A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals) (14 page)

They peaked together, taking each other up and over the edge as soon as they’d reached it. Ewan lost all track of his surroundings. He clasped her to him, burying his face in her hair as he emptied himself into her glorious heat.

They stayed like that for a long while. It wasn’t until their breathing had slowed and Deidre started stretching herself experimentally that Ewan mustered the will to speak.

“Was that depraved enough for ye?”

Deidre laughed. She reached back to run her fingers through the hair at his temples. “If I say no, is there more?”

“Aye, lass. There’s plenty more,” he promised, carrying her to the bed. “But nae before a wee rest, and perhaps a bit to eat.”

“Mmm,” she murmured sleepily, snuggling into the pillows. “Food would be nice.”

The curve of her backside was nice—more than nice. He let himself admire it for a moment before pulling the blanket over her.

“Any request in particular?” he asked, but it was too late.

Her eyes had already shut, and the rumbling beginnings of a snore were his only answer.

***

Deidre woke up slowly, like surfacing from beneath water. The room was dark except for the flickering of the fire on the hearth. Ewan held her against his chest with her head tucked under his chin. They were naked, wrapped in a blanket. Across the room, she could hear Tristan and Tom arguing. She blinked.

“Dinnae let on yer awake,” Ewan whispered.

She wasn’t entirely certain she was. “Why?”

“Darrow’s winning at the moment. They might just go away.”

Deidre listened. The argument was about whether they should wake them, or whether they’d both be murdered by Ewan, or Deidre, for doing so. There was a side discussion running on whether only one of them might be murdered, and who that one ought to be. Tom was not in favor of being murdered, but was fairly certain Deidre would want to be involved in whatever the issue was. Tristan was certain they could handle it without her.

It was the last part that made up her mind. “Handle what without me?”

Ewan groaned. “They’d nearly given up.”

Deidre kissed him on the chin as she extricated herself from his arms and popped her head up so she could see past his rib cage. “What are you trying to handle without me? And why are you in Ewan’s room?”

“We’re not; we’re in your room.” Tristan indicated the line of the separation, which he and Darrow were very distinctly not crossing as they stood crammed in the doorway.

“The ship’s here,” Tom said at the same time.

The ship, and with it their first load of cargo. Excitement tingled through Deidre. “Did you send our boat out to meet them?”

“Not yet. Tom wanted to ask you first.” Tristan obviously thought that was unnecessary.

“Send it, but one of you go so they see a familiar face,” she said. “I’ll be down before you make land.”

“You sure you don’t want to stay here?” Tristan switched to Romani. “You might make yourself a countess after all.”

“Go,” she answered back. “Before I forget that I’m fond of you.”

Tris grinned. “As if you could. C’mon, Tom.”

Darrow nodded, following Tris out of the room.

Ewan’s forehead creased with a frown. “What are ye—”

She kissed him again as she jumped out of bed and grabbed her clothes from the floor. “We made a deal with a ship that runs goods from New France. I meant to tell you.”

“So we’re smugglers now.” He watched her from the bed.

“Yes.” She stopped getting dressed. “Does that bother you?”

He sat up, running his hands through his hair. “What do we smuggle?”

“Furs, for now. I’ve plans for more, but that will take time.”

Ewan nodded. “It doesnae bother me. It’s just . . . a bit faster than I expected.”

Deidre walked over to him, standing between his knees. She ran her fingers through the wild hair at his temples, and brushed the shaggy locks away from his forehead. “Everything is going to be fine.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her hands. “Aye?”

“Aye,” she mocked lightly, leaning down to kiss his lips.

Ewan smiled. His hands slipped under the edge of her skirt, running his calloused palms up the backs of her calves and thighs, dragging the skirt up with his progress. His knee moved between hers, separating her legs. The response from Deidre’s body was immediate. Pleasure coiled, starting the familiar ache at her center. He released her hips to tug the unlaced bodice back down her arms.

“Ewan—”

His mouth found her breast, stealing the rest of the words from her.

Bloody hell, he was good at that. Deidre struggled to remember why she needed to be dressed as he pulled her down to straddle his lap. “Wait.”

He froze, poised at her entrance. It was everything she could do not to sink down and drown in satisfaction with him again.

