John kept his back stiff as he rode. He felt Gillian’s eyes on him. It made him sweat. They’d reach MacKenzie territory tonight, find welcome at a keep or a fortified house large enough to offer Gillian a proper bed. She’d sleep among the women, and he’d sleep with the men. He’d make certain it was so for the rest of the journey, ensure there were few opportunities to speak to her alone.

He liked talking to her. She was witty and observant. There were hidden depths to Gillian MacLeod that no one else had discovered. Just him. It made her even more beautiful, more desirable. If he’d known that ten months ago, would it have made a difference? Her father had told him to stay away from his daughter. Even Fia, his friend, his champion, had warned him off. They hadn’t even been properly introduced. But Gillian, in her own shy, determined, unique way, had found him. He almost groaned aloud. Why was it that whenever he kissed a woman at a masquerade ball, it had life-changing consequences? Twice now. He knew why Dorothea had tried to seduce him, but why Gillian, and why him? “All my life people have told me how to choose, what to do, and I have allowed it. But now—”

But now, indeed.

It would be very easy to fall in love with Gillian MacLeod.

And what then? His hands tightened on the reins as his garron snorted and sidestepped anxiously. He looked quickly at the beast, saw its ears were flat against its shaggy head. A prickle of warning shot through him. John looked around, realized that the woods were deathly silent, that the usual sound of birdsong was absent. The hair rose on the back of his neck.

With a roar he turned the horse, kicked it to a gallop, and raced to cover the gap between himself and the MacLeods. He bellowed a warning as he drew his sword. He saw Gillian, her eyes wide as she stared at him through the warriors that surrounded her.

The first ragged marauder broke the cover of the trees, riding hard for the MacLeods, then another and another appeared. Callum was bellowing commands, drawing his own sword, and the ring around Gillian tightened, became a wall of steel and muscle.

The faces of the attackers were masked or painted. Heathens, savages . . . John felt a forgotten desperation rise in his breast, forced it down, concentrated.

“Get to safety!” John screamed.

But it was already too late. The marauders were upon them.

* * *

Gillian saw John galloping toward them, his sword in his hand, screaming a warning.

Danger.

Callum grabbed her reins even as he ordered the others to surround her, protect her. But John was outside the circle, exposed. What clan? Who dared to attack MacLeods? But their plaids were ragged and mismatched, from no clan at all that she could see. Her stomach caved against her spine. Outlaws and thieves.

The first ones to reach them slashed the lead ropes on the pack horse and dragged the terrified beast off the road and into the wood.

Others set upon her escort with methodical precision, two men or more against each MacLeod.

Gillian drew her dirk as her men closed even tighter around her, protecting her with their own lives, fighting desperately.

Men on both sides screamed as they were wounded, and fell to the road. Blood flowed over the dust, and she saw death and agony. Horses reared, and weapons clashed.

Three of the marauders went down under MacLeod steel, but the others didn’t retreat.

She saw Tam deliver a vicious sword slash that knocked one of his assailants to the ground. Keir was bellowing the MacLeod battle cry as he plied his blade against three men. Callum fought another, and another after that.

And John—she turned to look for him. Terror stopped her breath in her throat. He was fighting two men, trying to reach the MacLeods, and her. When he dispatched them, two more took their places.

She cried out as Lachlan fell, knocked off his horse in a spray of blood. One of his attackers reached for Gillian, grabbed for her reins, and she slashed her dirk across his hand. He bellowed a curse and fell back. She saw Ewan fall, and Keir. She was exposed now, the attackers reaching for her

“Gillian!” She heard John’s bellow, saw him spurring his rearing garron forward, slashing at the enemies that blocked his way to her. Tam fell from his garron and lay still, and there were four MacLeods down, wounded, possibly even dead.

Marauders surrounded her, and she knew a dirk would never be enough. She shoved it back into her sleeve and reached for the bow on her saddle, snapped the ties that held it in place, nocked an arrow and fired. One of the attackers grunted as he fell from his saddle. She fired again, hit another man, so close now that she saw his eyes widen above the mask that covered his mouth before he fell.

A hand reached for her reins, and she bit back a cry and raised the arrow in her hand to stab him.

“Gillian, it’s me!”

She met John’s eyes, stopped the deadly point just in time. She stared at him, the arrow still clutched in her fist. She forced herself to drop it. There was blood on her hand, and she stared at it in horror. Whose blood was it? She twisted in the saddle. She had to help, find bandages, fix this . . .

John wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her onto his lap. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “There’s too many—” He held her against him with one hand, swung his sword with the other, cleared a path, and kicked the garron hard.

She felt the horse leap under them and bolt off the path into the wood. She looked over her shoulder, over his, at the desperate fight behind them. She couldn’t see her kinsmen, not any of them. Tears blurred her vision, and she struggled in John’s grip, fought him, trying to stop the racing garron, or climb off. “Go back!” she screamed. She tried to take hold of the reins herself, but he wouldn’t let her. Her hands were still slippery, bloody. “I need to go back—Ewan and Keir are injured, and—”

He held her firmly, his grip like an iron band, and rode on, kicking the garron into the cover of the wood.

“They’re here to keep you safe, Gillian. They’ll hold the thieves off until you’re away,” he said through gritted teeth, concentrating on navigating a path through the trees. “I’ll go back if I can, when I know you’re safe—”

But Gillian twisted, pummeled his chest with her fists, wild with fury and grief. He let her blows glance off his leather jack and kept riding. “Please—they’re dying. Go back, please go back,” she begged over and over again, but he rode on.

John drew to a halt so suddenly she almost tumbled off the horse. He pulled her back against his body and tightened his arm around her. “Stay still,” he muttered. He was staring at something, and she turned to look. High on a boulder beside the path stood a man with a crossbow.

“Well, well—like pigeons flying into a snare . . .” the stranger muttered and grinned. His gaze fell on Gillian, raked over her. Then he shifted the aim of the crossbow and she realized the deadly barb was pointed straight at her. “Now what have we here? Drop your weapons or I’ll shoot her dead.”

There was no choice. John dropped his sword on the ground.

* * *

John felt Gillian freeze, her eyes on the brigand above them. He could feel her heart pounding, but he dared not take his eyes off the crossbowman. He tightened his grip on her waist ever so slightly, warning her to keep still, stay silent. The man on the rock was painted blue from neck to hairline, his plaid was dirty and patched. He wore a strip of ragged cloth around his neck like a stained cravat.

“Get off the horse, or I’ll kill ye both,” the brigand ordered.

Gillian didn’t move. He felt her stiffen, draw a sharp little breath, but it was indignation, not fear. She made no move to dismount.

“Is it ransom ye want?” John called out in Gaelic. “How much?”

The man’s eyes flicked over them appraisingly. “Who’s paying?”

“Alasdair Og Sinclair, Chief of Carraig Brigh. Send the men who were with us back to Carraig Brigh. They’ll bring gold.”

The man’s brows rose as he jumped off the rock. He kept his aim steady as he wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, smearing it with blue dye, and leaving a clean patch on his skin “Gold? Maybe we’ll weigh your woman and take her weight in gold as ransom. Maybe we’ll weigh ye both together.”

