Unlaced by the Outlaw (Secrets in Silk) (10 page)

Cain had been able to support his brother over the years by working in secret for Margaret and her sisters. The young women had created a secret business of their own, selling women’s unmentionables. He had delivered them from Scotland to London, traveling every month back and forth as he’d returned with fabric and materials. They had named the business Aphrodite’s Unmentionables.

Margaret’s reclusive older sister, Victoria, had gotten the idea to sew scandalous corsets and chemises made of silk and satin. Some of the garments revealed a great deal of female flesh, which made them quite popular among the London women.

But after so many years, he’d made up his mind to put an end to the traveling. Jonah needed someone to keep him out of trouble.

Margaret corked the flask, and handed it back to him. “I’ll get food for us,” he told her, “and then we’ll leave.”

“How far is it until we reach the next village?” She struggled to pin back her wet hair, trying to restore order to the dark blond mass.

“Nightfall,” he predicted. “Our horse canna get far carrying both of us.”

Margaret removed her gloves, trying to wring out the excess water. “Do you believe Amelia went this way, Mr. Sinclair?”

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t think Lisford would ken how to travel these roads.” He unsheathed his dirk from his belt, wondering if she was having second thoughts. “Are you certain you’re wanting to go to Falsham, lass? I canna understand why you don’t wish to return to your parents.”

Guilt flushed in her cheeks and she stood up from the stream. “I know I ought to go back. And I will send word soon, I promise. It’s just that . . . I don’t want to become a prisoner in my parents’ house. If I return to London, then that is exactly what will happen.”

“They willna make you a prisoner,” he argued. Margaret made it sound as if they intended to shackle her to the wall.

“I will not be allowed to leave the house or go anywhere. I’ve damaged their trust in me.” She stepped closer to the stream. “If I stay with Juliette, she won’t blame me for what I’ve done, the way my parents will.”

Cain supposed that was reasonable enough. Since it was farther to London than Falsham, it made sense. He gripped his dirk and eyed the water.

“How are you planning to catch the fish?” she asked, studying his dirk. “Will you stab them?”

He almost smiled. “If I find one close to shore, aye.” Truthfully, he was searching for a means to trap one. He glanced at her a moment, and an idea occurred to him. “Take off your petticoat.”

Margaret blinked. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“You heard me, lass. Take it off and hand it over. Our fishing will go much faster if we have it to use as a net.”

She started to back away, holding on to her skirts as if she believed he would tear them off. “Mr. Sinclair, that isn’t proper at all.”

“Are you hungry or no’?”

She nodded. “But is it truly necessary to use my undergarments? We could use a piece of your plaid instead.”

He moved toward her, catching her around the waist. “The plaid is to keep us both warm, lass. You won’t be needing the petticoat.” He kept his hands upon her spine, watching the troubled emotions cross her face.

“I know you’re right,” she said, putting her hands up against his chest and stepping back. “I do. But it’s just that . . . no man has seen my undergarments before. It feels shameful.”

Her cheeks were burning, but she closed her eyes. “If I do this, promise me you won’t think badly of me.”

Cain had no idea what to make of that, but he agreed.

“I willna think less of you,” he said. “And if it brings us food, ’twill be worth it.”

He turned his back to her, giving her privacy while she removed her underskirt. A few moments later, she handed him a petticoat made of fine lawn, edged with lace and ribbons. It was not at all sensible, but he realized that she did enjoy beautiful undergarments. He sent her a dark smile, and she held up her hand. “Do not say anything about my petticoat.”

“I said nothing at all.”

“I could read your thoughts.” She closed her eyes and waved her hand at him. “Get on with it, then.”

He took the petticoat and knotted the waist closed. “Stay here and keep your feet dry.” He removed his shoes and socks, stepping into the icy water. Then he found a narrow end of the stream where it flowed rapidly over the rocks.

He stood with the petticoat billowing through the water like a net, hoping the fish would swim inside. While he waited, he glanced back at Margaret. This journey had been difficult enough, and they had to have sustenance. He’d endured hunger before, as a lad, but he doubted if Margaret had. Her face was peaked, and he suspected it wouldn’t take much to send her into a faint. “When was the last time you ate food that you didna cook yourself, lass?”