“I have to go meet the boat,” she said, sounding unconvincing even to her own ears.

He kissed the side of her neck. “There’s time.”

Tingling sensation radiated out from where his lips whispered against her skin. She was never going to get enough of him touching her. “Not enough, not the way we do it.”

“What if I promise to be swift and selfish?” He shifted, teasing her opening.

Deidre laughed. “As tempting an offer as that is . . .”

It truly
was
tempting. Even the thought of a fast, hard romp with him left her breathless. Deidre had never wanted anyone as much as she wanted Ewan, and it was a little frightening. With a grumble, he lifted her and set her back on her feet. He pulled the bodice back into position, and turned her around. Placing little kisses up her spine as he went, he fastened it back together.

Deidre had to bite her lip to keep from telling him she changed her mind.

He stepped away and started putting his kilt on. “Am I allowed to come witness my induction into criminal enterprise?”

“Can you keep your hands to yourself?” She clearly couldn’t. The ripple of his back muscles was begging her to put her hands on them.

“Likely nae,” he said. “But I’ll wait to ravage ye until the work is done.”

It was good enough for Deidre. Once they took care of business, she intended to find out how much it would take for her to have her fill of him.

***

Ewan shouldn’t have tried to distract her, but he couldn’t help himself.

He’d slept. It had been full dark outside. The candles in his room had burned down, and he’d still slept. If Darrow and Tristan hadn’t made a commotion in Deidre’s doorway, he might have made it clear until morning. Waking up peacefully, not in the panicked grip of a nightmare, invigorated him. With a naked Deidre in his arms, his body had immediate suggestions about what to do with that additional energy.

Even now, following her swaying hips down the path to the cliff, his mind conjured up a handful of possibilities. He could lay her out on that boulder and make love to her under the stars. They could drop to their knees in the path and rut like animals, primitive and feral. He looked away, taking deep breaths of cool night air. What was wrong with him?

He felt alive—truly alive—for the first time in a long time. Deidre had done that to him. It wasn’t just facing his fears with her. Ever since the day they met, even when she was robbing him of everything he owned, he’d been drawn to her. Burying himself in her and feeling her climax around him, he’d felt at peace. At home. More than Broch Murdo, more than Dalreoch Castle, with Deidre he felt well and truly at home. Now that he knew that feeling, he never wanted to let it go.

“What’s that look about?” Deidre had turned where the trail started down the cliff face.

It was too soon to tell her. He knew she enjoyed his body, and he was certain she had some manner of feelings for him, but there was no telling how she might react if he unburdened his heart. No, he needed more time. She had already let down some of her defenses—with enough time, he could get her to love him back. Fortunately, they had time.

“I’d tell ye, leannain, but then we’d nae make it down to meet yer boat.” He added a wink as he passed her and started down the cliff.

“I had no idea you were such a degenerate, Lord Broch Murdo.”

“Ye’ve no idea still, but I mean to devote a great deal of time educating ye.” He meant to keep showing her, every chance he got.

They reached the bottom in time to see two boats crest the closest wave. Men jumped out, pulling the boats to shore.

“Captain. Gentlemen. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Deidre sounded like she was welcoming them to her parlor, rather than a rocky beach in the middle of the night.

“Miss Morgan.” The man gestured to the others who started unloading the boats. He must have been the captain. He eyed Ewan anxiously. “Who’s yer friend?”

“A bit of muscle, just in case. I like to make sure my interests are protected.” Deidre ran her hand along his biceps.

It was blatantly suggestive, the minx. He realized what she was up to—she’d said nothing about keeping her own hands to herself.

It seemed to satisfy the captain, though, who shrugged. The men finished stacking the furs. Deidre handed a heavy pouch with the last of Deidre’s Glasgow savings to the captain and waved for Curtis and the others to start hauling the load up the cliff side.

The captain opened the bag, checking its contents. “We’re trying to make one more run before the winter hits. If the weather holds, we’ll be back with a full hold in November.”

“We’ll have someone on lookout for your signal.”

The captain moved toward his boat, but paused. “Ye won’t have any trouble unloading the goods? There’s a lord around here somewhere, I heard.”

“That situation is well in hand.”

“If ye say so.” The captain didn’t waste any more words, climbing into the boat and giving the order to shove off. Tristan and Darrow had already stowed their boat and followed the men up the cliff toward the castle.