He came closer, looked at Gillian, his eyes hard, calculating little pebbles. He swallowed at her beauty, and John felt heat rise in his neck. He’d kill the bastard if he touched her. But his sword was on the ground, and the crossbow was still pointed at Gillian’s breast.

* * *

Gillian studied their captor, showed him no fear, though her heart was pounding. He was lean, hungry, and dirty. She saw rage in his eyes, or perhaps it was the glitter of madness, and that made him all the more dangerous. She raised her chin higher.

“A cool one, is she?” he said to John. “Maybe we’ll just keep her, warm her up, and cut your throat.”

She ignored the threat, watched the dirty finger poised on the trigger of the crossbow.

A bead of sweat slithered down her spine. Her dirk was in her sleeve, but he’d kill her before she could reach it, or kill John. She listened for the sound of pursuit, of rescue, but the wood was silent. Did that mean her kinsmen were already dead? Her chest tightened with grief.

“Get off the horse,” their captor commanded again. “First the lass, then ye, Sinclair.”

She dismounted, but not quickly enough. The bowman cursed, gripped the front of her plaid and hauled her down. She fell hard on her hands and knees. John shifted, but the bowman swung his weapon around, pointed it at John’s heart. John froze.

The brigand grabbed her arm. “Get up.” The crossbow was still pointed at John, and she shoved his hand away, trying to throw him off balance for a second, to give John a chance to move, but the hand on her arm tightened. The outlaw drew a sharp breath and she knew he’d felt the dirk strapped to her arm.

He yanked her sleeve, tore it, and exposed the weapon. “Take it off and throw it away,” he ordered. “Any tricks and I’ll shoot your man.”

Gillian tossed the dirk into the leaves. There was blood on the blade from the fighting, and it left a trail of gore on her skin. She swallowed bile. The brigand carefully picked up the thin, sharp weapon, glanced at the blood, and assessed the ruby in the hilt. “This is no lady’s eating knife. It’s a killing weapon. What kind of savage lasses do Sinclairs breed?”

John took advantage of the shift in the man’s attention to reach for the dirk in his belt. The brigand cursed him and fired. John ducked, and the bolt disappeared into the wood.

With a howl of rage, the bowman swung the empty crossbow and struck John on the side of the head. It connected with a sickening crack. Gillian cried out as John dropped to the ground and lay still, blood trickling from his forehead.

She crouched beside him, but the brigand grabbed her arm, dragging her away from him. “If he’s dead, it’s his own fault. Do you want the same?”

Before she could reply, she heard the sound of hoofbeats. Her captor dragged her behind a tree, held the hard barrel of the bow across her throat. “If ye scream, I’ll break your pretty neck,” he warned. Gillian stared into the wood, waited for the horsemen to arrive, prayed they were her kinsmen. She glanced at John, lying unmoving on the path, and blinked back tears.

But another ragged outlaw rode up, and Gillian recognized his mount as Callum’s garron. He was dragging the packhorse behind him. This man had a dirty band of cloth tied across the lower half of his face. His eyes narrowed as he drew up next to John’s body and looked around.

Gillian’s captor whistled, then dragged Gillian out of the bush. The man on the horse stared at her, then jerked his head toward John. “Is he dead?”

The crossbowman shrugged. “I haven’t had time to check.”

The newcomer leaned over John. Gillian held her breath.

“He’s breathing.”

“He says he and the wench are valuable, worth their weight in gold if we ransom them,” the crossbowman said.

The other man looked at Gillian again, his blue eyes widening in speculation—or hope. “Aye? What about the rule, Rabbie? No hostages, no witnesses. It’s your own rule—”

The crossbowman tightened his grip on Gillian’s arm, squeezing painfully. It hurt but she refused to give him the satisfaction of making her cry out. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Take off your petticoat, mistress.” Her breath caught.

The other man lowered his mask. “What for?”

Rabbie made a low sound in his throat. “Tear it up, use it to bind her man.”

He dropped the empty crossbow and held her dirk under her chin as Gillian untied her petticoat, shimmied out of it, and handed it over. John still hadn’t moved. He was so pale. The second thief used John’s dirk to shred the garment. He grunted at John’s dead weight as he dragged him across the clearing to prop him against a tree. John’s head lolled, but he didn’t wake. He yanked John’s arms behind the tree and tied them. “He’s heavy. By weight, he’ll be worth a fortune indeed. Who’s willing to pay that much?” He searched inside John’s clothes. His hand closed on the leather pouch that Gillian had seen around John’s neck at the farm. “What’s this?”

Gillian’s captor grabbed it from his comrade and shook it, then tossed it aside. “Who cares? There’s no coins in it. Still, he said they’re Sinclairs,” Rabbie said. “Rich folk.”

“Sinclairs?” The man crossed to rub a fold of Gillian’s arisaid between his dirty fingers. She held still, refused to cower. “That’s not a Sinclair plaid she’s wearin’, Rabbie, and he’s got no plaid at all.”

Rabbie grabbed her chin in his hand, tipped her head back, and stared into her face. “Who are ye?”

“A MacLeod,” she said. His fingers dug into her jaw painfully.

“As long as you’re not a Mackenzie.” He untied the dirty rag around his throat and revealed a ropy red scar around his neck. “The MacKenzies tried to hang me.”

“I don’t know the MacKenzies,” Gillian said fiercely. “I do know that if you kill us, it will be you who pays—with your own life.”

The two outlaws exchanged a laugh. “Aye? Who are ye that they’re so eager to have ye back?” Rabbie asked.

She held her tongue. Rabbie pressed her back against a tree. He held her dirk against her throat while he groped her breasts with his other hand. “What about a raped lass? Will they pay then?”

Gillian kept her eyes on his face. “I’ll cut your throat myself.”

Rabbie laughed. “Och, will ye now?” She held his gaze until he looked away first. He let her go, flung her to the ground, put his foot on her belly. “Tie her, too. We’ll wait for the others to return, decide what to do with her then.”

The other man looked at Gillian. “I want the gold, Rabbie. I say we put it to a vote. Think on it—ye can buy all the whores ye want—willing ones—with all that gold.”

They bound her to a tree away from John. It was growing dark now, and Rabbie sat on the boulder cleaning his nails with her dirk, while the other man paced. “What’s taking so long?”

“Maybe they stopped to bury the bodies,” Rabbie said. Gillian felt horror and icy fury fill her. She curled her fingers into fists, and pulled against her bonds, but they held tight.

“Then who’ll go for the ransom?” the other man asked.

Rabbie looked at the dirk, ran his thumb along the blade. “Maybe we’ll just send one of the lass’s fingers with a note,” he said, looking at her. “Can ye write?” She glared at him and didn’t answer.

“So little to say? Do ye not have a tongue to speak with?” Rabbie asked, crossing to grip her chin. He used his dirty fingers to pry her mouth open to look. She bit down, and he yelped and drew back. She spat blood. With a curse, he doubled his fist and hit her, connecting hard with her cheek. Her head twisted, and she shut her eyes against the flare of pain, tasted her own blood mixed with his. She forced herself to stay conscious, not to give in.

She was a Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair, and she not going to die like this.

