CHAPTER TWO

 

 

The last time she’d seen him, she was soaked in his blood. Her hands. Her skirts. She’d cradled that dark head and begged a perfect stranger not to die.

Now, she could scarcely breathe. He was thinner yet still huge. Seven inches above six feet, to be precise. His hair was longer, nearly brushing his shoulders. That hard, hawkish face was half hidden beneath a dark beard. But the eyes were the same—black as night and twice as dangerous.

With one long, muscled arm casually draped over the back of his chair, Alexander MacPherson tilted his head. “Ye’re a long way from home.”

His voice, deep as an ocean, contained currents she didn’t understand. As ever, she felt those currents ripping at her. She’d never known quite what to do about them.

Her mouth tried to form his name but only managed a puff of air. God, her heart was going to pound her to death from inside.

He poured himself a dram of whisky from the half-empty bottle near his wrist. After downing it in one swallow, he poured another. That one disappeared just as quickly.

She tried his name again. “Mr. MacPherson.”

He poured another dram but let it sit on the table. Those impossibly long fingers turned the glass once. Twice. Thrice.

Schooling her breathing, she said, “I understand ye’re in need of a maid.” In truth, he was in need of a valet. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she saw he wore only a dark shirt, deerskin breeches, and filthy boots. Beneath the beard, which wanted trimming, his cheeks were hollower than they should have been, his bones more angular. He’d suffered a long, slow recovery, according to Annie. Sabella wished his gauntness and lazy, sprawling posture made him less intimidating. The opposite was true.

He threw back the dram he’d been turning and poured another. All the while, his eyes burned the length of her like a torch.

She swallowed. “I came to the glen hoping to see Annie.”

“Ye’re a month late and two months shy for that.”

Nodding, she dropped her gaze to her hands. Those coal-black eyes unnerved her, making her skin flush and tingle. “I wouldn’t bother you, Mr. MacPherson. I know very well why your family despises me. After what Kenneth did to you—”

“He shot me.”

She flinched. She could almost hear the crack of the gun, could almost see the bloom of blood on his shirt. “I don’t expect you’ll look upon me kindly. And if I hadn’t been robbed of every earthly possession this morning, I wouldn’t ask.”

He turned his glass round and round.

Slowly, she gathered her courage and met his gaze. “If you require a maid, I—I should like to offer my services.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. It was more of a sneer than a smile. “Where was yer sergeant while ye were bein’ robbed?”

Cold, choking grief caught her off-guard. She thought she’d buried it along with him. How many times would she be proven wrong today? “I left Sergeant Munro in Inverness,” she said tightly.

He stared at her for a moment, tossed back his final dram, then set the glass on the table with a sharp thud. “Have ye ever gone without a maid?” he asked quietly.

Panic rose, cold and fluttering. “When I was wee.”

“I’d wager ye’ve never so much as washed yer own stockings.”

She wanted to look away. The answer refused to leave her throat, but it didn’t matter. He already knew.

“Yet, ye expect me to pay five shillings a week.” He gestured insultingly to her gown. “For you.”

She blinked. “Five shillings? Surely you intend to pay more than that.”

He arched a sardonic brow. “How much do ye suppose a maid earns?”

“Several pounds a week at least.”

He chuckled dryly. “Fly back to yer sergeant, dove. Ye’re not safe outside yer cage.”

She raised her chin. “If I had the means to return to Inverness, rest assured I wouldn’t be here now. I have no funds, Mr. MacPherson. Not a single farthing. I’ve asked everyone in this village for employment or shelter. You are my last resort.”

With a burning glance from her waist to her throat, he unhooked his arm from the back of his chair and shoved to his feet. His massive height and sudden nearness made her retreat a step. All the MacPherson men were enormous, but the way this one moved set him apart. She’d watched him pour an entire bottle of whisky down his throat, yet his motions remained ghostly smooth.