“Well in hand, am I?” Ewan pulled Deidre against him.

She reached under his kilt, closing her palm around his cock. “Better?”

“Aye,” he managed to moan before she stole his mind with her wicked hands.

Deidre pushed him backward until his shoulders hit the cliff wall. He wasn’t certain what she was about, but Ewan was happy to let her have her way. She kissed him while she drove him mad with slow strokes.

“Deidre, I need—” He gasped as her palm slid and rotated, hastening her rhythm.

“Tell me,” she purred. “Tell me what you need.”

He tried to hold back. He wanted all of her, the wet heat of her and the feel of her legs wrapped around him. Just thinking about it pushed him too far. His hips jerked forward and he spilled his seed onto the rocky beach with a shout.

Deidre nuzzled her face against his chest, grinning. “As I said, well in hand.”

Bloody vixen. “It’s nae amusing.”

“It’s a bit amusing,” she said, kissing his chin.

“I’ve embarrassed myself.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye.”

“Well then,” she said. “I suppose we’d better get back so you can try to redeem yourself.”

Chapter 17

“Oi. Dee! Are you even listening?” Tristan smacked her on the arm.

“Ouch! What?”

It had been like this all morning—all week, if she were honest. Deidre couldn’t keep her thoughts on the task at hand. They were stuck in a loop of her and Ewan’s whirlwind of lovemaking. It was embarrassing enough when they were at the castle, but it was the worst kind of dangerous when they were working. Like they were right now.

“I said, ‘Isn’t that our man?’” Tristan pointed to a stout little man disappearing down an alley. “Bloody hell, you’ve got it bad. Get yourself together.”

Deidre shook off her reverie and followed the man. Tristan trailed a few feet behind her. When she entered the alley, he stayed to keep an eye out.

“Excuse me,” she said as her quarry was unlocking the back door of a shop that let out into the alley. “I need a moment of your time.”

“I’m sorry. The shop’s nae open yet,” he said over his shoulder.

“I know. It’s not the sort of thing I want to discuss with witnesses.”

He looked around the alley, then looked her over. He sidled closer, licking his lips. “Isnae it . . . a bit early for that sort of thing?”

For God’s sake. She slapped his reaching hand away. “Not that sort of business.”

“Oh.” His disappointment was blatant. “Well, then I’m afraid the shop’s nae—”

“I hear you’re the man to see about offloading black market goods.” She didn’t want to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary next to this cretin.

“I dinnae ken what yer talking about.”

“Please don’t try to play the fool with me, suited though you may be to the role. I haven’t the patience.”

“What my sister means to say,” Tris said, swooping in with a glare in her direction. “Is that we completely understand why a man in your position would need to maintain discretion. But we have a mutual friend who assures us you’re the man to see.”

The shopkeeper looked around again, trying to ascertain where Tristan had come from.

“Around the corner, you imbe—”

“Dee, why don’t you take a walk while I handle this?”

She nodded. What the hell was wrong with her? She was barely out of the alley when she realized the answer. It was Ewan. Before Ewan, letting unscrupulous perverts put their hands on her had been just another part of the job. It was part of her value as the bait and in negotiations. Now, she didn’t just crave Ewan’s touched. She abhorred anyone else’s.

Deidre leaned against a wall, desperately trying to convince herself it wasn’t true. If it was, it was a career-ending problem. She was still smart and quick with her hands, but if she couldn’t pretend she was at least indifferent when men showed interest, she would be completely ineffective. It was a serious problem.

So was the voice that came from behind her. “’Ello, poppet.”

Deidre looked for possible escapes. There were a few, but she couldn’t leave Tristan behind. She turned. “Teller. What brings you this far north?”

“Playing coy now, eh? I told ye before—‘e wants to see ye.” Teller grabbed her arm hard enough to hurt.

She dug her heels in. “Where are you taking me?”

“Nae far.” He leaned in close. “Are ye gonna struggle, Dee? I wouldnae mind a bit of a tussle. I owe ye at least one for Wick.”

She barely heard his threat. The implication of not far . . . Blind panic flashed through Deidre. He couldn’t be here. “Alastair doesn’t leave Glasgow.”