* * *

Twilight was turning to night, and Gillian watched the two thieves pace around the packhorse impatiently, waiting for their comrades. They lit a fire for light and warmth, and as a beacon to guide their friends to them.

“I say we open the packs, take what we want and leave the rest. The others can choose for themselves when they get here,” Rabbie said, looking at the laden packhorse. He slashed the rope that bound the canvas packs. The horse shied as the bundle fell from its back.

“The rule is we wait for everyone, divide the takings evenly,” the younger man said.

Rabbie held up her jeweled dirk. “Then I’ll start by taking this.”

The younger man’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell Duncan, Rabbie. Ye’ll not keep it.”

Rabbie grinned at his fellow thief. “Aye? Ye think not?”

“It’s Duncan’s turn to pick first. He’ll want that dirk. And if he doesn’t, I do. I choose second.”

Rabbie smiled, and Gillian noted the danger in that grin before the younger thief did. “Then you must have it, lad.” A warning gathered itself in her throat, stuck there as the knife flew.

The dirk caught him under the chin. For a moment he stood still, staring at Rabbie. Then the blood gushed, and he fell to the ground. He landed close to Gillian, his eyes wide with surprise, and she could see the reflection of the treetops and the sky in the darkening depths. She felt her gorge rise.

“Seen many dead men, mistress?” Rabbie asked. “When my friends get here, I’ll tell them your man killed him. They’ll cut his throat for it.” He crouched to take the knife back, putting his foot against his friend’s shoulder to pull it free. Gillian stared into Rabbie’s eyes, silently defiant, bold.

“You’re a queer one. No screams? No pleas for mercy, not even a tear?” He reached down and dipped his fingers into his comrade’s blood, then drew lines across her forehead and cheeks. She felt her belly contract with revulsion, but she stayed still, held his gaze.

The sound of a clear whistle, human, not birdsong, interrupted his game, and he rose to his feet. Two men stumbled into the clearing carrying a third between them, badly wounded and barely conscious.

“One of the bastards got Hugh,” the tallest man said. He lowered the injured man to the ground and knelt beside him. Gillian took in the blood-soaked plaid, the gory hand clamped over the hole in his belly, and knew he wouldn’t last the night.

So much death, so much pain. And for what? There was little enough of value in her packs—a few jewels, her clothes. She shut her eyes for a moment, sent up a prayer for the men in her escort, good men she’d known since childhood, friends and kinsmen. She looked at the dead man beside her. His eyes were still wide, but they no longer reflected anything at all.

John hadn’t moved. He was in the shadows now, and the firelight barely touched his pallid face. Had he slipped away? Left her here alone? She willed him to move, to give some sign he lived.

He twitched, his foot flexing against the frilly bonds made from her petticoat, and she nearly cried out with relief.

“The bastard Sinclair killed Sim,” Rabbie said, pointing at the body next to Gillian. The man tending his wounded comrade paid no attention. He was trying to bandage the dying one’s wounds, give him water, soothe his pain. She looked on, felt pity, despite the circumstances. The dying man thrashed and moaned in agony, and she saw tears in the other’s eyes.

Rabbie regarded the scene without a drop of compassion in his hard, dark eyes. “Where are the others?”

“Dead, or as good as,” said the last man. “The men we attacked were fine fighters.”

Gillian’s belly tensed. She watched as he opened a sack and dropped a collection of dirks and brooches in a pile next to the fire. She recognized a MacLeod badge, and a dirk with the cairngorm on the hilt that Keir prized. Her chest tightened with grief and rage. She watched Rabbie squat next to the pile, examining the items they’d taken from the bodies of her clansmen. Most of the weapons were bloody. He left them and rose to his feet.

“Then no one else is coming back?”

“We’re all that’s left.”

Rabbie merely nodded. “Then there’s a bigger share for us,” he said. “Let’s see what we have.”

He untied the pack that held her belongings. Frothy lace and filmy shifts spilled out onto the dirty ground. Rabbie tossed the garments aside, searching for valuables.

The man beside the dying lad turned just long enough to grab a linen gown. He tore it for bandages, used the cloth to soak up his friend’s blood.

The other man picked up a shift, as sheer as a spider web, meant for her wedding night, and peered at her through the filmy material, chuckling. “Yours?” he asked. She blushed and didn’t reply.

Rabbie whistled and unfurled the pink and gold silk gown—her masquerade gown—and held it up. “Now that’s the finest thing I’ve ever seen.”

All three men looked at Gillian, assessing her anew, their eyes roaming over her, growing hot. She clenched her fists, felt her throat closing.

Rabbie stepped over the pile of torn petticoats and bloody weapons, and threw the gown on the ground in front of Gillian. “Put it on.”

She stared at him. Surely he was joking. “I—I’m tied.”

He cut her bonds, dragged her to her feet, and shoved the gown into her hands. “Now put it on,” he commanded again. Gillian stood with the silk in her arms, arms that tingled, bloodless and nearly useless from being bound. She looked at the men watching her, their expressions hard and cruel and lustful. Not now, not in this gown, the gown she’d worn when John kissed her, the one meant to be her wedding dress.

She dared not glance at John or take her eyes off the man in front of her. Her cheek still burned from his blow, and if he hit her now . . . She would not allow him to strike her again, to rape her while she was unconscious, to draw his dirk across her throat and John’s.

She raised her chin. “I’ll need privacy,” she tried, but he laughed, a harsh, ugly caw, and shook his head. “Nay, ye’ll strip down here. If ye need help with the laces, Alan can do it for ye.”

“Me?” the second man gaped.

“Aye, you—part of the spoils,” Rabbie said. “We’ll draw straws to see who has her first once she’s dressed up and pretty.”

Rabbie pointed the dirk at her. “Go on.” He sat down to watch.

Gillian’s fingers were awkward on the front laces of the plain russet gown she was wearing. She undid it and slid it down over her hips. She was wearing a linen shift under it, but she felt naked. Rabbie gave a low, dirty laugh, and she felt her humiliation burn from ankle to hairline. She grabbed the pink silk and stepped into it, pulled it up. The low bodice exposed too much, and she tugged on it.

“There now. Lace her up, lad,” Rabbie commanded, and Alan stepped behind her. His hands were clumsy, but she felt the fabric close, tighten, plump her breasts and push them skyward. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands.

“Now what would Sheona say if she could see ye now, laddie?” Rabbie asked Alan. “When we’re done, ye can take her this gown.”

Alan didn’t reply, but Gillian could feel his breath on her shoulders.

“Now ye look like ye’d fetch your weight in gold,” Rabbie said.

Alan finished his task and walked around to look at Gillian from the front. “What does a lass need a gown like this for?” he asked softly. “What kind of things does a woman do when she’s dressed so?”

“It’s my wedding gown,” Gillian said.

“To him?” Rabbie asked, pointing at John’s slumped form.

She nodded silently, since it was less complicated than the truth.

Alan whistled softly. “What sort of wife are ye then?”

Rabbie chuckled and looked at the man tending the dying lad. “What say ye, Duncan? What kind of wife is she?”

Duncan looked up, frowning, and took in the gown. “Can ye cook, or sew, or wash clothes?”

“Aye,” she said.