She shrugged. “Almost three weeks ago.”

Which meant she was as starved as he was. “I hope we’ll catch fish soon.” The water was frigid around his legs, but he would not give up until he’d found something for her.

Margaret was already too thin, and he was beginning to suspect that she was punishing herself for what had happened to Amelia. Worry creased her face, along with shadows beneath her eyes.

Eventually, he felt a slight movement against the petticoat, and he closed it swiftly, trapping the fish inside. He kept his hands fastened around the top, letting out a little water at a time until he managed to bring the catch to shore.

“Let’s see what we’ve caught.” He opened the petticoat, revealing two fish the size of his hands.

Margaret eyed them and sent him a sidelong look. “They aren’t very large, are they? And how does one clean a fish exactly?”

“I’ll take care of it, if you’ll gather wood for a fire.” He gutted the two fish, and though it wouldn’t be much, it was better than nothing. Margaret did as he asked, and in time, he had a fire going, with both fish spitted.

“I could eat them raw,” she admitted. “I can’t remember the last time I was this hungry.” She turned her stick and added, “I’m sorry I couldn’t find berries or anything else.”

“It doesna matter.” They sat in silence, cooking their fish over the fire. When the food was ready, he ate his own portion, but was surprised to see Margaret using two sticks to cut and eat her portion. Somehow she’d managed to create silverware out of twigs.

“Still proper, I see.”

“Always.” Margaret had her knees tucked beneath her gown, and she glanced over at the soaked petticoat. “I suppose I’ll have to leave that behind, or my undergarments will smell like fish. I wonder what anyone will think when they find it.”

Oh, he knew exactly what a passerby would think, and he sent her a knowing look.

Margaret bit back a laugh. “Well, they would be wrong, wouldn’t they?”

“Would they?” Cain studied her, silently letting her know that he wanted far more from her than friendship. He moved in, setting her makeshift silverware aside. “Come here, Margaret.”

Her smile faded, and she appeared troubled. “Cain, nothing can happen between us. We’re friends, I know, and we’ve been through a great deal of turmoil these past few weeks. But you must understand that—”

He cut her off, capturing that talkative mouth in a kiss. Her lips were soft, and he held her face between his hands while he took what he’d been wanting. “You talk too much, lass.” He had a better idea for that mouth, and he coaxed her to kiss him back.

She was reluctant, but he persisted. “There’s no one here to see us. No one to pass judgment upon you.”

Her green eyes held apprehension, and she whispered, “I’ll pass judgment upon myself.”

He paid no heed to her words but gave in to the urge he’d been holding back. He slid his tongue against the seam of her mouth, and she opened to him, her fingers trembling against his shoulders.

He slid the coat away, revealing the green ball gown. It was still damp from the rain, and he took both of her hands, drawing them around his waist. He claimed her mouth again, and a soft sigh escaped her. She started to kiss him back, and the tentative response only deepened his desire. He nipped at her lips, and she slid her own tongue inside his mouth. The moment she did, he grasped her hips, drawing her closer. He needed to feel her body beneath his, to spend time learning the taste of her sweet skin.

Abruptly, Margaret turned her cheek, resting it against his. “I shouldn’t do this, Mr. Sinclair.” Her voice was shaky, as if she didn’t trust herself to speak. Neither did he.

Reluctantly, he pulled back. “Finish your food and we’ll go.” His body was raging, but he knew he’d pushed her too far. Margaret stood waiting for him, her face crimson.

Cain brought the horse back to her and helped her up. She shivered slightly from the damp gown. It did seem that she had fewer layers beneath her clothes, beyond the petticoat she’d lost. He suspected she had traded her corset to the vicar’s wife for one she could fasten herself.

Although she was still wearing his coat, it wasn’t enough to keep her warm. He swung up behind her and unpinned the brooch, wrapping his plaid around her shoulders. Though it was wet, at least it offered another layer.

Her shoulders were tense, her mouth tight as he gripped the reins. He kept the pace of the mare steady, not wanting the journey to be even more difficult.