When she’d watched him perform in last summer’s Glenscannadoo Games, he’d seemed otherworldly to her—impossibly powerful, lethally skilled, masterfully controlled. He’d dominated several events, including the loch swim, for which he’d gone shirtless. Watching water sluice over hard slabs of muscle and black chest hair had given her the strangest pain. Gnawing, restless pain. To this day, she didn’t understand what it was. It resembled hunger, but for what?

Kenneth had accused her of secretly being attracted to the man. Having been pursued by many handsome suitors in her two London seasons, Sabella had known the warm, giddy excitement of attraction. This wasn’t that. She didn’t know what it was—fear? Obsession? Fascination?—but it wasn’t anything so lovely as attraction.

Now, his muscular frame bore the ravages of a difficult recovery. He was thinner, to be sure. But his potency seemed greater, somehow, as if he’d been distilled down to his essence. And despite his haggard appearance, her body responded as if the past year hadn’t happened. The low ache, the skin-lifting shiver, the pounding pulse of heat. All of it returned hungrier than before.

Dear God, he frightened her to death.

“Ye wish to be my maid? Very well. Two shillings per week,” he offered.

Her neck stiffened. “Lodging alone is two-shillings-six. Mail coach fare to Inverness costs nine shillings.”

Beneath his beard, a dark smile curved. “Nae need for lodging. I’ll provide a bed.”

“Two shillings per week is a pittance, Mr. MacPherson.”

“For somebody more useful, mayhap. For you? It’s generous.” He shrugged. “Suit yerself. I’m certain ye’ll find another sergeant to keep ye safely caged. That appears to be where yer skills lie.”

Bristling at his insulting tone, she frowned. “What are you implying?”

He snagged his bottle by the neck and tipped it up to his lips, draining it to the last drop. Then he set it down, brushed past her, and strode to the door. The crowd parted warily as he passed.

Outside, the rain pounded harder. Joan approached wearing an “I told you so” expression. “Turned ye down, did he?”

“He offered two shillings per week,” Sabella complained. “Can you imagine?”

Joan arched a brow. “That’s surprisin’.”

“I certainly thought so.”

“I wouldnae have thought he’d be that generous.”

Sabella blinked.

“Lamb, ye have nae skills. Even the good maids are happy to earn three shillings.”

Sabella had seen how hard a maid labored. From sunrise to well after dark, the lasses who tended the fires, cooked the meals, cleaned her gowns, washed her bedding, and hauled her bath water could be summoned at any hour to do any task she required. She’d always assumed they were paid adequately, but she’d never asked. Kenneth had taken care of those matters. Following her brother’s grisly death, Sergeant Munro had stepped in to help Sabella manage the destruction he’d left behind. Munro had dealt directly with Kenneth’s steward on all budgetary matters. Sabella had been too busy burying her brother, selling their house in Charlotte Square, and paying calls to his many blackmail victims.

Drat and blast. If Joan was right, Sabella had just declined the only legitimate offer of employment she was likely to receive.

She rushed after her last resort, squeezing through the sotted crowd to the door. Beneath the eave, she searched for him in the dark. “Mr. MacPherson!” She inched toward the curtain of rain, holding her skirts carefully away from the splash. “Mr. MacPherson, are you still here?”

He emerged from the night like a phantom. Standing just beyond the edge of the tavern’s glow, he stared at her without speaking for long moments.

God, he was huge. “I accept your terms of employment,” she said.

“Do ye, now?”

“Aye. Though, I think you should grant an increase as my skills improve.”

Deep, mocking laughter echoed through the dark. A horse’s bridle jangled. “Is this how ye negotiate, lass? Not the slightest bit of leverage, just a lady’s demands to a lesser man.”

Lesser? If anything, he was greater. Certainly bigger. “I’m only asking for fairness.”

She couldn’t see his expression, but he ran a hand over his beard. “Are ye comin’?”