“Then ye can cook our supper,” Rabbie said. He took a bag of oats from his own pack and handed it to her.

Just oats and nothing else.

“There’s meat in the saddle packs,” she said, knowing John, like all who traveled in the Highlands, carried food. There’d be some in Callum’s pack as well. “Dried beef.”

Rabbie jerked his head at Alan. “Fetch it.”

“And water,” she dared to add. “It’s impossible to cook porridge without water. And I’ll need a bigger fire.”

Alan sighed and picked up a bucket. “Now I ken what kind of wife she is,” he muttered as he went into the forest. Rabbie stayed, his knife—her knife—and his greedy eyes on Gillian. She measured oats into the pot.

Duncan continued to tend the man with the belly wound, glancing over his shoulder at Gillian only occasionally.

And that, thought Gillian, just left two—Rabbie and Duncan, since Hugh, poor dying Hugh, wouldn’t be a threat. But there was no opportunity to strike or flee yet, for she couldn’t go without John.

When the injured man groaned, and Rabbie and Duncan both turned their attention to him for an instant, Gillian closed her hand on Keir’s dirk. She slid it quickly into her sleeve and pulled her long lace cuff over it. When Alan returned with water, she began to cook.

* * *

John woke with a searing pain in his head. He forced his eyes open and looked around. He was in the woods and it was dark. Crickets were making a sibilant, swishing sound. He frowned. Crickets didn’t make that sound. He turned his head and squinted at the painful light of a small fire.

He saw the gleam of pink silk, the glint of gold, and he remembered Gillian on the night of the masked ball.

Surely he was dreaming, delirious. He blinked, tried to focus, but she remained, moving around a forest clearing in a ball gown.

Perhaps he was dead and this was heaven.

Or hell.

He tried to raise his hands to his throbbing head and found them bound.

Then he recalled the attack. He saw the MacLeods fall, had gotten Gillian away . . . What then? He looked around him. Besides Gillian, there were three men in the clearing, and one more lying on the ground, writhing and crying out in Gaelic. One more man was sprawled on ground next to him, his throat gone.

Gillian was stirring something over the fire, and the light made her silk gown shine. He saw stripes painted on her cheeks and chin and remembered the paint the Cree, Mohawk, and Iroquois wore. Gillian also had a dark bruise that covered the side of her face from cheek to chin, and he felt rage rise at that. They’d hurt her, and he didn’t know how badly, what they’d done. He’d kill them all. He tested the bonds that held him, but the cloth bit into his flesh and held tight. The effort made his head ache. Was he in any shape to fight? He drew deep breaths, tried to clear his mind and vision.

He was going to need his strength and the element of surprise to save Gillian and get them both out of this alive.

* * *

The wounded man cried out, and Duncan held his hand, whispered to him, ran his big hand over his friend’s forehead. The lad’s face was pale, his eyes sunken, his lips already blue. Gillian could see the tracks of tears on Duncan’s cheeks in the firelight and how his throat worked with grief.

“My sister is a healer,” she said softly.

Duncan looked up, his eyes wide on hers, hopeful.

“Can ye help him?” he asked. “He’s my brother.”

“I have eleven sisters,” she said, coming closer. She looked at the wounded lad. He was young, perhaps fifteen. Her heart contracted.

“He’s never reived or stolen anything afore today. Never told a lie, or said an unkind word to anyone,” Duncan said. “He wants to wed, needs money to buy a wee farm.”

She knelt, peeled away the blood-soaked cloth that covered Hugh’s belly, and swallowed. Hugh would never marry or own a farm. He would not rise from this spot. She opened her mouth to tell his brother that, but Duncan grabbed her arm in a fierce grip, his eyes bright with tears. “Save him—Save him, and I’ll give ye a quick end before Rabbie can rape ye,” he said. He drew his blood-caked finger across his throat. “I’ll give ye mercy. Just—save him.”

Gillian swallowed hard and nodded. She could feel the dirk in her sleeve. “We’ll clean the wound, bind it,” she said. “I need—” She racked her brain, trying to remember the plants the healer at Glen Iolair used for wounds. “I need—hyssop, mugwort, and nettle,” she said. “Do you know them by sight?”

“Rabbie does,” Duncan said, looking so hopeful that guilt squeezed Gillian’s chest. She tried to remember Keir and Callum and Tam, to feel ruthless and vengeful, but life was precious. She thought of the lass this dying lad wanted to marry. Someone loved him.

Duncan jerked his head at Rabbie. “Hyssop, mugwort, and nettle.”

“Why should I fetch them?” Rabbie asked.

Duncan crossed and lifted him by the collar. Hugh’s blood smeared Rabbie’s shirt. “Because I’m tellin’ ye to, Rabbie Bain. Ye were the one who convinced Hugh to come.” Rabbie shook him off and strode into the wood.

Gillian cleaned the wound as best she could with plain water. She tore more cloth—one of her shifts—and bandaged the young man gently. She rolled a gown and placed it under his head as a pillow. His brother didn’t object.

She glanced at John from under her lashes and felt shock rush through her. He was watching her. She bit back a cry of relief and concentrated on Hugh.

The boy’s eyes were open too, mere glittering slits, his gaze fixed on her. “Sorcha?”

“His lass,” his brother muttered.

Gillian took the lad’s bloody hand in hers. “Aye, I’m here.”

“I have the coin at last, Sorcha. I did terrible things for it, but—” He coughed and blood spilled over his lips. “I love ye, sweeting,” he murmured, and his eyes drifted shut.

Duncan looked at Gillian, and she saw that he knew there’d be no saving the lad, felt fear of what he’d do to her now, and to John. Hugh squeezed her hand, and she murmured softly, and stroked his brow with her other hand. Duncan watched as his brother gasped, shuddered, drew another labored breath, before raising his eyes to her again.

“Your man is awake,” Duncan whispered, taking his brother’s hand from her. He looked at her fiercely and jerked his head. “Go. I’ll not stop ye, or him. Don’t wait until Rabbie gets back. I’m grateful for your kindness, mistress. I saw the dirk in your sleeve. Ye could have cut Hugh’s throat, taken revenge, and ye’d be within your right.” He jerked his head. “Get ye gone.” He called out to Alan, who sat by the fire. “Alan, come here, Hugh wants to tell ye something.”

“Thank you,” Gillian whispered. She rose as Alan took her place beside the boy. She drew the dirk and hurried across to John. She crouched, sawing through the bonds at his wrists. “Hurry,” John murmured.

Alan was still beside the boy, and Rabbie hadn’t returned.

“Can you ride?” she asked John in a whisper.

“Aye.” But the garrons were a dozen feet away. Gillian crossed and loosened the first one she came to, and reached for a second, but the beast pulled away, whickered an objection to the smell of blood on her hands, and Alan looked up. He leaped to his feet, yelling and reaching for a weapon.

But Duncan rose as well. Gillian saw his feet tangle with Alan’s. Alan sprawled on the ground next to the fire. They had precious seconds. She turned to find John, but he was already beside her. They needed weapons, a cloak, but there wasn’t time. She saw John’s pouch on the ground, reached for that. John tossed her onto the garron, and she grabbed the reins.

