“He is not my husband!” you say so loudly that the innkeeper jumps a little.
“Not even slightly?” the innkeeper asks, cruel delight in his voice.
“No!” you and Mac cry in desperate unison. The innkeeper shakes his head and gives you both a look of slight puzzlement and more-than-slight disappointment.
“Fine, then. Sleep well.”
As you retire guiltily to your room, and Mac to his stable, you cannot stop thinking about how badly you wish that you were sharing a room with him, and that he was pouring the same energy he pours into his virtuous work into the cup of your virtue.
You undress and are struck mad with desire for your cup to run over, with Mac’s true mouth working your bosom free from the bindings of your gown—and your honor. As you loosen your bodice to further aid your fantasy, the strange piece of paper that Dodger brought out of the burning building back in London falls to the ground. You pick it up and read the name again.
Constantina.
Try as you might, you cannot puzzle out Captain MacTaggart. On the one hand, he is all gruff honesty and goodness in his manner. On the other hand, he seems somewhat haunted. But by what? Oh, how you wish to smooth that furrowed brow with your delicate touch and run your fingers through the messy ruff of ginger hair.
Steady on, messy ruff of ginger hair? You of course meant the truth! You wish to run your hands through the truth…and all other clumsy metaphors you can apply to Mac’s broken, breaking, bedeviling beauty.
You collect yourself. Handsome Scotsmen aside, you must admit something unusual is going on—there was the sudden blaze, the mysterious parchment, and something else that you cannot quite put your finger on that has piqued your curiosity and your suspicion.
You look out to the dark stables, which shimmer in the moonlight and freezing cold downpour. You ought at least to bring Mac a hot drink, and maybe feel out the truth, which is the only thing you are hoping to feel out. Nothing else.
You throw on a shawl, procure a cup of cocoa from the irritatingly bemused innkeeper, and tromp out toward the stables in search of the hard, wet truth.
Of course, your firm resolve crumbles like an oatcake when a shirtless Mac greets you at the door. You stare dumbly, clutching the mug of cocoa like a shield between you and total, animal desire. He looks startled.
“Och, lass, I thought ye were the landlord! What are you doing here?”
You proffer the mug like an acolyte presenting an offering to the God of Beauty.
“I’msorryIthoughtyoumightbecoldherehavesomecocoa,” you splutter. He takes the mug from you, his hands lingering on yours.
“That’s kind of ye, lass.” He lifts the drink to his lips without breaking eye contact.
You gulp. You have so much to ask. About the parchment. About Constantina. About Scotland. About why those moss-and-wood-colored eyes of his always look so lost when he thinks no one is looking.
And you probably would have asked, had you not been so distracted by the glorious muscles currently within licking distance. Mac drains the last of the cocoa, wipes his mouth with an easy, manly gesture, and hands the mug back to you. You open and close your mouth helplessly, like an extremely aroused fish.
Yet try as you might, you cannot bring yourself to mention Constantina…nor contain your animal desire. You toss the mug aside and grab Mac. He grabs you back, stoking a desire that burns down inhibitions as wholly as the fire consumed the orphanage.
“Och, lass.” Mac’s mouth closes over yours in an exhilarating, punishing kiss. You kiss back with equal fervor, your hands digging into messy ginger hair and not, alas, the truth. Mac throws you both down in the hay and trails a series of blazing hot kisses down your throat and onto your still very exposed bosom. You wail and thrash in ecstasy, arching your back to meet his wicked mouth. “Oh, Mac!” you cry.
“MAC!!”
At the sound of a loud whinny, you look up, horrified to see that you have quite literally scared the horses. What are you doing here with this man you barely know, with his rough, massive hands? A man who by all odds you shouldn’t trust? Too many questions remain unanswered, and you will not get them answered rolling in the hay with the man that is provoking most of them.
“Are ye all right, lass?” Mac asks, his eyes filled with concern. How could you distrust this man? At the same time, how can you trust him?
“I—I have to go!” you gasp finally. “This—this is wrong. This is all wrong!”
And with that you scamper through the pouring rain back to your room, unfulfilled desire throbbing uncomfortably within you. You toss and turn for the rest of the night, your fevered dreams filled with rippling muscles, neighing horses, and bagpipes.
Think about what you’ve done. Turn to .