“For Lady Dee, apparently he does.”

She was numb as she let Teller pull her down the street toward a rundown inn at the end of town. They had escaped. They were free of him. Alastair hated leaving Glasgow—hated leaving his network of thugs and sycophants. Coming this far north should have been enough.

Teller pulled her through a door and up a set of back stairs. They passed a handful of familiar faces from Alastair’s gang in Glasgow loitering intermittently on the way. Two turns down a narrow hallway and she was being shoved again, through the door to a cramped room above the taproom. She could tell because of the noise drifting through the floorboards. The same noise that would ensure no one heard anything coming from the room they were in.

There was a chair by the window, and in it sat Alastair. Every strand of his hair was perfectly in place. His face held the same boyish grin it always did, but as usual, it didn’t meet his eyes. Those pale blue orbs were cold as they ran the length of her.

“I’m disappointed in you, Deidre.” His voice sent a shiver of fear through her.

She’d been attracted to that smooth timbre once. It had a way of lulling the senses into complacency—a dangerous thing to become with a man who could order his dogs to dismember someone without ever changing his tone.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” His cheek twitched, just beneath his eye. He’d expected her to respond. Beg his forgiveness perhaps?

“What are you doing here?” she asked, feigning nonchalance as she leaned against the dresser.

It twitched again. “Did you think I would just let you go?”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. I’m on a job.”

His eyes slid to Teller, hard as granite. “A job?”

“She’s lying. She’s shacked up with that big redheaded cove wot’ busted up me an’ Wick.”

Alastair returned his gaze to Deidre with a raised eyebrow.

“Like I said—a job.”

He stood, closing the distance between himself and Deidre. Alastair ran the edge of his finger along her chin, tipping it up so her eyes met his. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Deidre?”

She was playing a very dangerous game, but the only thing to do was keep playing. She steeled her nerves and leaned closer, until their lips were a breath apart. “I’m a bit more intelligent than that, don’t you think?”

Whether it was being away from the city or his unusual attachment to her, there were chinks in the armor of control he prided himself on. He closed the distance, crushing her mouth in a bruising kiss. Knowing what he wanted from her, Deidre forced herself to respond in kind. She kissed him back with ferocity.

He pulled away, touching his lip where her teeth had broken skin. His satisfaction was evident. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Teller glared daggers at her from his post by the door.

“So tell me, what’s this job?” Alastair asked, sitting back in his chair.

***

Sunlight streamed through the window of the castle’s large kitchen, illuminating the flour particles that hung in the air. Ewan buried his hands in the dough, sending another burst upward. He whistled while he kneaded, unable to keep silent in his present mood.

Things were going well with Deidre. When he’d brought her to climax this morning, it seemed like she’d been on the verge of saying she loved him. It wouldn’t have counted—when she finally confessed it, Ewan would allow no question in either of their minds if she’d meant it—but it was definitely a step in the right direction.

He shaped the loaf, setting it to rise, and started on the next one.

Darrow came into the kitchen, stopping short.

“Darrow.”

“Your lordship,” he said with a bob of his head. “We having a party?”

“No, why?”

Tom smiled. “You’re making enough bread to feed an army.”

Ewan looked around. Every available surface was covered in regimented rows of dough. “I like bread.”

“Sensible. Nothing wrong with a fresh-baked loaf. Or twenty.”

“I may have made a bit more dough than I planned,” Ewan admitted. “I’m nae used to baking.”

“Why would you be? You’re not a baker.”

“Exactly, but Deidre said she missed—” Ewan stopped talking.

Darrow smiled again. “The lass wants bread?”

“Aye.” Ewan felt his face heat with embarrassment. He’d wanted to surprise her with fresh-baked bread, but then there’d been so much dough. You couldn’t just leave it, could you? Better to make it all. He was sure they’d find a use for it.

“You could make different kinds, maybe,” Tom said, considering the loaves.

It was a good idea. Ewan started pulling down things they could use to flavor them.

Tom set a basket of sweet herbs on a stool in lieu of the filled table. He hesitated, before saying “She cares for you as well.”

Ewan didn’t answer, choosing instead to start grinding cinnamon sticks into powder.

“Not that there’s any reason she wouldn’t. You’re an earl, after all. It’s just . . .” Tom trailed off, letting the silence fill the kitchen.