Alan was rising, reaching for a dirk, and John staggered, put a hand to his forehead, wincing. “Hurry!” Gillian’s heart hammered against her throat as he leaped onto the horse behind her. But Alan was beside them now. He grabbed a handful of her gown, held on. Gillian used the dirk, slashed at Alan’s hand, and he let her go. “Ride,” John said.

But Rabbie Bain strode into the clearing in front of them, standing in the way of escape, and Alan was rising behind them. “Bitch of a MacLeod!” Rabbie screamed.

He drew the dirk from his belt—her dirk—and threw it.

Gillian kicked the horse hard, swerved, and the knife flashed past, too far to the right. Rabbie ducked as the horse charged at him, threw himself out of the way as the beast raced into the dark wood.

“Stay low,” John yelled in her ear, pulling her against his body, covering her, protecting her, and she leaned forward over the garron’s neck and drummed her heels into the horse’s sides.

“Run!” she bellowed at the creature as it struggled through ferns and brush. “Run!” She cursed it, pleaded with it, cajoled it to go faster. Branches whipped her face and she clung to the horse’s mane as they flew into the dark, left the clearing behind.

A sob burst from her chest for all the kinsmen she’d lost that day—and for Hugh, as well. It had all been so pointless, such a terrible waste of life, and for what? Life was too precious, too short, to waste.

Then she dashed her tears away. They weren’t safe yet. Crying would have to wait.

* * *

Pain sang through John’s head as the garron stormed through the woods. He could smell pine, imagined for a moment that he was in the endless forests of the New World, on the edge of Hudson Bay . . . But he was in Scotland—God knew precisely where—and Gillian was beneath him, warm, safe, alive—and wearing a silk ball gown that flew around them like a sail, rustling in the wind. She was kicking the horse and yelling like a warrior. Their escape had been desperate and dangerous, clever and courageous, and he loved her.

Having her wriggling and shifting beneath him might have been delightful in other circumstances. It was still damned arousing, even now, running for their lives. She was magnificent. He grinned against her hair, kissed it. His head wound wasn’t serious after all, then, if he could still feel desire. He looked behind them, but there was nothing but darkness. No one followed. They were going to make it.

He almost laughed aloud. This shy, biddable lass—the one Fia had called delicate—had saved them both. This fierce, brave lass.

But it was dark, and he had no idea which way they were going. “Gillian,” he said, interrupting her argument with the garron. “We need to stop before we get lost.”

* * *

Gillian pulled the horse to a stop. She feared John was fighting terrible pain for her sake. She tried not to think of the dying boy, or Rabbie’s evil face, or Duncan’s grief. She reached for John’s hand, wrapped tight around her waist. He twined his fingers in hers and squeezed.

She was shaking, but she was alive. They were alive. And free.

She looked around. The garron stood belly-deep in ferns, and there was no track in sight. Aside from the horse’s labored breath, all was quiet.

Still, the thieves might be following them, hunting them. They knew this territory. And if they caught them now, they wouldn’t care about ransom. She shivered, and John’s hand tightened. “Shh. We’re safe now, sweetheart.” He straightened, drew her back against him, and she laid her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes for a moment.

John was right—she had no idea where they were. She was giddy, exhausted, bereft, and shaking. Imagine escaping from a band of outlaws only to get lost in the wood! For a moment she grinned.

Then her smile faded. It was too cold to be out in the wood at night in a silk gown. They needed shelter and rest, a healer for John, and someone to find her kinsmen and take their bodies home. It was her duty to them. They couldn’t stop yet.

“We’ll ride to the top of that hill,” she said to John, and she took up the reins and urged the winded horse on again, leaning forward, her bottom as high off the saddle as she could raise it. She murmured endearments and praise to the labored beast crooned encouragement.

“Oh, lass, you’re killing me,” John groaned against her back, and she feared he meant his head, but realized it was another matter when she sat back. She felt a blush rise in the dark, warm her all over.

She stopped at the top of the rise. In the wide glen below, the river shone like a silver ribbon in the darkness. It was surrounded by hills, and there wasn’t a light or a farmhouse in sight.

“They’ll expect us to follow the river,” he said against her ear.

“Perhaps we should anyway. You need a healer.”

“I’m fine. Sassenachs have very hard heads,” he quipped.

“Don’t joke, John. Not now.” She thought of her clansmen, and the wounded lad who was surely dead by now. She couldn’t lose John, too.

“We need to stay in the wood and out of sight until morning,” he said.

“Perhaps there’s a cave or a shieling.”

He shook his head, his hair brushing her cheek. “They’ll know to look in such places—even if we could find one in the dark.” She closed her eyes, hope fading after all.

John let her go and slid off the horse. He reached to help her down. He kept his hands on her waist, gently holding her steady. “I don’t know how long I was unconscious, Gillian. Are you . . . all right? Did they . . . ?” His breathing was ragged as he waited for her answer. His hands tightened on her waist, ready to catch her, perhaps, if she fell apart now. She put her hands on his forearms. “I came to no harm. I suppose there wasn’t enough time to, to—I think they were waiting for others to arrive, and when they did—” She tried to smile, felt it wobble. “They had a code of honor, you see, about who gets first choice of the, um, spoils. They hadn’t gotten around to dividing things up yet.”

He reached up to trace the bloody patterns Rabbie had drawn on her face. “Reminds me of a princess I knew once, a chief’s daughter,” he murmured. “She was brave, too . . .”

She gently touched the shadowy lump on his brow. “I think I fared better than you. Does it hurt?”

He didn’t reply. He lowered his head and kissed her gently, a brush of his lips against hers, a comfort, an assurance. “I’m fine, lass, really.”

“We should keep going.”

He shook his head. “It would be better to stay put, sweeting, and wait for dawn. It will be easier to decide which way to go when there’s light to see the way.”

“Will they follow us?”

“It will be hard to track us in the dark. They’ll probably wait for dawn as well, or count themselves lucky and flee if they’re smart. They have what they wanted. Do you still have the dirk?”

She drew it from her sleeve. “It was Keir’s.”

He took it from her silently. “You’ve been through a lot, Gillian. You need to rest a while.”

She suddenly felt more tired than she’d ever been. She nodded and let him take charge.

* * *

John looked at the empty wood around them. They had one dirk, no food, and not even a cloak or a plaid between them. He knew Gillian was clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering—from shock as much as cold. She’d been brave, but now it was over she needed rest, warmth, and food.

“We can’t risk a fire,” he said regretfully.

He heard her gown rustle as she straightened her spine. “I know. I’ll be fine. It’s just—this gown is not meant for a night in the wood.”

“It’s the one you wore at the masquerade.”

“Yes. You remember?”

He reached up to touch her face, gently, remembering the bruises, the blood. “I remember. I’ll build a shelter, get you out of the wind at least.”

“I’ll see to the garron.”

He cut boughs and bracken, just the way he would have done in the wilds of Hudson Bay. He leaned them against a tree, fashioned a lean-to.

“I found a burn, let the horse drink, then tied it among the trees,” she said when she returned. She’d washed the blood from her face and hands. She stood looking at the makeshift shelter.

