Brigand (6 page)

Carefully, he sat on the cot by her side. And winced. It was
hard as a rock. He gently took her chin in his hold and turned her head to
examine the bruise. His attention snagged on the curve of her long swanlike
neck. Flawless white skin marked only with bruises shaped suspiciously like
fingers.

A nasty worm curled in his belly. He fixed his attention on
her cheek. It was bad. It must have been a vicious swipe. “Why did he hit you?”

His question infuriated her. He saw it in the tight lines of
her face, felt it in the sudden humming tension engulfing her. “Because I
wouldn’t let him rape me, I suppose.” This, she spat.

He cringed. Of course. “I’m so sorry, Violet. I don’t know
what else to say.”

“Say good night. And leave me in peace.” She tried to jerk
away but he tightened his hold. He shouldn’t have. She gasped in pain. But he
didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Instead he lightened his touch and stroked her with
his thumb.

God. Her skin was like silk. Soft and smooth. Irresistible.
He hated that it had been marred. He bent his head and touched his lips to the
bruises on her neck. Lightly. A whisper. Bussing one after another.

“I’m sorry,” he said after each kiss. “I’m sorry.” Her pulse
fluttered beneath his lips, thrummed. But she held herself still. Didn’t move.
He kissed the curve of her jaw where it met her ear and followed the line, over
that hideous purple mass, to her lips.

He’d vowed he’d never kiss her again. Sworn he didn’t even
want to. But when their lips met, when he tasted her, he knew it was a lie.
He’d wanted this. He’d always wanted this.

She made a muffled sound as his mouth sealed hers, but she
didn’t pull away. And more importantly, she didn’t poke him with her knife. She
set her tiny hand to his chest as though she intended to push him back, but
then she fisted it in his shirt.

He tried to be as gentle as he could. He didn’t want to hurt
her any more than he already had. But when she responded, when she leaned in to
him and opened to him, when her tongue met his in a tentative foray, he lost
the thread of his control. He eased her down onto the bed and covered her with
his body. He set a palm on her uninjured cheek and held her in place as he
consumed her.

It was heaven. Like coming home. A tremendous rush of peace
and rightness washed over him. Violet, his Violet, was back in his arms.

How had he ever hated her?

He changed his angle, deepened the kiss, infused it with all
his hunger, all his desire, all his want. She stroked the nape of his neck.
When he cupped her breast, nudged a puckered nipple, she gasped and her nails
scored him.

“Aw, Violet,” he breathed.

She stilled and his heart gave a thud. Hell, had he reminded
her where they were? Who he was? Determined to distract her, he returned his
attention to her neck, reveling in the quivers his nibbles evoked.

“Ewan.” A whisper.

Yes. Better. He sucked the velvety skin at her nape.

“Ewan.” She threaded her fingers into his hair…and tugged.

He, perforce, lifted his head. “What?”

“Someone’s there. At the door.”

He froze and a slight scratching from the hall floated
toward him. He focused on the sound, willing his ears to hear more than rushing
blood.

And he heard them. Whispers.

Like a cat, he leapt from the bed and tiptoed across the
room, shivering as the stone floor kissed his bare feet. He hovered by the door
and listened.

“You got it yet?”

“Not yet. Quiet. You’ll wake her.”

“Oh, I plans to wake her.”

Fuck. Rory and Tavish. Two of his youngest recruits. And
they were trying to break in.

The idiots didn’t even realize the door wasn’t locked.

“I thought you said you snitched the right key from Morna.”

“I did.”

“You sure you didn’t wake her?”

“She was snoring like a hound. Now shut up and let me work.”

Ewan could take no more. He flung open the door.

The men, hunkered down on the floor, gaped up at him. Their
Adam’s apples bobbed in tandem.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” he boomed.

Rory fell on his behind. Tavish dropped the keys. “Uh,
n-nothing, McCloud.”

A bold-faced lie. Ewan’s fury rose. “Did I or did I not give
strict orders that no one was to come to the cellar?”

“I-I… H-he… W-we…” Rory’s lips flapped.

“Go.” And when they didn’t move quickly enough, again, this
time a roar. “Go!”

They skittered up the stairs, not bothering to take their
lamp.