“She’s a complicated woman,” Ewan finished.

“Exactly.”

“I dinnae mind the complicated so much,” Ewan confessed. “But it would be nice to ken for certain what she was thinking sometimes.”

What was he doing? He didn’t want to unburden his soul to Darrow. He realized he did need to unburden it to someone. Not telling Deidre how he felt was taking a toll on him—and their larder, if his current undertaking was any indication.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Angus asked from the doorway.

Bloody perfect. Angus was the last person he needed witnessing whatever this was.

“We needed bread,” Ewan said lamely.

Angus looked around the kitchen, surveying their efforts. “What are ye doing with the cinnamon?”

“We were going to flavor them,” Tom supplied.

Angus’s face took on a look like he’d swallowed something sour. “Ye cannae just add cinnamon.”

“Why nae?” Ewan had had cinnamon bread before. It seemed simple enough. Take bread, add cinnamon, get cinnamon bread.

“It’s the wrong sort of bread, for starters.” The older man shook his head and started rolling up his sleeves. “And ye add it when yer mixing, nae after, ye idiots.”

Ewan had managed to do pretty well without his help. “What do ye ken about baking bread?”

“A damn sight more than the two of ye, evidently.” He grabbed salt and the herbs from the stool. “Ewan, hand me that bowl.”

***

The ride home was long and silent. Tristan had managed to make the deal on his own, but he was angry with her for botching her end. Deidre’s mind was on Alastair.

He’d believed her—enough to let her go, at any rate—but he knew about Ewan and Broch Murdo. It wasn’t safe for them there anymore. As the horses plodded down the road, she admitted to herself that nowhere was. If Alastair was willing to leave his lair to come find her, was there anywhere she could go to escape him?

Deidre told her story as Teller and Wick unknowingly attacking a lord, and Deidre pulling a quick damsel in distress to keep him from bringing the law down on them all. She needed to keep the ruse up long enough that the alley fight would be the last thing on his mind when she finally disappeared. In the meantime, she was working on making a little money to help pay down Tristan’s debts.

It was close enough to the truth that Alastair had believed her. Teller obviously wanted to leave her body in a ditch somewhere, but he wouldn’t lay a finger to her as long as she still had Alastair’s favor. It had gone as well as it could have, with the exception of a moment at the end.

“Did you let him fuck you?” Alastair asked, almost as an afterthought.

Deidre knew better. “Of course not.”

A perfect eyebrow raised in doubt. “It would be understandable if you had. Noblemen are very big fish to keep on the hook without some kind of incentive.”

“Are you doubting my ability to bait a man?”

“Earls are used to getting more than a nibble.”

“An earl is still just a man,” Deidre had said.

Alastair had always liked the idea that she could play any man, but he was the only one who could actually have her. She’d realized far too late that it was the mark of an ugly jealousy—a possessive need to control every aspect of her life, even other men’s attraction to her.

“Tris,” she asked, breaking the silence. “Do you like Ewan?”

“Not as much as you do, clearly.” He amused himself with his own cleverness.

Deidre was too worried to humor him. “But you like him enough not to want to see him dead?”

“Dead? Christ, Dee. What’s got you all maudlin?”

“Just answer, Tristan.” She shouldn’t push him. If she pushed, he’d realize something was wrong. She couldn’t help it, though—she needed to have this out.

“Obnoxious as it’s been to watch you two falling all over each other lately,” he said pointedly. “No, I don’t want him dead.”

“You know if we ever . . . if Alastair ever heard about Ewan and me, Alastair would have him killed.”

The playfulness drained out of him. “I thought we were staying here for a while.”

“We are.”

“Then why are you—”

“Just in case. If it ever came up, I’d hate for a man to lose his life because you weren’t thinking.”

Tris reined in his horse. “What the hell is going on, Dee?”

“Nothing.” Deidre couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t trust her brother not to run straight back to Alastair.

“Right. Remind me again why people don’t immediately see through your lies?” He didn’t believe her, but at least he was willing to leave it be.

“Sensual allure,” she said, exaggerating a leer at him.

Tristan pretended to retch. “Promise never to make that face again, and I promise to pretend you and Ewan play piquet all night . . . and most of the day.”

“Deal.”