“Your chamber awaits,” he said, sweeping a bow. “Go inside and sleep for a few hours.”

He meant for her go in alone, but she held out her hand. “Come with me.”

He knew he shouldn’t. He should keep watch. It was his duty. But she was afraid now, perhaps, fragile. More than a guard she needed comfort, kindness, strength—and warmth.

He took her hand, bent low, and followed her inside. “For a little while, until you fall asleep,” he said.

There was only room to sit or lie down. The boughs made a fragrant, springy bed, the needles of the fir surprisingly soft if one was careful. He’d slept on worse, harder beds that didn’t have the benefit of Gillian MacLeod to share them with. Still, for her sake, he wished they had a plaid to cover it.

But she was no wilting flower. He opened his arms, and she sighed, and lay beside him, rolling against him, facing away. The soft weight of her body warmed his own. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable, brushing against him, pressing closer. The soft, sweet scent of her skin rose around him. His arousal was instant, and he gritted his teeth, tried to delicately shift away, but she followed. He willed his hopeful body to see this as duty and chivalry only, but she was soft in his arms, and even in the dark—especially in the dark—he knew she was beautiful and desirable. He hoped she was innocent enough that she would mistake his arousal for a wayward branch. But she turned, her hands seeking in the darkness. “What is that?” she asked, and he swallowed hard, wondering if she was so innocent he’d have to explain it.

But her hand reached inside his shirt instead and closed on the leather pouch, the medicine bag, and she began to pull it out.

Instinctively he closed his hand over hers, stopping her. She held still, waited, but didn’t let go.

“It’s—” How could he explain it? He’d never shown it to anyone. “It was a gift,” he said. She remained silent, left space for him to fill if he wished to. He had not spoken to anyone about his past in six years, had hoarded it, kept it to himself. He wondered if he was ready to speak now, to Gillian, in the dark, to bare his soul and show her the scars, the sins, the mistakes he’d made.

He let go, let her hold the pouch in her hand. The contents crackled as she squeezed it. “Don’t open it.” It came out as an order, raw and stark.

“Tell me,” she said softly, an encouragement, permission.

“It’s an ugly tale.”

“Do you think I’m not strong enough to hear it?”

He would like to have read her meaning in her eyes—or to see the strength in her gaze, but he knew it was there. Still, he wondered if she would condemn him, damn him, once she knew the tale.

“It’s a medicine bag,” he said. “The natives of the New World hold them sacred as part of themselves and their culture. Each person has one, wears it close to their body.”

“What’s inside?”

He considered the contents, felt bitterness fill his mouth. An arrowhead stained with blood, a lock of hair, a ring . . . “Many things,” he said aloud. “River stones, a feather. Once there were herbs as well, but they’ve likely dried to dust by now.”

“For healing?” she asked.

“Aye.” He lay on his back, stared up at the boughs above him, invisible in the dark. She lay on her side, facing him, the light froth of her skirts covering them both, an inadequate blanket, but an intimate connection. “It was my brother’s medicine bag, a gift from the daughter of a Cree chief.” He turned his head toward her. “She was as brave and beautiful as you are. She was my brother’s wife.”

“Is he there still?” she asked without scorn or shock.

“He’s dead. Killed in a raid.”

She touched his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“He was never supposed to be there at all. I was the one—” He swallowed. “I was the one who was sent away, the family disgrace, the thorn in my father’s side, the son who could do nothing right in his eyes. I gambled, and I liked women and trouble. He wanted me gone, and the Company of Adventurers was looking for men to work in the fur trade, to explore, trap, and trade with the native tribes. It was a chance to make my fortune, to pay back the debts I owed my father—gaming debts, mostly. He cut off my quarterly allowance, and I was left with no choice. Daniel was my father’s heir, the golden child. He fought with my father, told him if I was sent away, then he’d go as well. Daniel wasn’t like me. He was quiet, clever, and kind. I don’t suppose my father believed he’d do it, but he did.” John shut his eyes, saw his brother’s laughing face again, the way it had been at the start of the adventure, healthy and eager. They’d left together, eluded the Clive men their father has sent in pursuit of his heir, and sailed away.

“We thought it would be a grand thing, that we’d be fur barons on a new frontier. Daniel knew he’d eventually have to return to England, take up his place as my father’s heir, become Earl of Clive in his turn. He left behind a woman he’d been betrothed to since childhood, the daughter of a friend of my father’s, a neighbor. She was like a sister to both of us.”

“What was it like in the New World?” Gillian asked.

“The voyage took weeks, and Daniel was sick the whole way. He walked off the ship at the outpost at York Factory as gaunt as a skeleton, and I teased him that he looked like a dead man who hadn’t the sense to lie down and let us bury him.” He ran his hand over his face, wishing yet again that he could call back that jest.

He saw in his mind the broad stretches of endless woodland, the vast lakes, wild rivers, and wide skies. “The sky was so blue in summer. I’d never seen such a color before. Yet the sky in Scotland is just as beautiful. I think that’s why I stayed when I came home with Dair. The distances in the New World are much greater than anything here. A man could ride for days, weeks, months, and see nothing but trees. But it wasn’t lonely.

“We were there for only a year. We spent the summer on the river, traveling into the heart of a new continent, mapping, exploring, living off the land. We had native guides who taught us how to survive, how to trade, how to speak their language. I spoke French as well, could speak to the French traders. I was useful, and I was happy. In the fall, I returned to the fort and spent the winter there, and the trappers brought us pelts to tally and prepare for shipment back to England. Daniel chose to spend that winter in a Cree village to learn the language, and I didn’t see him again until spring. By then, the ships rode low in the water with so much cargo, a king’s ransom in furs.

“When Daniel returned to the fort in the spring, he brought a young woman named Hurit, a Cree lass he’d taken as his wife. He was in love. He was supposed to be the one who sailed home that spring, leaving me there. He asked me to take his place because he’d decided to stay, make his home there permanently. I’d see him in the fall when I returned. He gave me a letter to take home to my father, renouncing his claim on the earldom, asking my father to declare him dead, make me his heir instead. He said he’d never wanted to be earl. He wanted—” He swallowed. “He wanted what he’d found in the wilderness there. I told him I didn’t want the title, but he pressed the letter into my hand. I agreed to take his place on the sailing, but I refused to visit my father, be the one to tell him.”

John felt his body tense at the memories, his brother’s face, his native clothing, the feathers in his blond hair, the tattoo on his chest which meant he’d seen battle with the Cree, had fought. Hurit was beautiful, the love between them clear. Grief rose, and John fell silent, fighting it.

Gillian’s hand found his in the dark where it lay on his breast, above his heart. She slid her cool fingers into his, and he gripped her hand. “What happened?” she asked.

“Hurit wanted to see the ship, so she and Daniel accompanied me out on the launch so she could go aboard for a few hours before we sailed.” He shut his eyes.

“A band of Iroquois attacked the fort, wanting to steal the furs. They were fast, dangerous, and well supplied with French guns. They came out of the mist on the bay. We didn’t see them until it was too late.

“Daniel tried to force the men in the launch to turn around, go back to shore, but the warehouse was already in flames, and there were screams and shots . . . They would have listened to a viscount, the heir to an earldom, but not to a man with feathers in his hair, and a native wife. They ignored him, rowed hard for the ships, thinking it would be safer there.

