Brigand (2 page)

As the coach rolled to a stop, Ewan McCloud peered out the
window and frowned at their destination, a dilapidated cottage on the edge of
town. Not what he had expected.

He opened the door and dismounted, shooting a glance at
Mungo, who sat on the box. “Be ready,” he said.

The note had come from MacAllister, but in this business,
one never knew. It paid to be cautious. He checked the load in the pistol on
his hip. And the one strapped to his thigh. And the boxlock flintlock in his pocket.

He readjusted the lapels of his long frock coat and strode
to the door and knocked.

“Who is it?” The thready whisper from inside the cottage
irritated him. There was no need for melodrama. Either MacAllister had her or
he didn’t.

“McCloud.”

“Thank God.”

The door opened and Ewan peered into the gloom, quickly
quartering the room. The cottage was nearly empty but for a squirming bundle on
the floor. Ewan let his tensed muscles relax. He nodded to Mungo and stepped
inside. “Well?” It was a short, sharp query. He was a busy man. He wanted this
over.

“Come in. Come in.” Judging from the tension on
MacAllister’s face, his frenetic movements, it was not over.

Ewan frowned and surveyed the bundle on the floor. A woman,
tied, a jumble of skirts. Her face was obscured by the gag and a matted fall of
black curls but Ewan could see the streaks of tears on her cheeks.

Hell.

What a way to start a marriage.

“So, MacAllister, have you finally delivered my bride?”

The boy paled. “Nae. ’Tis not Kaitlin.”

A worm writhed in Ewan’s gut. Damn MacAllister. Damn him to
hell. “Our bargain was for your sister’s hand. You can’t just bring me some
random woman and think your debt is settled.” He wasn’t a filthy procurer, for
Christ’s sake.

“Nae. Nae. You dunna understand. This is the friend I was
telling you about. The one who helped Kaitlin run away.”

Ewan crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”

“Don’t you see? When Kaitlin finds out we’ve kidnapped her—”

“We?” Annoyance bristled at his nape. “I didn’t kidnap
anyone. I don’t kidnap women.” He didn’t. Never had. Oh, he’d done plenty of
other dark and sinful things, but never that.

MacAllister ignored him—not a wise move. One did not ignore
the McCloud. Not anymore. He was far too powerful for anyone to dare. “When
Kaitlin finds out we’ve kidnapped Violet, she’ll have to come back. To save
her. Don’t you see?”

“Violet?” Ewan’s blood surged. God. Why did she have to have
that name?

“Yes.” MacAllister gestured to the woman on the floor. “Her
best friend in the whole world. Violet Wyeth.”

Violet Wyeth.

Ewan’s breath caught. Every muscle tightened. An unholy burn
surged in his brain as visions of a beautiful girl, a heartless girl, a spoiled
girl—one who had ruined his life—winged through his mind.

Violet Wyeth.

It couldn’t be.

He put a boot on either side of the wriggling form and
shoved her hair out of her face and his heart stopped.

God. That face.

Something vicious and feral surged through him. He couldn’t
name it. Surely it wasn’t heady anticipation. The bitter taste of opportunity.
For vengeance.

Surely it wasn’t that.

But it was.

He could tell from the way she glared at him over the gag
she didn’t recognize him.

That she didn’t remember him—didn’t remember what he’d
sacrificed for her and how she’d repaid him—only solidified his resolve.

In that second, a plan formed. He smiled. A wolfish grin.
“Well, we do need a maid at the Cloud.” He squeezed her arm. She tried to
wrench away but he didn’t allow it. “She’s a little scrawny but she’ll do. I’ll
take her. Besides,” he caught and held her gaze, threading menacing meaning
into his tone, “the boys could use some entertainment.”

He liked that her nostrils flared, her beautiful,
treacherous face paled.

And he liked that she was, once again, within his grasp.

As Callum MacAllister lifted the girl and carried her to the
carriage, Ewan’s mind spun with the possibilities.

Good God. Violet Wyeth.

Not what he had expected when he’d awoken to Callum’s urgent
missive this morning. But holy hell. What a windfall.

He had suffered for years because of her, lost so much.

He would enjoy making her pay for every heartache.