Her heart kicked. She glanced behind her at the warm glow of the tavern then turned toward the rain and darkness. Straightening her spine, she clutched her skirts briefly before letting them go. She stepped past the curtain of rain, wincing as the drops splatted onto her silk and pattered her bonnet’s brim. She drew close to him, her heart pounding, pounding, pounding.

His horse’s bridle jangled as he patted the animal’s neck. “Up ye go.”

It was her only warning before his hands gripped her waist and hoisted her onto the horse’s back. If she’d had worries about him lusting after her, this erased them. She might as well have been a sack of flour. His hands didn’t linger. His manner was perfunctory, as if he hefted lasses several feet off the ground every day.

Unfortunately, her reactions were less appropriate. When he mounted behind her, she couldn’t breathe. That gnawing ache returned to plague her, along with embarrassing heat in more embarrassing places. She took a deep breath. He smelled like whisky and damp linen and rain. She leaned away, doing her best not to let any part of her touch any part of him.

He nudged the horse into motion, and she nearly toppled. She had to grip his thigh frantically to steady herself. The muscles had no give.

“Try not to fall,” he said dryly. “I hear mud is a nuisance to clean from silk.”

Glad for the darkness that disguised her flush, Sabella repositioned her hand and shifted her hips to find her balance.

“Bluidy hell,” he muttered just before his arm banded her waist. “Be still, woman.”

She sucked in a breath. His hand was so large over her ribs that his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. He pulled her tightly into his body, which felt like sun-heated stone against her back and shoulder.

When she caught her breath, she explained, “I’m accustomed to a sidesaddle. It has pommels to facilitate a proper seat.” Why must he leave his thumb there? The tingling contact made her nipple humiliatingly hard. And every step of the horse rocked her against him. With his arm locked around her, it felt as intimate as an embrace. “The hour is late,” she said as a distraction. “Will your housekeeper still be awake by the time we arrive?”

“I dinnae have a housekeeper.”

“Your other maids, then.”

“None of those, either.”

Her voice thinned as realization set in. “Surely you have a staff of some sort.”

“Aye, lass. I just hired her.”

 

 

He had her. Sabella Lockhart had ruined his life, and he fucking had her.

He forced his arm not to tighten, his hand not to shift from her ribs. He ordered his body to remain relaxed, despite the vicious surge of triumph. The liquor helped. But he hadn’t been this close to her since the day he was shot. His instincts were on fire.

Alexander remembered the first time he’d set eyes on her. She’d attended the Glenscannadoo Games with her brother last summer, and he’d spotted her staring at him after the loch swim. At the laird’s ball later that evening, he’d seen the golden-haired beauty again wearing green silk and glittering emeralds.

His stepsister, Annie, had gone out of her way to befriend the lass as part of a strategy to lure Kenneth Lockhart into confessing his crimes against Broderick. Annie had described her as swanlike—beautiful, graceful, untouchable. The description was true but insufficient.

Sabella Lockhart had the purest white skin he’d ever seen. She moved carefully, as if dust were gunpowder and rain was fire. Every gesture was modest. Every glance from those enormous, leaf-green eyes was faintly bashful and sweetly alluring. Despite her height—five-and-a-half feet—her long, slender neck and thin frame lent her an air of vulnerable delicacy, which she used expertly to invoke a man’s protective instincts.

Those instincts had gotten him shot. And after seven months of hell, he finally had the woman responsible in his control.

As he turned the horse down the road to his house, he noticed her shivering. They were both drenched to the skin, and with the heavy cloud cover, the air had a cold bite unusual for summer. There was no moon, no houses, no light. Fortunately, he’d spent his life in these hills and could have found his way home blind drunk and blindfolded. He also had excellent night vision, and his house was white, so it stood out amidst the inky blackness. He halted near the front entrance.

“Wh-why are w-we stopping?”

“We’re here.”

“We are? I hear water, but I can’t see anything.”

