hit something, you pious fucking hypocrite. But I promise you I’ll hit you ba—”

“Stop it, English! You’re talking to yourself. You have a fever. There’s no one here but you and me. You’re scaring me!” she said, shaking him by the arm.

“Eh? Is that you, mouse? Come to sit with me in the dark? Come to play?” He pulled her down into his arms, and tucked her underneath him. “You’re a brave wee mouse. You came to fetch me and now I’ve caught you.”

He threaded his hands through her hair, cupping her head and seeking her lips again before trailing hot kisses down her throat. She knew he was still delirious and rambling, but at least now, he was kissing the right person. She tried to edge away, but he was sprawled on top of her, pawing at her clothes. She wiggled and squirmed and he pulled and tugged and somehow she was naked. A thrill of anticipation and fear coursed through her, mixed with curiosity and something else. He’s my husband. It’s allowed. This might be my only chance. She ceased her struggles and lay very still, holding her breath.

He pulled her close and held her tight against him as one hand roamed her body, squeezing, kneading, and petting. It was damp and cold in the cave, and his body was hot on top of hers. She arched into him, drawn to his heat. He muttered something incoherent. His lips brushed her throat, her collarbone, and then trailed wet kisses along the outer curve of her breast and fastened on her nipple. A new sort of thrill, an exquisite aching pulse, traveled from the tip of her breast to the tip of her toes. His hot mouth closed around her and he tasted her with his tongue. She gasped for breath and whimpered. Her thighs were slick from her own moisture and an exquisite heavy throbbing was building between her legs. His tongue swirled lazy patterns across her breasts and she pushed against him, uncertain how to relieve it but yearning for something more. He pressed against her and she held him tight, her back pressed against the wall of the cave, and then she felt it. She peered in the dark to look at her hand, and knew it was sticky with blood.

“Enough, English. You’re tearing your bandages. You’ll hurt yourself,” she said, trying to wriggle free, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He was rocking against her now and she could feel his shaft, rubbing and prodding, seeking entry to her core. Part of her wanted him to stop—one good shove and he’d tumble to the floor—but she didn’t want to hurt him, and though the spell was broken, she still wanted to know. She’d be sending him on his way soon. She had no intention of marrying anyone else, and she might never know a man if not this one. No one would blame her if she ended up with child; they suspected she might be already.

Uncertain of exactly what she wanted, she wrapped her arms around his neck and opened herself to him, pressing against his length as he whispered endearments, caressing her with nimble fingers and claiming her lips in a wild kiss, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. When he pushed hard against her, she allowed it, spreading her legs to accommodate him. He entered her in one brusque move.

He was too large! She felt invaded. He filled her and stretched her and all she felt was panic and stinging pain. She gasped in shock and pounded his shoulder, pushing him frantically away. “Get off! Get off! Get Off!”

“Mmmm.” Still feverish, he mumbled something unintelligible and rolled over onto his back, one hand flung over his head.

If he called her Molly now, she swore she’d kill him! She snorted in disgust. The burning pain between her legs was cooling to an unpleasant ache. She supposed she was a woman now. It had all seemed quite pleasant, right up to the act itself, but she failed to see what was so wonderful that married women sighed for it, grown men killed for it, and poets and storytellers told tales about it. Well… she’d oft been called an unnatural woman. No doubt, somehow, she’d got it wrong. She didn’t suppose it helped when one’s partner was delirious and didn’t even really know or care that one was there.

Unaccountably, she wanted to cry. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a moment later rain fell hissing outside. Wiping away a tear, she settled along his length, pulled up the blankets, and slept until it passed.

* * *

Two days later, Jamie woke from a dream. It had been a jumbled, incoherent mess. He remembered bits and pieces… his father shouting… his mother’s screams. He could see her with her back against a wall in the arms of a man who wasn’t his father, staring at him with hatred, hissing at him to get away. He turned his head and opened his eyes. He was in a world of blackness, though slowly, moment by moment, it was taking on form. He wondered if he’d been mistaken after all. Perhaps there was an afterlife. If so, this must be hell. Still… he wasn’t cold anymore, and his pain had greatly eased.

He tried to collect his thoughts. The last thing he remembered was hanging by his arms, wet and cold and dying. He caught a movement in a far corner, a thin sliver of light, and he heard someone humming. He tried to sit up, and fell back down immediately. Curse it, he was as weak as a kitten! The humming stopped and he felt a cool hand on his brow, and then a cup was placed to his lips. He drank something sweet and potent, and lay back against his pillow, exhausted. Pillow? There was a snap, a spark of light, and the smell of sulfur, then the lantern was lit. He winced, his eyes sore from the light.

He recognized her scent before he saw her, a heady musk of heather and pine. She sat beside him on a blanket in breeches and boots, her hair flowing loose, the same fetching gamine that had stirred his blood at the River Clyde. Good God, but life’s uncertain! One moment a fellow’s dying, and the next he’s falling in love.

“Mouse?”

“Yes, English?”

“Why do I smell like a tavern?”

“You don’t remember falling down drunk on our wedding night? I had to hunt you down in the tavern and drag you home.”

He felt a moment’s bewilderment, and then he chuckled. “I think not. But you have managed to bind me with silken cords and drag me to your lair.”

“Yes, I have. The tables have turned, English. You’re my prisoner now. It’s about time you woke up.” She studied him carefully, looking for any trace, any memory of the other night, but it was clear she’d left no impression. She was both relieved and disappointed, but she wasn’t really surprised.

“How did I get here?”

“Like a sack of potatoes, English. I threw you over my mare and brought you. You were in a bad way. You’ve been here over a week now.”

“And you’ve been taking care of me?”

“Sometimes me, sometimes my nurse, Martha. She’s quite taken with you.”