* * * * *

Violet glared at her captor through unruly hanks of her hair
as the carriage jerked into motion. So this was the man Kaitlin had run from.
And no wonder. He was truly horrifying.

For one thing, he was huge. His head nearly brushed the
roof. And his brawny mass filled the seat across from her. For another, his
face was frightening. Hard and harsh. A thin scar traced his left cheek, only
adding to his menace.

He could have been a handsome man but for the evil intent
latent in his expression. His eyes were gray and sharp, like a wolf’s, and his
nose was crooked, as though it had been broken time and time again.

His thick muscles bunched as he crossed his arms over his
chest. He surveyed her with a wicked smile.

A shard of trepidation slashed her.

The boys could use some entertainment
, he’d said.
What on earth could that mean? Not for the first time since this debacle began,
she sent up a frantic prayer that Aunt Hortense had been able to rally some
help. That Ned and Malcolm were rushing to rescue her.

But they would go to MacAllister House to beard Callum in
his den. They couldn’t know she’d been taken to some ramshackle cottage. They
certainly couldn’t know she’d been handed over to Kaitlin’s brigand betrothed
and trundled off to God knows where as his prisoner.

Oh, what a state of affairs.

Her fingers throbbed and she wriggled them to get some
feeling back. Callum’s cravat was still tied tightly around them and they were
beginning to throb. He’d shoved a greasy rag in her mouth and secured it with
another when she’d started screaming, and now a revolting slime was trickling
down her throat.

To make matters worse, her captor was staring at her with a
hungry expression. He leaned forward, boxing her in, and tucked her hair behind
her ear. The heat of his touch seared her. She winced.

Apparently he found this amusing. He grinned. When she
glared at him and muffled an imprecation through her gag, he laughed. “Ah,” he
murmured, more to himself than to her, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

And to her horror, he lifted her off her seat and set her on
his lap.

Oh lord. He was hard and hot. The feel of his bunching
muscles beneath her weight shocked her. As a lady, she’d certainly danced with
a man and been courted by a man, and even been kissed once. But she’d never
been plastered against one of them. Never felt his breath waft over her. Never
had huge hands on her belly holding her still.

She refused to be still. She jerked and writhed and tried
desperately to wrench free.

His chuckle unnerved her. “You’re a feisty little thing,
aren’t you?”

“Mret me mo!” she commanded.

He ignored her. With ease, he held her in place with one
hand while the other roved.

The scalding heat of pure mortification washed through her
as this big brute of a man fondled her. When he cupped her breast, she howled
in outrage, but when his thumb drew over her nipple, that outrage melted into
something else entirely.

Delight whipped through her.

Dear heavens. She’d never felt anything like that.

She shouldn’t like this. She couldn’t. What was wrong with
her?

He nudged the hair off her neck with his chin; the sharp
bristles of his beard scraped her nerves, sending more arousal cascading down
her spine. It pooled in her belly.

And then his mouth found her.

She froze. An exquisite, illicit thrill consumed her as his
lips danced over the sensitive skin at her nape. His grip on her breast firmed.
He found the other. His thumbs began a torturous dance, nudging, prodding,
plucking at ever swelling nipples.

He rumbled a groan and thrust something hard into the curves
of her bottom. She shuddered as she realized what that rigid length was.

He went stone still at the movement and then, holding her
tight with one arm over her belly, he began fumbling with her skirts, yanking
them up over her knees.

Oh, she fought him, scrabbling, writhing, desperately
clenching at her petticoats to keep them down. To no avail. He stroked her bare
thigh, skated upward. Hot, panting breath scalded her neck.

“No! No!” she wailed, but the gag consumed her plea.

And he found her.

“Ahh.” The dark satisfaction in his tone terrified her, even
as the harsh sensation of his coarse fingers rubbing against her most tender
parts sent rivulets of delicious agony trickling up her spine. He dandled
deeper and found her font, dragged the dampness up and circled her aching nub in
an excruciating caress.

As he stroked her, he turned his attention back to her neck,
her nipples, plying her with pleasure. She couldn’t bear it. It was awful. It
was wonderful. It was unlike anything she’d ever known.