Hell. Hell and damnation. She wasn’t safe. Not even here in
the dungeon where he could lock her in.

The only place she would truly be safe was with him.

He glanced over his shoulder. Violet perched on the bed,
ready to flee, with her threadbare blanket clutched at her neck, eyes wide,
knuckles white. Her hair cascading in thick ropes over her shoulders. Her lips
apart and trembling.

And he knew.

He knew.

She wasn’t safe with him either.

Violet wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or worried that
Ewan had decided to release her from the dungeon and take her up to his nice
warm solar. But once she saw the fire, she didn’t care. She rushed toward it
with her hands outstretched and shuddered with pleasure as delicious heat
seeped into her bones.

He poured some amber liquid in a crystal glass and thrust it
at her. “Drink this.” His voice was gruff.

“What is it?”

“Whisky. It will warm you.”

She took a sip and grimaced.

He poured himself a dram and tossed it back, then poured
another, sat in one of the chairs by the fire and nursed it as he studied her.

She disliked his intensity. It made her self-conscious. But
she sloughed the feeling off and adopted a mantle of insouciance. At least she
hoped it was insouciance. The whisky helped tremendously. She sashayed to the
other chair and sat as well, then dragged it closer to the fire and poked her
feet toward the licking flames.

He stared at her feet and frowned. She couldn’t help looking
down as well, and she grimaced. No wonder they’d captured his attention.

Her delicate slippers had finally fallen apart and she’d
spent the better part of the day with bare feet. They were filthy.

He stood and crossed to the dresser, picked up his water
pitcher and poured it into a bucket, which he set on the hearth.

“What are you doing?”

He glanced at her. “Warming water. Those feet need to be
washed before you crawl into my bed.”

An incongruous laugh bubbled from her lips. “I’m not getting
in your bed.”

A storm cloud lowered his brow. “You most certainly are.”

She took another sip of her whisky. Then another. “I shall
not. I already escaped that fate twice today, thank you very much.”

Ooh. He didn’t like that. The storm cloud darkened more. For
some reason it amused her.

“I am not Craig. I do not force women.”

“Oh pish.” She waggled her fingers at him. “You’ve bullied
me plenty since you kidnapped me.”

“I didn’t kidnap you! That was Callum MacAllister.”

“You brought me here. You held me prisoner. You made me
slave in your kitchens.” She leaned forward and hissed, “You locked me in your
dungeon.”

“It wasn’t like that and you know it.” But it was. It was
exactly like that. He knew it too. She could tell by the red tide creeping up
his cheeks.

A curl of warm elation settled in the region of her chest.
She swung her feet—in this chair they didn’t touch the floor. “I can’t imagine
what Edward will have to say about all this.”

It was comical, the way he blanched. Spewed his drink.
Sputtered. “Edward? Who the hell is Edward? Is he your beau?”

Really. There was no need for him to snarl the word.

“Edward is my cousin. He’s a duke. And a very powerful man.
He will very likely have you hanged. That’s what they do to men who kidnap
girls, you know.”

“I didn’t kidnap you.”

“I doubt it will make any difference.”

He glared at the fire and tossed back his drink. “Probably
not,” he grumbled.

They sat in pleasant silence for a minute or two. Well, it
was pleasant for her. She was enjoying his discomfort. Perhaps it was the
whisky that made her bold, or the fact that she’d been so miserable when the
evening ended and was not so miserable now, but when the question that had been
plaguing her rose in her mind, she asked it.

“Ewan, why do you hate me so?” She was glad her tone was
merely quizzical and not melodramatic, as it probably would have been had she
not downed half her drink.

He blanched again. “I don’t hate you.” He got up and poured
another dram. And then brought the decanter back to the little table between
them.

“You do. You hate me.” She studied him from beneath her
lashes. “I wish I knew why. When I was a girl I…I thought you liked me.”

He rubbed his palm over his face. “I did like you.”

“Then what changed?”

He didn’t answer so she asked the other question burning in
her breast. “Why did you leave Browning?”

His head snapped up. The feral look in his eyes gave her a
start. “I didn’t leave.”

“You did. One day you were there…and then you were gone.”

“I didn’t leave. I was banished.”

Her heart thudded. “What?”

“My mother was turned out. Let go. Without references.”