“Why?”

“She thinks you’re bonny and braw and will breed fine sons.”

“No, mouse. Why are you helping me?”

“Did you expect me to leave you to die?”

“Well… yes. I rather thought that was your intention when you failed to fling yourself in my arms and claim me as your man.”

“I was betrothed, and you are a great impediment to a useful marriage. Had I claimed you, you’d have lost your head in a heartbeat.”

“As opposed to taking their time and pleasure over it.”

“I’m sorry for it, English, but there was naught else I could do.”

“My name is Jamie, love. Do you know, my dear, for complete strangers we share a great deal in common. We both find ourselves saddled with inconvenient spouses.”

He accepted the cup of tea she passed him, enjoying himself as she plumped a pillow and helped ease him into a sitting position. “Now tell me, sweetheart, if I’m so great an impediment, why did you save me? Wouldn’t it have suited you better to see me dead?”

“I didn’t want the betrothal, so for me, it’s very useful to be married to you. It wouldn’t be at all convenient if you were dead.” Although it would have been… so long as they’d never realized who he really was.

“Ah! I see.”

He seemed genuinely disappointed and she relented a little. “Well, there was that… and I also felt I owed you something. Despite your boorishness and ill manners, you did come to my aid at the River Clyde.”

“How awkward it must have been for you, indebted to such a lout.”

“Indeed. We’re even now though, English. Or we will be once you’re on your way.”

“My dear child! I’m shocked and hurt. Why so eager to be rid of me? It’s most unseemly in a wife. I’m usually accredited an interesting fellow by the ladies. I’m sure I’ll grow on you over time. There are few amongst the fairer set that can long resist my charms.” He gave her an appealing grin.

She almost answered with a grin of her own, and then she remembered Molly. “Is that so? You’ll permit me to say I’m surprised. I’ve found you to be highhanded, smug, and… conceited. You flail about and cry out in your sleep, and every time I’ve seen you, you’ve smelled like a distillery. I can’t say I find that appealing.”

“That’s hardly fair! I’m a British peer. I can’t help but be highhanded, conceited, and smug. As to the rest, I’m an invalid. I assure you, on most occasions, it’s the ladies who flail about and cry out in my bed.”

She snorted and rose to her feet, turning her head to hide the crimson flush staining her cheeks.

“Why is it again? That I smell like a tavern?”

“It’s the whiskey. We’ve been using it for medicinal purposes. Why did you come, English? What do you want from me?”

“My name is Jamie. James Sinclair. I came to find you. You’re my wife now, my responsibility.”

“In name only. That’s no reason to travel for days in hostile territory risking accident, capture, and death.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was smitten the moment I first beheld you, and I couldn’t eat, drink, or sleep soundly again until I held you in my arms?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“I thought not. You don’t strike me as the romantic sort. Well… has it occurred to you this business might be terribly inconvenient for me as well? I’m badly in need of funds, my dear. I have a lovely cow-eyed heifer… er… heiress… waiting for me back home. One that doesn’t bite or beat me, and whose family don’t wish me dead. I can hardly marry her if I can’t be rid of you.”

Ah, yes, of course! She should have known. Now it was she who was stung. “You don’t strike me as the romantic sort.” Well… no point in holding that against him, she didn’t strike anyone else that way, either. When they looked at her, they saw barrels of whiskey and stacks of gold. “I’ve explained to you, an annulment would inconvenience me right now. Besides, I’m needed here. I can’t go with you.”

“I’m sorry, mouse, but I really must insist.”

“You’re in no position to insist on anything, English.”

“It’s Jamie.”

“My family calls me Cat. Why do you insist on calling me mouse… English?”

“Because you’re such a shy and timid little thing, my love, and when I first saw you, I wanted to scoop you up and put you in my pocket.”

She looked at him carefully, and then threw him a wineskin. “I’ve brought you a treat. If you’re going to smell like it, you might as well enjoy it. There’s water over there, and I’ve brought you biscuits and cheese. Martha will come and check on you tonight. Save your strength. You’ll be needing it. You’ll have to leave here soon, before my cousin returns, or you’ll be trapped here all winter.”

“Well, that hardly seems an evil fate, what with one’s loving wife close by to keep one warm.” He winced as a wrapped bundle landed on his chest with a heavy thud. “Good lord, girl! Are these your biscuits? Remind me not to dismiss my cook.”

She turned to go, ignoring him.

“Wait a moment! Hellcat… Mouse!”

She stopped at the entrance and sighed, then turned to face him. “What?”

“Thank you… for saving my life.”

Catherine regarded him steadily, and then nodded. “Thank you… Jamie… for saving mine.” She slipped out the entrance a moment later and was gone.

Jamie smiled and stretched, groaning as his tortured muscles and tender back complained. His fair maiden had a heart, albeit a flinty one. She’d not abandoned him to torture and death, and she’d nursed him back to health. That was a novelty. No one had ever nursed him before that he could recall. There were unexpected advantages to having a wife, even a bad-tempered, inconvenient one. He grinned. If she thought to use him to keep another at bay, she was badly mistaken. He would bring her to London, and then, at his leisure, he’d decide if he wanted to keep her, or get an annulment and send her back home. She had a streak of honor, his little hellcat. Too bad for her he didn’t. As soon as he was well enough, he’d take her with him, bound and gagged and slung over his saddle if need be. A vision of her fetching behind, laid across his lap and bouncing in front of him as he made his way home, brought a wicked smile to his lips as he drifted off to sleep.

It came as a great surprise two days later when old Martha came with her three strapping sons. They knocked him on the head, bound and gagged him, and put him in a dinghy, rowing him out to toss him aboard a waiting clipper with orders he not be let loose until he was over the border and well on his way to London.