A pressure built in her belly. She tried not to undulate her
hips, tried not to moan, but she couldn’t help it. Her nerves screamed for
more, though her mind, her heart, denied the bliss. He increased his pace,
barraging her with one exquisite sensation after another.

His lips roved to her earlobe. He nibbled, nipped. His
caresses became harsher, harder. The plucking at her breast firmed to pinches,
tugs. A sharp slap to her labia broke her. The storm within her crested. She
exploded. Ecstasy flooded her, rode her, took her.

All thoughts of this man, this carriage, this indignity,
fled as absolute bliss descended.

He continued caressing her as her crisis waned, drawing it
out, tormenting her. Reminding her that though she had not wanted his touch, it
had delighted her.

She fully expected him to ravish her then. To yank off his
braes and force himself into her wet and ready body. But he did not.

He rearranged her skirts back over her legs and settled her
on the opposite banquette and stared at her with a hungry, feral light in his
eyes. He lifted his fingers and sniffed. Then slowly, one by one, drew them
into his mouth and sucked them dry.

And offered her a mocking smirk.

He was a beast. A horrible, awful, hideous beast. And she
hated him.

Ach.

He shouldn’t have done that.

But Ewan couldn’t dredge up a shred of regret.

He hadn’t intended to go so far, only to pull her onto his
lap and frighten her a little, let her experience a fraction of the terror he’d
felt on account of her betrayal. But then she’d been in his arms, so soft and
prickly, wriggling against his cock, an armful of fragrant woman. And he’d lost
the reins.

And holy fuck. How responsive she had been.

Oh, certainly, she’d fought him. What lady of Quality would
not? But her body had responded. Her nipples had firmed after a single pass.
And swelled exquisitely as he continued to torment them. And hell. Her cunt had
been dripping wet. Dripping. Wet.

And how she’d come. Moaning and weeping and heaving in his
lap.

God. She’d come so beautifully.

No. He shouldn’t have done that.

Because now his cock was aching. He wouldn’t be able to
expunge the memory from his mind.

And fucking Violet Wyeth was not part of the plan.

He was going to marry Kaitlin MacAllister. He needed to. He
was desperate to finally attach some semblance of respectability to his name.
Without it, his sister Sophia would never make a decent match. Ewan had been
working toward that end for years and now he was very close. He would not alter
the plan. Could not.

So he probably shouldn’t have done that.

Because now he only wanted more.

* * * * *

It was dark when the carriage finally rolled to a halt.
Violet had been dozing, propped awkwardly against the side of the cab, not
allowing herself to drift off completely, but now she jerked to full awareness.
The carriage rocked as her captor descended. A rumble of voices drifted toward
her as he conversed with the driver but she couldn’t make out what they were
saying. She peered out the window but saw little but the shadows of trees. The
lap of waves and the salty tang of sea air sent a skirl of dread through her.
They were on the coast. Surely he wasn’t taking her on a ship.

She shivered. She hated the water. Always had.

The door flew open and her captor—the Beast, as she had
named him—peered in. His features were limned in the muted light of the moon,
softening him, making him appear almost civilized. Violet knew better.

“Come along, darling.” He lifted her out as though she
weighed no more than a church mouse. “It’s time to go.” She tried to fight him
but only succeeded in knocking her head against the doorjamb. “Stop that,” he
grunted. And when she didn’t stop struggling, he hefted her over his shoulder
and smacked her behind. She squealed in outrage.

He chortled evilly and headed for the shore. Violet stilled.

“Are ya sure you do not want me to come with you?” The
driver, an enormous hulk of a man, followed behind. From her ignominious
position, Violet peered up at him—and her breath stalled. If ever a man should
look like a heinous criminal, he would look like this. His face was a mangled
mess of scars and rumpled skin. His brows were crooked and bushy and his nose
was a bulbous knob that seemed about to fall off. A thick, unkempt beard
covered his face.

No. Please. Please don’t come with us
, she thought.

“Tomorrow will do. We’ll move operations to the keep.”
McCloud dropped her onto a hard wooden plank—that moved. It rocked alarmingly
from side to side with the whisper of the waves. In dismay, Violet realized it
was a boat. And not a very big one. She sat up and glanced out over the water
and saw the rising shadow of an island.