All the blood drained from her face. For someone of the
servant class, that was akin to utter disaster. They would have been destitute
with no home, no money, nothing. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“I do not.”

He studied her in silence. When he spoke, his voice was a
low thrum. “Why did you tell your father about that kiss?”

She wrinkled her brow. Tell her father? That Ewan St.
Andrews, the lowly groom, the upstairs maid’s son, had kissed her? He would
have flayed him on the spot. “I didn’t.”

“Really?” He said it as a question but he wasn’t asking. He
stood and paced, raking his hair as he’d always done when he was upset. It made
him seem young again. A boy again. Hers again.

“I told no one.”

“Not even a little confession to your Abigail? Not a
whispered brag to a friend about the silly, stupid groom who doted on you?”

“You were neither silly nor stupid. You saved my life, Ewan.
You were my hero. I would never have betrayed you like that.”

He whirled on her. “Then how did he know? How did he know
everything? Why did he drag me into his study and strip off my shirt and cane
me bloody?”

Pain swelled in her chest. Tears pricked her lids. She ached
for that boy. “Oh, Ewan…”

“He called my mother into the room and made her watch as he
beat me. As he called me, and her, all manner of foul names. And then when he
was done, he delivered the
coup de grâce
. He dismissed her.” Ewan
stormed to her side and boxed her into the chair with one brawny arm on either
side of her. “She was with child, Violet.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes. Horace Wyeth sent us out, literally, into the cold.
With nothing.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Your father was a bastard.”

Violet could not respond. She knew it was the truth. Her father
had been—and died—a less than honorable man. She brushed the tears from her
cheeks. She did it surreptitiously because she didn’t want him to notice.
“Where did you go? Did you have family?”

“No one.” He stalked to the fire and checked the temperature
of the water in the bucket, swishing it with his fingers. “Her people tossed
her out when she turned up pregnant with me. She never spoke of them. We nearly
starved that winter…” He broke off and stared into the flames. He recovered
himself with a sharp shake of his head. He picked up the bucket, a sponge and a
cloth and knelt before her. “You don’t want to hear the rest of this story,
Violet. And frankly, I’m weary of telling it.” He dipped the sponge into the
bucket and picked up her foot, scrubbing harshly.

She allowed it. He needed something. Needed this.

By the time he’d finished the first and toweled it dry, he
had calmed, at least a bit. He was gentler with the other. When he finished he
dropped the sponge in the bucket and started to stand but she forestalled him
with a palm to his cheek. He froze at her touch. Closed his eyes. Leaned into
it perhaps.

“I am so sorry, Ewan. But I swear to you, I never told.”

“Then how did he know?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone saw us.”

She could tell by his reaction he had never considered the
possibility. Granted, they’d been in the woods, in a shadowy copse. But they
could have been seen. It broke her heart he’d simply assumed she had been so
silly, so feckless. That she’d blabbed about something as sweet and sacred as
that kiss had been to her.

“I’ve never told a soul.”

“No one?”

“No one.”

Their gazes tangled. “I blamed you.” His voice broke. “I
blamed you for years.”

She straightened his hair, fixing the damage he had wrought.
“It’s all right.”

“No. It’s not. I should have known.”

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. “It’s done. Let
it go.”

Let it go.

Something he had not been able to do for sixteen years. The
prospect of releasing this burden, being free of its weight, tantalized him.

She tantalized him.

God. He wanted her.

He shouldn’t kiss her now. Even though she stroked his cheek
in an enticing caress. Even though she looked at him as though she was willing
to forgive him all. Even though her pink tongue darted out to dab at rosy lips.

He was betrothed to Kaitlin.

He was supposed to marry Kaitlin. He needed to marry
Kaitlin. To buy the cachet, the
entrée
into the
ton
he needed to
secure Sophia’s future.

Seducing his bride’s best friend was hardly good form.

He shouldn’t kiss her…

He rose up on his knees and leaned into her. Wrapped his
arms around her and tugged her closer. Her eyes flared. A light he knew well
and coveted. Adoration, trust, arousal.

He shouldn’t kiss her. He shouldn’t…

But she kissed him. She dipped her head and brushed her
soft, sweet lips over his, suckling, nibbling his lower lip, enflaming him. And
he was lost.

