The Next Day: Still Traveling
MacLeod and Amelia rounded a bend in the road and pulled to an unexpected stop. A large portion of the trunk of a tree blocked the road. MacLeod pulled on his reins, prepared to go around.
“You cannot just leave it there, Alaistair. What would someone traveling in a carriage do?” What would she do if she were fleeing in a carriage and came upon something like this? Her seemingly selfless actions often had an ulterior, perfectly nonselfless motive. She was always looking out for number one, growing up an orphan and on the run from one’s crimes tended to do that to a person.
MacLeod sighed in response.
Well, that was too bad, they couldn’t leave a tree blocking the road when it was within their power to move it. MacLeod was a big man. Surely, he could see to it?
He guided their horses off the road and proceeded to dismount, his movements jerky and forced. Amelia smiled to herself. He would do as she asked even though he didn’t want to. He hardly put up a fight, in fact. It was the tiniest bit endearing.
He tied the reins to a nearby branch and removed his gloves. Then he removed his coat and she tried desperately not to stare as he peeled the garment from his body. But what a magnificent body it was, all brawn and hard. She knew what it was like to be crushed in those massive arms, delightfully so.
Once finished, he tossed his jacket over his saddle and went to work on his waistcoat, his eyes now locked on her—the entire time. Was he warning her, daring her, or just letting her know he was angry? She couldn’t tell. All of the above?
Regardless of what that look meant, his actions had her squirming in her saddle as more and more of his body was revealed to her hungry gaze.
When he began to loosen his cravat, her mouth turned dry.
Still, he never looked away. His eyes, locked with hers, daring her to look.
And she did. Oh God, did she ever.
Finally, after throwing the cravat on top of the growing pile of clothing on the back of his horse, he rolled up his sleeves while he turned to face their wooden obstacle.
It was only then she could finally breathe.
After looking over the situation for a few moments, he stepped forward toward one end of the tree and positioned himself with his legs braced apart.
But as he bent down to grab ahold of the log, she yelled out, “Stop!”
MacLeod stood and brushed his hands together, purposefully, as if he had all the time in the world. Then, he took of his hat to run his hand through his hair once before replacing it on his head. He took his time about it, his movements slow and deliberate.
He turned to her, his face stoic, but Amelia felt his ire—and perhaps a touch of exasperation—burning just beneath the surface. “What nou?” His tone was clipped.
“You should check for snakes. Who knows how long that tree has been lying there?”
MacLeod shook his head and looked away, his gaze settling upon some unknown point in the distance. He seemed to do that an awful lot lately.
“Mel.” She almost didn’t hear him with his face turned to the wind. “There will no’ be snakes beneath this log.”
Winnie danced a bit in place as Amelia tugged a bit on the reins; like her rider, Winnie was ready for battle. “You don’t know that.”
“Aye, A do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Mrs. Chase, do you see the branches towards the other end of the tree?”
“Yes…”
“How do they look to you?”
“Green and large and—”
“Green’ll do. And what do you think that means?”
“That the tree only recently fell?”
“Aye. Good. No snakes, ye ken?”
“Aye…erm, I mean yes.”
MacLeod bent down again. Amelia couldn’t help but mutter beneath her breath. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
MacLeod dropped his head for a moment, and she could have sworn she heard him growl beneath his breath in response. Or was he laughing? He seemed to do the growling bit an awful lot…around her, at any rate.
She was struck completely mute by the sight of his shirt pulled tight across his expansive shoulders. The next thing she knew, she was imagining all sorts of naughty thoughts while staring at those massive shoulders. She imagined running her hands along the breadth of them, tracing the outline of his muscles with her fingers. She pictured the tension there as he reacted fiercely to her touch. She fancied he called her his pet name in that delightful, gruff brogue of his.
“Shite…” MacLeod interjected, interrupting her pleasurable reverie. He dropped his end of the tree as if it were on fire and grabbed a hold of his left hand. He stood stock still, his back to her, his shoulders tense.
Amelia slid down from their horse and rushed over to MacLeod, her ire lit like a spark to kindling. “You churlish, beef-witted lout. What did I tell you?” She grabbed at his hand, but he held it high above her head and then brought it around behind his back. “You were bit, weren’t you?”
He glowered at her, but said nothing.
“Scowling at me doesn’t change the fact that you were wrong and that you are bit. Let me take a look.”
“Nae.”
“Aye, you fool.”
MacLeod searched her eyes and must have accurately read the determination there, for he sighed and reluctantly thrust out his hand. She could see the two perfectly placed punctures in the beefy part of his palm.
Amelia knew exactly what she had to do.
She pulled his hand to her face, and opened her mouth. But before her lips met his palm, he jerked his hand from her grasped. “What are ye doing, lass?”
“I’m going to suck out the poison, you silly man, what else?”
“You doona need to do that.”
“I do.”
“You doona.”
“Listen here, MacLeod, growing up in America, I know a thing or two about snake bites, and I know that when a snake has bitten you, you must suck out the poison. Now do hurry MacLeod, time is of the essence.”
“Yes, well, in England, our snakes are no’ poisonous, so it doesnae matter, ye ken?”
She worried her brow and stared at him to ascertain the truth of his assertion. “Are you sure?”
MacLeod growled (again!) and turned to storm off toward his horse.