He forced his arm to release her, forced himself to dismount then lift her down. Her hands clung to his shoulders. Her silk clung to her curves. His body’s reaction was galling but predictable. Clasping her elbow, he took her into the house, lit a lantern, and grunted, “Stay,” before leaving to tend his horse.

When he returned, both she and the lantern were gone, but he glimpsed a glow from the stair hall. He found her frowning at the banister.

“Is my bed upstairs?” She swayed on her feet, her skirts dripping on the wood floor. “Perhaps I’ll rest here for a moment.”

“If ye expect me to carry ye, ye’ll be waitin’ a while.”

She braced a white-gloved hand on the banister. The lantern in her other hand began to shake, making light dance against the walls. “No, I … no more touching.”

What in bloody hell did that mean? It wasn’t as if he’d groped her backside. He’d scarcely touched her at all. Of course, a nobleman’s sister wouldn’t want a rough Highlander’s hands dirtying her unsullied skin.

Stalking toward the passage to the kitchen, he ordered over his shoulder, “Follow me.”

The light bobbed as she lagged behind him. He led her through the kitchen and around to the quarters behind the hearth. “This is yer room.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s very near the scullery, isn’t it?”

He withdrew a sheet and blanket from the wardrobe he’d crafted specifically to fit into the small chamber then tossed them on the narrow bed.

The lantern shook again.

Out of patience, he snagged it from her limp hand and set it on the washstand. “A sick maid is of no use to me. Change out of that wet gown before ye catch yer death.”

She nodded. “I haven’t anything dry to wear.”

Indeed, her soaked gown fitted like a glove. He’d tried not to notice because noticing bloody hurt. But those slight breasts were sharply beaded, long thighs were clearly outlined, and narrow hips beckoned his rough Highlander hands.

He stalked to the kitchen, tugged one of his shirts from the drying rack in front of the hearth, and dropped it on the bed. “Day begins at dawn. Get some sleep.”

Before she could reply, he left to find his bed. But even after stripping down to the skin, heat pulsed through every muscle, every vein, every damned inch of his body. He kept his bedchamber dark. He didn’t want to look at what she did to him, but the relentless heat and hardness refused to be ignored. Throwing the window open, he let the rain cool him before pacing back to his bed. He gripped one of the posts and ran his palm over the puckered scar on his upper chest, digging the heel of his hand into the wound. The pain was only a faint echo of what he’d endured, but it was enough to remember what should never be forgotten.

Don’t you wish to see him once more before he dies? The distorted voice of a damaged Kenneth Lockhart gloating to his sister.

He is nothing to me. Why would you assume otherwise? The cool, soft voice of an angel.

Last December, Alexander had been struck from behind while on a mission in Edinburgh with Broderick’s wife, Kate, and his youngest brother, Rannoch. The next thing he knew, he was being hauled from a coach into a townhouse in the wealthiest part of the city. He’d feigned unconsciousness, waiting for his opportunity to strike. It came shortly after Lockhart reminded his sister that she was the daughter of a lord.

He is beneath you, Sabella. All the MacPhersons are, including the red-haired bitch you betrayed me for.

I didn’t betray you.

Anne Huxley is still alive. Somebody warned her about the man I sent.

N-not I. Ye’re my brother. I love you.

Her voice had remained conciliatory and, except for a tremulous moment or two, remarkably calm. He should have realized then how manipulative she was. It took a cold-blooded lass to maintain such composure while her brother prepared to murder a man in front of her.

Moments later, Alexander had struck with the sgian-dubh he kept in his boot. He’d aimed for Lockhart’s eye, a kill shot. But his throw went wide, cutting the bastard’s arm instead. In the Highland regiment, Alexander had been legendary for never missing his target.

This time, he missed the most important shot he’d ever taken. Because Sabella Lockhart had flown in between them like a bird defending its nest. The collision had jostled his arm, and when she’d collapsed, whimpering and gasping, he’d thought she was injured.