He yanked her fully into his arms and seated his palm at the
back of her head and sealed his mouth on hers. He twisted to the side, pulling
her from the chair and settling her on the thick Aubusson carpet before the
fire.

She whimpered but it hovered on a sigh. She found the loose
ends of his shirt. Her hands crawled up his back beneath it, scoring his flesh
with their tender touch. He shuddered and deepened the kiss, questing.

God above. She tasted like honey and whisky and woman. He
couldn’t get enough. Unable to resist, he let his kisses trail over her cheek
to her ear. He sucked her lobe, which caused her to wriggle deliciously beneath
him. His cock, already hard, already ready, throbbed. He nudged it into the
softness of her belly, mimicking what he would like to do, what he would do.

He fixed his mouth to the delicate skin of her nape and
nuzzled her, nipped. She shivered and moaned. She tipped her head to the side
to enhance his access. Her nails dug into his flesh. She clutched him closer.
“Yes.” A breath. “Yes.”

Fire flared in his brain as she arched into him, rubbing
against his straining cock. God, she was responsive. Warm. Willing. And here.
In his arms.

Violet.

He shook as he worked the buttons of her frock. He opened
them to reveal her breasts and his breath stalled.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Exquisite alabaster swells tipped with rosy pink buds. Her
nipples were puckered, pouting. No force in the world could have stopped him
from tasting them. He drew one into his mouth, groaning in delight. He couldn’t
bear to release her but he had to try the other. Back and forth he moved,
suckling one tip and then the other; they swelled, tightened, ruched.

When he grazed one with his teeth and tugged, she wailed and
fisted his hair and held him there. “God,” she growled. “Ewan. Yes.”

He would have responded but he was incapable of forming
words. His tongue was busy, his mind bereft of cogent thought.

Well, one cogent thought echoed in his brainpan.

One thought, one urge, one burning need.

He yanked up her skirts, trailing his palm along a velvet
thigh. Her lips parted as she realized his intentions, but she did not protest.

His heart leapt into his throat and swelled, near choking
him with anticipation.

She did not protest.

Everything within him seized when he found her core. The
tuft of silky curls. The warm, sleek entrance to heaven. Everything seized
because she was wet. Slick. Ready.

His body pulsed with the force of his heartbeat.

He stroked her lightly. She mewled and shook. His fingers
trembled as he pressed them deeper, found her pearl, that tight knot of nerves,
that hard little bundle at the crux of her being.

“Ah.” Her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted. Sweet awe
transfixed her features. He dabbed at her clitoris, circled it, teased until
she began to pant and squirm.

“Do you like this?” A hoarse whisper, words forced through
clenched teeth.

“Yes. Please.”

“Oh, I’ll please you, sweeting.” He doubled his efforts,
dipping his head and tormenting her nipples at the same time.

Her frenzy rose, and then it broke. She went rigid then
devolved into a series of shudders and gasps and frantic wails, bathing him
with her warmth.

Good God, she was exquisite in her pleasure. Her head thrown
back, her eyes misted over, her lips parted on a whispery sigh. He could stare
at her forever. Forever. Until the end of the world.

But he couldn’t.

Need was upon him, and riding him hard. He fumbled with the
ties of his braes, yanked them down, fisted his cock and set it in place. Her
dampness kissed him and he sucked in a breath. Anticipation clawed at him.
Hunger raged.

He nudged her, touched her hymen. A thought flickered in his
brain, the notion that he shouldn’t take her, shouldn’t despoil her, shouldn’t
steal her virginity. But he discarded it quickly as absolute lunacy.

This was Violet. He’d wanted her, wanted this, his entire
life.

Ewan St. Andrews McCloud was a man who took what he wanted—and
God help him, he wanted her. He would have her.

He thrust his hips, sinking in, sinking deep.

Her body engulfed him in a hot, slick, tight embrace.
Sensation scored him. Ripples coursed through his body, a bliss so sublime he
could no longer think. No longer breathe. No longer see or hear or feel
anything…anything but her.

Their gazes locked. In her eyes, he saw it. Saw her
pleasure, her delight. Her adoration.

He’d never realized how much he’d missed that. Never
recognized the hole its loss had carved in his soul. While he was in her, with
her like this, he felt suddenly complete once more.