“Daniel stood up, tried to order them back. An arrow hit him.”

Gillian’s fingers tensed in his. “There was so much blood. Hurit tried to stop it, using her hands She was screaming. The sailors were afraid her cries would attract the raiders. One of them hit her with an oar and broke her neck. Daniel saw it happen.” He heard Gillian’s soft gasp.

“When we got to the ship, I carried Daniel aboard, and the ship’s surgeon refused to tend a native. I forced him to, told him I was the viscount, Clive’s heir, used my father’s name to make him do it.

“The captain ordered the crew to sail at once so they could save the cargo. The poor bastards on shore didn’t matter.” He shut his eyes. “They said it was the roughest crossing in twenty years. Every man on that boat feared we’d drown.”

“Were you afraid?” she asked.

He shook his head, a rustle of sound on the boughs. “My brother was badly wounded. The surgeon gave him up for dead at once, said it was a lost cause. Daniel was fevered, delirious, asked for Hurit day and night, called her name. I stayed by him, cared for him. I pulled the arrow head out of his flesh, did what I could, but corruption set in. My brother lingered for weeks, half alive, suffering. I—” He squeezed her hand so tight he knew he must be hurting her, but she made no sound. “I prayed he’d die.” He said it aloud for the first time. She didn’t stiffen or pull away. She stayed where she was, her thumb rubbing his in a soothing gesture, soundless permission to go on and tell the rest.

“I prayed it for my sake as well as his, for silence, and an end to my torment, for being the one left alive, for letting him come with me, one more sin, one more terrible, final sin . . . He woke near the end, clear-eyed for the first time in days.

“‘The letter,’ he’d said. ‘You won’t need it now. You’ll make a better earl than I would have, be a better leader, fix the wickedness and waste of father’s rule.’”

John reached for the medicine bag, clutched it in his free hand. “He gave me this. It was his. A person carries important things in their medicine bag—memories, things for protection, luck, and healing. It cannot be opened by another person, though the items inside and their meanings can be shared. Daniel shared his with me—the signet ring that marked him as Viscount Fellwood, my father’s heir, a feather, a blue glass bead from the tunic Hurit had worn on their wedding day. He told me about each item. He asked me for the letter he’d written to my father, and the arrowhead I’d cut from his body, still stained with his blood, and he added them to the pouch. Then he put it around my neck, to wear close to my body so I’d remember him. He made me promise to live my life well. He died an hour later. I added a lock of his hair to the pouch, and it’s mine now.” A sailor had come and sewn Daniel’s body into a scrap of sailcloth, and he’d been buried, with a half-dozen other souls, at sea.

“I spent the rest of the voyage pacing the tossing deck, daring the wind and the waves to take me, too. The crew forced me below, tied me, and kept me in the hold, afraid I’d curse them all, bring ill luck and death. They put me off the ship at Bristol, abandoned me. I was sick for a while. It took me four months to get home to tell Clive that Daniel was dead—his beloved heir, his perfect child, gone.”

She rose up, freed her hand, put it against his cheek. She leaned over him, found his mouth with her own, and kissed him. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms, dragged her over him, and kissed her back. He was raw from telling the tale aloud, desperate with sorrow and regret. She poured herself over him. Spread her body over his like a balm.

She’d been through a horrible ordeal, seen people she loved killed before her eyes, faced abuse and possibly rape, and she was comforting him. There was more to Gillian MacLeod than anyone knew.

Except him—and a regretful pack of outlaws, who were likely wishing they’d chosen easier prey.

He could feel her tears falling on his face, could taste them as he kissed her.

He drew back. “Why are you crying? Not for me?”

“Aye, for you. For all that happened to you then, and today. You could have died,” she said. “It must have made you remember terrible things, but you kept me safe. If not for you, I wouldn’t have been brave. I was afraid—” She put her hand against his chest, felt his heart beating. “But we’re alive. Alive.”

He pressed his hand over hers, concentrated on the present, on recent events. He feared he’d overwhelmed her with his story, yet he knew he’d not have spoken of the past if not for the things that had happened today, the danger they’d shared.

He felt his heart swell, fill. He could scarcely breathe, though her weight on his chest was slight.

“I wanted to be brave,” she said.

“And you were.” He stroked her back, feeling the silk warm under his touch.

“Is it so surprising? I am as much a MacLeod as my sisters, or even my father.”

“Oh, sweeting, I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

“I wasn’t afraid for myself, John. I’ve lost people I love before—my mother, my stepmothers, and now . . .” She lowered her eyes. “Callum, Keir, Tam, Lachlan, and Ewan. Lachlan was to be married, John, like the lad by the fire. He’ll never wed, or have the farm he wanted, or hold his bairns, or grow old.”

“Are you speaking of Lachlan or the lad?”

She was shaking, and he suspected she was crying again. “Both, I suppose. The boy thought I was his lass at the end, was comforted by that at least. But how will she feel, his Sorcha, when she hears he’s dead? Life is too short not to know love and happiness, to find it and hold on to it.”

His own life had proven exactly that. But some men weren’t destined to know love and happiness . . .

“John,” she whispered, and he heard the urgency in her voice, the need, and knew what she wanted. She shifted against him again, moving with purpose now, an undulation of her hips, belly, and breasts against him. He shivered and felt his body respond.

“Nay,” he said. His hands curled around her arms to move her off him.

“But I want—”

“Don’t say it,” he said, his voice gruff. He rolled out from under her, rose to crawl out and leave her, but she caught his hand.

“Stay,” she whispered. It wasn’t a trembling plea. It was the firm tone of a woman who knew what she wanted.

And she wanted him.

He was either the luckiest bastard in all the world, or cursed beyond redemption, being tempted to heaven before he tasted the bitterness of hell.

He made no move to lie down again—or leave.

She rose to her knees as well, put her arms around him from behind, pressed her cheek to his back. “Stay.”

He caught her hand where it lay splayed over his chest, against his heart. He went over his rules in his mind. He didn’t dally with virgins, or women who belonged to other men—wives, fiancées, sweethearts—or even sisters, for that matter. Gillian MacLeod was all those things.

She was also everything he’d ever desired in a woman. He hadn’t even known that until he met her. He’d wandered around the earth for nearly thirty years without a clue, and now it was too late.

He knew he should fling her off, push her away, make a clever quip, laugh, and let her sleep alone. A long, cold night in the wood was just what he needed.

But she curled her hand against his chest, and her nails tickled him, aroused him, and he shut his eyes.

“Oh, lass, we can’t—shouldn’t.” His voice was thick. “Though I’ve never wanted anything more.”

She moved until she was facing him, the boughs creaking and whispering beneath her. He felt the soft brush of her lips against his.

With a groan, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her properly. She answered in kind, kiss for kiss. She drew him back down onto their springy green bed.

He ran his mouth over her chin, her throat, the slopes of her breasts. He caressed the curve of her slender waist. He’d been here before, knew her body this far and no farther.

Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings on his leather jack in the dark, inexperienced and clumsy. He pulled them open for her, as eager as she. He groaned when she loosened the laces of his shirt and kissed his chest, her mouth gentle and reverent on his bare skin.

