Seduced By A Scot. Julia London
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didn’t trust him—she didn’t trust any man—and a very primal fear began to ratchet in her.
That fear soared when he said, “You’re shivering, lass. Come here, then.”
“No,” she said, but her tongue was thick, and her protest sounded garbled. She gasped with fright when he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him. Maura cried out, expecting to be kissed, or a hand to grope her where it ought not to—but as she rolled, so did he, and she rolled into his back, her arm tight around his waist. “What are you doing, then?”
“Keeping you warm, aye? I’ll no’ have you freeze to death.”
She tried to free her arm, but he held tight.
“I’ll no’ accost you, Miss Darby, you have my word. I mean only to keep you warm. Go to sleep.”
“You’re mad if you think I can sleep like this!” she exclaimed.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
He could sleep like this, quite obviously, for his breathing began to slow until he seemed to be asleep.
It took some doing, but Maura began to relax. There was something to be said for the strength of a man’s body, all hard planes and scents of leather and cardamom. And warmth. For the love of Scotland, his body gave off the heat of a brazier. And, admittedly, she felt a wee bit safer beside him in the middle of this forest. So she snuggled closer to him, seeking more of his warmth. He grunted, laced his fingers with her hand and held her close.
She imagined that this was what marriage must feel like when there was a healthy esteem between two people. Sleeping beside a warm man each night. Feeling safe and warm. And wanted? She would like that, to feel safe and warm and wanted. Perhaps one day she would.
Maura closed her eyes. She was tempted to sleep, but she dared not. She had too much to think about, too much to plan, too much to accomplish that could not be done while he was awake and unbalancing her with his very calm and matter-of-fact demeanor.
IT WAS TRULY maddening that a man could be in complete control of his deeds, of his desires, of his thoughts, with no more than a wee bit of effort. But lie next to a beautiful woman and it took every ounce of willpower Nichol could summon not to touch her.
He was a lad again, fighting against his urge to taste the cake the cook had made. He was a greenhorn, desperate to catch the scent of a woman. He was a man who had denied himself the pleasure of flesh for an eternity.
None of these things were true, but nevertheless, he felt as if they were, and he thought he’d never sleep. He couldn’t quiet his mind, couldn’t stop feeling her presence at his back, all soft and warm and pressed against him, her breath tickling the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop imagining her without a stitch of clothing, of covering her beneath the blankets on this starry night, his body in hers, his eyes on her clear blue eyes.
But sleep he obviously did, for when the sun made its first appearance over the tops of the trees, he roused himself from the unsettled rest, and into his conscience crept the realization that his back was cold.
Nichol rolled over. She was not there, bundled in her cloak, her hair spilling about her. A jolt to his heart sat him up, and he looked about, trying to make sense of it.
She was gone. And she’d bloody well taken his plaid.
Nichol sprang to his feet with a roar, startling the lad, who sputtered awake. “Have you seen her?” Nichol demanded as Gavin tried to disentangle himself from his bedding.
“Who?” the lad asked stupidly.
Perhaps she’d gone to the creek. Nichol whirled about, but what he saw there made his heart sink even deeper. One of the horses was missing. Bloody hell, why had he not remained awake? Why had he been so damnably complacent? He let forth a string of swearing that made Gavin’s face turn four shades of red, but Nichol was livid. He didn’t like surprises—he was the one to control the circumstances. If there was one thing he detested, it was when a client did not behave properly. He was furious with himself for assuming that a young miss would not have the sense or the courage to make a muck of his carefully laid plans. And he was absolutely irate because it was entirely possible she’d gotten herself killed by now.
And maybe he was grudgingly impressed, too, because he’d never known a woman who would run off in the middle of the forest in the middle of the night. He doubted he would have had the guts to do it, without anything to protect himself, without provisions. Could she even ride? How did she put herself on a horse that was at least two hands taller than her? How far did the wench think she would get before she was lost, or fell or was set upon by thieves?
“Aaaiiieee,” he roared, and kicked a log with all his might.
“What’s happened to her, then?” Gavin asked timidly, his dark hair sticking up in several directions.
“She’s gone off, that’s what.”
“By herself?”
“Aye, by herself,” Nichol bit out.
Gavin’s eyes rounded.
Nichol stomped down to the brook, thinking. He looked around, for any sign of where she might have gone. There was the horse’s hobble lying on the ground. But the saddle was precisely where he’d left it. He shook his head at her audacity.
He knew where she was heading, if she could manage to determine the direction. He knew because she had done quite a lot of talking yesterday. She was so angry, and she wanted to give Miss Garbett a piece of her mind. Had she not said so more than once? Nichol didn’t pretend to understand how a woman’s mind worked, but he’d been with enough of them to know that a woman scorned was like a dog with a bone.
He was entirely confident that Miss Darby was on her way to Stirling just now.
There was no question that he had to go and fetch her. He couldn’t have her appear in Stirling on the back of a horse with nothing but her fury—his reputation would be ruined! Not to mention he would lose his fee. Bloody stupid lass. Stubborn wench.
He squatted down and splashed water on his face. She would have kept to the roads. He could ride through the forest and catch her before she reached Stirling. But he couldn’t catch her if he was riding with the lad.
He stood up, hands on hips, and stared at the rising sun.
What was he to do with the lad? He couldn’t send him back to Aberuthen—the inn there was too bleak. There was no question that he could not return to Rumpkin’s house of horrors. Nor could he send the lad on to Luncarty, as that was too far away—Nichol didn’t trust him to make it there on his own without a horse.
There was one other option, unthinkable until this moment—Cheverock, the home where he was born. A half-day’s ride from here at most.
Nichol had been toying with the idea of paying a call to his boyhood home, but to appear at Cheverock in this way after all these years was not what he wanted. Ivan would not understand a lad showing up and claiming to have been sent by Nichol. The last Nichol had seen Ivan, he’d not quite reached his majority. What would he think? And why had Ivan grown silent? Had he forgotten Nichol?
He hoped it was no more than that.
But he sensed it was much more than that. All the messengers had been turned away.
Never mind that now—this sudden development would force the issue for Nichol. He had no other viable choice so it would seem at long last, he was going home.
Gavin could walk there and arrive by nightfall if he set out now.
Nichol glanced over his shoulder—Gavin was watching him anxiously, twisting the corner of his plaid that he’d draped around his shoulders. What was he, fourteen years? Fifteen? Too young for this, that much was apparent.