The bonnie wisp of a woman he’d surveilled from a distance for weeks aroused every protective instinct in Alexander’s soul.

Christ, what a fucking idiot he’d been.

The instant he’d turned to help her, Kenneth Lockhart had shot him. He vaguely remembered the pain, a blast of unholy fire through his upper chest. Then nothing.

Months of bloody torment had followed. A long, grinding hollowing out.

Annie had defended Sabella, arguing that the lass had worked against her brother by sending subversive warnings in letters and meeting in secret with Sergeant Munro of the Inverness constabulary. When Alexander had demanded to see the lass, Annie had revealed that Sabella had remained in Edinburgh. But she hadn’t been alone. The gruff, ambitious sergeant who only cared about his job—a man old enough to be her father—had stayed with her.

That was this woman’s power over men. Alexander should know. He’d been obsessed with her from the first.

Sabella had everyone fooled: Annie and her husband, John Huxley. Broderick and his wife, Kate. Even Broderick’s friend, Magdalene Cuthbert, who’d nursed Alexander through his wounds.

But he remembered what happened when she’d been forced to choose between her brother and one of his targets.

He glared down at his body, which didn’t give two shites whether she was a spoiled, deceitful witch or an aristocratic mistress for any male willing to keep her in a pampered cage.

He should fetch more whisky, though it didn’t help much.

Only one thing helped.

Pacing back to the window, he braced an arm against the casing and gave in. He closed his eyes, seeing her there in the dark. White skin. Wee, tightly beaded breasts. Long legs and those heartbreaking eyes. He pictured her lying in his bed, arching and eager for his mouth. As always, she was fully at his mercy, claimed as his mistress, his woman. He’d demand her nakedness beneath those silk gowns. He’d keep her wet and ready at all hours, pleasuring until she begged him to fuck her. Then he’d take her hard. He’d feed her hunger to satisfy his own. And he’d turn that untouchable angel into a devil’s wanton.

Listening to the pattering rain and distant river, he took his cock in hand, wincing at the sensitivity. Seeing her again, touching her, riding behind her, all of it had him as primed as his rifle on a hunt. But having her under his roof, under his control?

He was a bloody cannon.

Perhaps that was why his mind fed him a different vision. This time, when he pictured her in his bed, begging for merciful release, she wasn’t fully naked. Instead, she wore his ring, a brand that couldn’t be removed.

In two strokes, the cannon primed.

His. Aye. His.

Three more strokes and the cannon readied.

Not a mistress free to seek out another protector, but a wife who belonged beneath his roof. Beneath him. A wife who wanted to stay so he could give her more of what her body craved, so he could fill her and claim her because it was his bloody right.

The cannon fired.

His hand gripped the window’s frame. Growling and gritting, he pictured her milking him for every drop, surrendering with her hands, her mouth, her sheath.

Light exploded as never before.

His knees weakened at the blissful relief from a pain that never fully dissipated. Leaning heavily against the casing, he rested his head on his forearm and listened to the river’s rush. Rain washed over him, cooling his skin.

Before long, the desire would return. It always did. No doubt he’d dream about her and awaken in the morning primed for another round.

Could he seduce her? Perhaps. She’d stared at him for an awfully long time after the loch swim, and her brother had outright accused her of an inappropriate attraction. But Alexander refused to fall into her trap merely to quench an incessant craving, even if it meant he’d never be fully satisfied.

Exacting a bit of revenge, petty though it might be, would have to suffice. He wanted to topple her from her perch, to watch her soil those pretty hands and dirty those pristine skirts. He wanted her to learn that nobody was beneath her, despite her noble bloodline.

A slow smile tugged. Starting tomorrow, Sabella Lockhart would begin her descent. And one day, she would concede that the man she’d once called “nothing,” the man she’d put through the fires of hell, had brought her to her knees.