Don’t fall in love, his fevered brain warned him.

But he knew it was already too late.

* * *

It was too dark to see, but Gillian remembered how John looked at the farm, naked to the waist in the morning sun. She’d wanted to touch him then, to run her fingers over the silver scar, the smooth golden skin. She wanted it more now.

“The scar,” she whispered, finding it with her fingertips, then her lips. “Was it from the same attack?”

“Nay.” His voice was gruff, breathless.

She kissed it again and ran her hand over the hard planes of muscle and sinew, learning the shape of his body, wanting to know every inch of him. She reached down boldly and brushed her palm against the bulge in his breeches. He grunted and put his hand on hers.

“Nay, lass. It’s not my right. That belongs to—” She kissed him before he could finish the thought.

“This isn’t about anyone else, John Erly. It’s about you and I, and what we want. This is what I want,” she said tartly.

“There are ways to please each other without taking your virginity,” he said.

“That’s not good enough. A taste, a sip. I had that at the masquerade. It wasn’t enough even then.”

“One kiss in the moonlight, and I couldn’t forget you. This—This could kill me. I suspect once with you would never be enough.”

She curled her fingers against his chest. He touched her face, kissed her gently.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“It’s dark,” she whispered back.

“Ah, but I can see you anyway. Your eyes are as green as the hills of Scotland, and heavy-lidded with passion. Your hair is tangled with fir needles and from the wind. There are soft tendrils around your face, and against your cheeks, which are flushed.” He kissed her. “Your lips are pink from my kisses, plump.”

He kissed her again, her poet, her rogue, her lover. “More,” she said on a sigh, arching against him.

“More bad poetry and inadequate compliments?” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice.

“Nay, more kisses, more of—everything. You’re also beautiful. Is it right to say so, to a man?”

“In the dark?” he quipped, and laughed as he kissed her again. She drank him in, opened to him, tasted him as her hands roamed. She pulled his shirt out of his breeches, caressed his skin, warm silk over steel. The soft endearments he whispered in her ear, in English, in Gaelic, in French, told her he liked her caresses. She knew the ultimate aim, wanted that, but she had no idea how to obtain it, what to do next, how to ease the ache in her body.

“I don’t . . . Show me what to do.”

“It’s a dance,” he said, kissing the sensitive place under her ear. “We move together, partners, learning how to please each other.” He ran his fingers over her shoulders, across the slopes of her breasts, a light, tickling touch along the edge of her bodice, and she shivered. “Sometimes we go slow . . .” She gasped and closed her eyes as his hand dipped past the layers of lace and silk and linen to cup her breast. He ran his thumb over the taut peak of her nipple, and she drew a sharp breath and arched against him. “And sometimes we go faster . . .”

She slid her arms around his neck, raised her mouth to his, and kissed him. He opened, and her tongue slipped into his mouth, shyly, then more boldly when he groaned softly. “Can we go faster now?” she asked.

He laughed against her mouth. “Slow is better.”

She whimpered. “John . . .”

He deepened the kiss, pulled her closer still, and she moved against him restlessly. “You’re making my intention to go slow almost impossible.”

It was her turn to smile. “Good,” she said, feeling deliciously wicked. “Then I suspect I’m doing this right after all.”

* * *

She was doing everything right. He was on fire. Her bodice was too tightly fitted to pull down, and his mouth watered to taste her, to feel her naked body against his own.

“The laces,” he said, reaching behind her. They were still face-to-face on their knees in the close confines of their shelter, just big enough for two, and for this.

He was an expert at all manner of laces, fastenings, and corsets—usually. He fumbled now. The strings were tangled, or knotted. Impatiently, he broke them, and loosened the gown, pushed it off her shoulders and down. He cupped the silken, perfect weight of her breasts in his palms, then lowered his mouth to take her erect nipple into his mouth. She sighed, murmured, and arched against him, her hands twined in his hair, holding him to her. He moved to the other breast, intoxicated by the sweet, feminine scent of her skin mixed with the aroma of their pine bower. Her small sounds of pleasure drove him wild. He reached for the hem of her skirt, and silently cursed the endless yards of silk that covered her, as he tried to find his way beneath it. She shifted, tried to make it easier, and he found her ankle, her booted foot, and her thick, sensible woolen stockings, made for riding, and at odds with a silk ball gown. They ended at her knees, and then there was only skin, warm and soft, along the back of her thighs. He skimmed upward to cup the round sweetness of her bare bottom. He pressed her against his erection, and she shifted, rubbing, driving him wild.

Mine, he thought. Mine, as he kissed her naked breasts, her throat, her mouth, marked her as his. For now, an inner voice warned him.

She wasn’t his to keep.

But that made him want her all the more, to ensure that she thought of him when the man she married touched her, took her to his bed, that she never, ever forgot this moment.

A dangerous game, but one he was powerless to resist.

He slid his hand over her hip, placed his palm over the nest of curls, let his fingers tickle the delicate lips of her sex, caressing her with the lightest possible strokes. She leaned backward over his arm, and he could imagine how her breasts looked, arched, peaked and perfect.

“Hmm,” she moaned, writhing. “I want . . .”

He grinned. She wasn’t shy now, here, with him. She was never shy with him, he realized. He knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed.

He laid her down, parted her thighs, stroked her gently, a sweet, slow caress, and she cried out, urged him on, losing herself to pleasure in his arms. He licked her nipples, used his hands and his mouth to take her beyond madness. He wished it wasn’t pitch dark, that there was light enough to watch her climax rise over her face, to let him see her grow flushed and rosy, her eyes closed, her lips softly parting as she panted for him. Yet the dark made it more erotic still. He felt her response, heard it, tasted it. She gasped, mewed his name, and arched again, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh. He felt her release come over her.

He caught her soft cries in his mouth, held her, felt her heart pound with his as he opened his breeches.

He positioned himself between her thighs, nudged her, and she held her breath. “Breathe,” he said as he entered her with one swift, smooth stroke. Her body tensed for an instant under his. “Breathe,” he said again, as much to himself as her. He held himself still, allowing her a moment, though it was like trying to hold back a stampede of wild horses. When she was ready, soft and supple beneath him, her hips shifting in a silent plea for more, he withdrew and plunged again, slowly, teaching her, loving her. “Put your legs around me,” he said. “Move with me, sweetheart.”

“It feels—perfect,” she whispered, and put her arms around his neck. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

He grinned. “Much more. Everything.”

He began to move then, and she instinctively tilted her hips to take all of him. Her soft sighs became moans, then cries.

He felt her inner flesh ripple around him, drawing him in, enveloping him. He growled her name as he arched into her one last time. His release seemed to go on forever, powerful and perfect, and when it ended, he fell against her and gathered her in his arms.

He felt her heart beating against his. He didn’t want to let go, to withdraw and leave her.

He shifted, held her close, felt her relax and fall asleep, curled against him. He kissed her brow, her cheek, her shoulder, and drew the folds of her gown over them both, and sighed with contentment. He closed his own eyes and smiled in the dark, feeling pure male pride, and more.

Mine . . .