His contention simply wasn’t good enough for her. “Well, bully for you, MacLeod, but I’m not taking any chances.” She grabbed at his arm. “Give me your dashed hand, you oversized…” He turned and scowled at her, anger blazing in his eyes. She smoothed her tone in response, as one might with an injured animal one was trying to soothe, and smiled, with a blush and an innocent flutter of her lashes. “…fellow.”
He practically snarled at her, as if he was an animal, but he thrust out his hand in acquiescence. She grabbed ahold of it and gave him a warning look to cooperate, then looked down at the two tell-tale punctures in his hand. They really were quite small; one could almost miss them if one wasn’t looking.
But after all her incessant nagging, as she brought his hand to her mouth, the intimacy of her actions became acutely transparent.
At that precise moment, the entire world and everything in it seemed to slow, apart from her heart, for it—that contrary, disagreeable, unthinking organ—began to race.
His hand, just there before her, was large—oh, so much bigger than her own—and rough; the hands of a man who had seen plenty of hard work in his life.
She inhaled in steady, measured breaths, desperate to slow her racing pulse. What she got for her efforts was the complex scent of his very essence, the subtle hint of which sprang from his palm like a smoking candle.
His was an intricate aroma made up of the smell of leather from his gloves and a distinctive scent she’d come to associate specifically with MacLeod, an earthy note that brought to mind the trees in the forest and the soil beneath her feet—a clean and practical scent.
His skin was hot, so much warmer than hers; she could feel the heat emanating from him as she drew his hand near. She had the almost irresistible urge to cradle her cheek in his palm and soothe her wind-chapped cheeks there.
Then, there were his fingers; they were long and broad and strong, so capable of work, of strength, of pleasure…
She glanced up into his eyes, as she bent to touch her lips to his palm, determined to see to the task she’d fought so hard to perform.
She was taken aback by what she saw there. His pupils were dilated and sharp with desire. He had zeroed in on her mouth as if she wielded a veritable weapon.
Regardless of the obvious danger, she ignored all the signs she should stop. Instead, she carried on, inching his palm ever closer to her mouth.
He hissed in a quick breath the moment her lips touched his scorching hot skin and her heart jumped in time with the sound.
She closed her eyes then, suddenly unable to do what she needed to do. She was completely overwhelmed by the surge of emotion that flooded her, sensations she’d never, ever felt before with such intensity. She felt weightless and dizzy and warm all over. She squeezed her thighs together, for she tingled and ached in the very heart of her womanly center.
She couldn’t stop. She wanted more, so much more.
She touched her tongue to the center of his palm, no longer thinking of snake bites and poison, no longer thinking of anything but him and his skin and his touch.
MacLeod let out an unmistakable warning, “Mel…”
Amelia looked up and was taken aback by the portent in his blazing green eyes. He looked raw. He looked hungry. He looked determined. The emotions swirling in his gaze were almost frightening in their intensity.
Yet she touched her tongue to his palm again anyway proving she wasn’t afraid of his fire.
That was the final straw; like the snap of a leather strap pulled too taut, he growled one last time like the beast he was before he ripped his hand free and grabbed a hold of her, his lips descending to hers with unerring accuracy.
Oh, sweet God!
He demanded. He conquered. He assaulted every one of her senses.
His lips were soft, yet commanding and fierce. He reached in for a hard kiss, then pulled back. He turned his head and charged in again, then pulled back once more. Their kiss was a dance and a tease and a force all in one.
He paused in his assault and pleaded, “Oh God, Mel…open up for me, lass.”
And when she did, his lips and tongue plunged inside, invading her soul.
Right then and there, he claimed her. All of her.
He refashioned her into someone utterly new.
Oh, God. In the end—the very end—she would never be the same.
She’d already changed.
At the Same Time
“We’ll take her when they stop for the night, most likely here. Until then, we’ll keep an eye out for them from this vantage point here.” Kelly leaned over a crude map of the area as he pointed to the area in question with his knife.
It had taken a lot of interrogation and hard riding to catch up to MacLeod and Mrs. Chase. Kelly suspected he had Mrs. Chase to thank for their success. He’d have to remember to express his gratitude.
“What’s a vantage point?” asked a small, lanky kid with two few teeth and even fewer brain cells in his head. Kelly tried to hide his exasperation. The men he had to work with were thick. It made him miss working with gruff, hard-nosed MacLeod. The man may have been stiff, but he was also brilliant.
On a positive note, MacLeod and Mrs. Chase were almost within reach; in fact, he would have her as his guest once again before the next day was through.
He rolled up the map and ignored the kid’s ignorant question. “I have one more person to speak to, then we’ll meet back here in an hour. Be ready to go then. We have at least an hour’s worth of hard riding ahead.”
The men were all snickering quietly before a particularly foolish man spoke up and related what they were all thinking. “Does this informant have plump titties, too? More ‘n a man can hold with his bare hands?”
A few whistles, lewd comments, and loud guffaws followed that remark, all of which had Kelly seeing red. He grabbed the loose-lipped man and shoved him against the wall by his throat. “Don’t. Disrespect. The women.”
The man tried to swallow; his false bravado lost through his penis as he pissed his pants. “I—I—I ain’t disrespectin’ nothin’,” he stammered. Then he tried to turn his head to spit on the floor to vouch for his oath.
The point was moot; his answer wasn’t the correct one.
One punch to the face was all it took to knock the blighter out.
God, he’d be glad when this was all over.