Cain urged the mare back onto the road, and when the animal began walking, Margaret’s backside pressed against him. The motion reminded him of how she’d felt in his arms, and the more he remembered her softness, the more aroused he became. He couldn’t have stopped the reaction if he’d wanted to. This was likely going to be the most uncomfortable journey he’d ever endured. His traitorous body reveled in the feeling of her warm body so close.

She smelled good, like the sugar biscuits Mrs. Larson had made from time to time. He wanted to lean in and devour her skin, bringing his hands against the silk until she felt the same arousal he did.

“Mr. Sinclair?” she whispered. “Y-you’re too close to me.”

He felt her body stiffening, and he knew she was well aware of his response to her. Though likely she wanted to ignore their circumstances, he believed that honesty would be best. “It can no’ be helped, lass.” She tried to scoot forward, and he held her in place. “I’d have to be dead no’ to be affected. You needn’t worry that I’ll do anything at all.” Whether or not she believed him, it was true. He’d die before hurting her.

Margaret went motionless, her hands digging into the horse’s mane. “I am sorry about all of this, Mr. Sinclair. It’s my fault that we’re stranded here.”

He moved one hand back to her waist, keeping the reins in his other palm. Leaning in against her neck, he murmured, “I canna say that I mind being stranded with you so verra much, lass.”

A tremor broke over her, as if she wasn’t at all unaffected by him. Right now he wanted to tilt her head back, to claim her mouth and kiss her again.

“Did you say we’ll reach the next village at nightfall?”

He recognized it as a means of changing the conversation. “Aye, lass. If we keep a good pace and don’t stop again.”

Her shoulders slumped down, but she gave no word of complaint. It was as if she was having an inner argument with herself, and eventually she straightened and lifted her chin. He could have balanced a mug of ale upon her head, if he’d had one. The mare kept to an easy walk, and Margaret rested one hand upon the horse’s neck to balance herself.

“Do you ken any good songs?” he asked her. If they were to ride for several hours, it might as well be entertaining.

“You want me to sing?” She turned back to him in disbelief. “At a time like this?”

“You could. ’Twould entertain both of us.” It was also better than the painful arousal of his groin at the constant motion of her hips as the horse walked.

“I’m in no mood to be entertaining. I would rather enjoy the silence.”

“Silence is dull. And I do ken a few songs, but you might no’ like them.” Mostly they were bawdy tavern songs he’d overheard.

“You could sing a hymn,” she offered. “Perhaps ‘Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.’ ”

“Go on, then,” he bade her. But instead of complying, she kept her back ramrod straight.

“As I’ve told you, I have no desire to sing.”

“Perhaps you canna sing,” he said. “And you’re no’ wanting me to learn that your voice is worse than a crow’s.”

“My voice is perfectly respectable,” she countered. “Although I choose not to perform publicly. If you’re so intent upon singing, why don’t you carry the tune?”

A smirk crossed his face. He had a mind to ruffle those stiff feathers and get a rise out of her. In a deep baritone, he sang:

In Edinburgh, there was a lass,

Her face as pale as milk

Every man longed to pinch her—”

“Stop!” Margaret interrupted. “You were
not
about to sing such a vulgar song before me.”

He didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Well, ’tis the only song I could think of. And it’s a common term for a woman’s
—
”

“Don’t say it,” she moaned. “You’re just trying to embarrass me.”

“Nay. I’d hoped you’d laugh.” At least it would keep their minds off the journey. But when she turned to look at him, he caught a glimpse of merriment in her eyes. Her mouth pressed tight as if to hold back a laugh.

The mare continued her ambling walk forward, across the green meadows sparsely dotted with trees. Cain kept his arms around her, both for balance and because he wanted to.

“My parents are going to lock me away for the rest of my life,” Margaret admitted at last. “I’ve brought the most horrid scandal upon them, even worse than what happened to Amelia. I won’t be able to show my face in London, and everyone will believe the worst of me.”

“That you’ve sinned with a Highlander?” he murmured against her ear. The heat of her hips pressed between his legs.

“No one will believe I’m innocent.” Once again, she straightened in the saddle. “And as I said before, I’ll have to go into isolation until the talk dies down.”

“How long?”

“A few years,” she admitted. “Even then, I might not be received anywhere.”

“Your friends willna turn their backs on you,” he said. “If they’re true friends.”