Flora’s hands trembled as she held the dagger to the Englishman’s ruffles. She couldn’t see where his neck began, and the silly embellishment ended. She was thankful for once she’d listened to Will’s rules, or at least the one that had his “kids” carrying a weapon with them at all times. But that didn’t stop the fear that this time she’d gone too far, and nothing would save her.
If only Bran hadn’t unknowingly dragged her into this mess.
The Sassenach’s eyes darkened. Suddenly, his hand was on her wrist, and he was up on his feet. He pulled her along with him, backing her to the wall with her hand pinned to the cold, flat surface. As he did, his finger snagged on the string she wore around her neck, and the ribbon snapped.
She heard the ring she kept tied there plink as it hit the floor.
“You are one foolish chit.”
The raw power behind his tense muscles made her quiver, but she wouldn’t back down. She would die or be sent to prison before turning the box back over. He looked like he had plenty of coin and wouldn’t miss the baubles she’d found inside. However, those trinkets could save her brother’s life and keep her family from being tossed onto the streets. She continued to struggle despite knowing that this Englishman barely lifted a finger and had her trapped like a caged rabbit.
His body was flush with hers, and she was reminded why she’d been distracted and almost caught earlier in the day when she’d lifted his box. Her insides coiled into a tight ball, and she had to swallow. His piercing blue eyes watched her in a way that reminded her of the time she’d seen a stray dog tear into the man who had kicked it.
“Drop the knife,” he ordered as chills ran down her spine.
“Nae, I willnae.”
Being a whole head taller than her and more than twice as wide, he could easily force the blade from her hand, but thus far, he’d done nothing that would hurt her. She’d somehow managed to do all the damage on her own.
Suddenly, his body crushed hers to the cool wall behind her. She inhaled sharply at the surprise of his unyielding body pinning her in place. At the same time, the force of his hold was subdued as if he’d restrained the fury he must feel at her attack.
She ceased her struggles and softened beneath his hard frame. Their gazes locked and held.
As something wild broke free deep within her, she fought to understand why she instinctively knew he wouldn’t hurt her. His head dipped to hers, his mouth landing near her cheek, his golden hair tickling her nose as she inhaled cinnamon.
How could she be thinking he smelled nice at a time like this?
As that thought crossed her mind, the Englishman’s mouth trailed small kisses across her cheek, and to the ear opposite of where she still clung to the knife. She swallowed, and he tilted so that his warm breath floated across the sensitive skin of her cheek.
“I won’t harm you, Flora,” he reassured.
She wanted to believe him, but what was he making her feel? Then his mouth inched closer to her ear, and his warm breath washed over her, causing an odd reaction.
He whispered, “Trust me. Flora, I swear I won’t hurt you.”
The consoling words skimmed over her and made her want to melt. She was panting and confused, wanting to push him away, but at the same time, curious about the tingles that spread through her.
His free hand grasped for hers, still at her side, and brought it up above her head. As if mesmerized by his fluid movements, she was helpless to voice a protest. Something in her chest tightened—och, maybe it was her breasts, as his hands skimmed down the sensitive undersides of her arms, then back up again. When he reached her hands, he had no problem spreading her fingers.
Suddenly, he had taken her weapon and pulled back from her, leaving her vulnerable and cold.
Hope flooded her as a knock sounded at the door. She was about to scream out for help, but before a whisper passed her lips, the Sassenach was behind her. His arms held her to his firm body, with the knife still in one hand, and yet again clasping her mouth shut. Inhaling through her nose, she noticed the clean, crisp scent of him that reminded her of the time she’d gotten tangled in the neighbors’ freshly washed garments drying on the line. Only, this man was more dangerous than Bessie’s undergarments.
“Yes.” The deep voice at her ear was all authority.
The sound vibrated down her spine, and gooseflesh erupted on her arms. The hair on the back of her neck stood to attention as it dawned on her that he was accustomed to giving orders.
“My lord, it’s Fredrick.” The tentative voice was shaky and concerned.
A giggle caught in her throat because the man behind her wasn’t the one in trouble.
“I will not need you tonight, Fredrick.” The man’s words vibrated against her back.
Disgust washed over her as she realized who the newcomer was. The man pinning her to his chest like a babe with a ragdoll didn’t need his silly box—he had a valet. She’d heard of them before but never thought to meet anyone with enough blunt to afford one.
It was not worth her brother’s life to give him back such small treasures.
“Are you well, my lord? I heard some odd noises.”
“My lord,” Flora repeated the words in her head.
Who was this man? It smacked her in her breastbone that the servant outside would most likely be loyal to his master, especially once he discovered she’d stolen from the man that paid his bills. As her heart pounded, she rethought yelling out.
“Yes, I’m just tired.” Pausing, her captor rested his chin on the top of her head, then swallowed, and she felt the movement slide down the back of her neck.
The weight of his head propped on hers disappeared. “You can do something for me. Tomorrow when the shops open? I need a gown and some slippers. Ones that look like they would fit Sophia.”
Hesitation was evident in the reply. “Yes, my lord.” Then a pause as if he’d ask why, but then Fredrick continued, “Is that all, my lord?”
“Yes, wait, no. Rent out the room below this one if the innkeeper has not filled it.”
She attempted to look over her shoulder at him as fear snaked through her veins. Was he going to torture her?
“Pardon, my lord?”
“The room below, rent it out. I’ll explain tomorrow.” The gentle weight returned to her crown, but it didn’t jolt her this time.
“Yes, my lord.”
And then, silence for the next couple of moments while the Sassenach waited for his man to leave—the whole time, his chin remained perched on top of her head, making her feel oddly warm.
“Do you promise not to scream?” he asked.
She nodded, and he slowly eased his grip and turned her around to face him. His sapphire gaze blazed as it pinned her with eyes deliberating her fate like a judge.
“Sit.” He instructed as he pointed to the chair he’d righted.
Nudging her forward with the knife still in his hand, she obeyed. As she eased into the chair, he scooped down to retrieve something.
Although she never gave up in a fight, some sense of preservation told her it was useless to argue. She was going to have to think her way out of this. Will had drilled into all of their band that using your head when everything was stacked against you was the best course of action and if your thoughts failed you, stay silent until you could get help.
Her family would come for her.
She didn’t really think the “lord” intended to hurt her. But her legs shook anyway, like the first time she’d been caught stealing—she’d needed medicine for her sick sister. As she eased into the chair, chin high, she decided to make it look as if it were her choice. Then she noticed her breast was almost falling out of her gown, and she tugged at the material and held it in place.
The man started pacing.
Her shredded nerves were already stretched to their limits. Her mouth opened and began, “Ye already ken my name. What’s yers?”
“Isaac Nathanial Hamilton,” he stated as if he’d rehearsed the words for a melodrama.
She waited for mythical music to cue in her head as a nervous giggle escaped her lips.
“What is so amusing?” He stopped prowling and stared at her.
“Nae, ’tis a nice name, but ’tis so long.”
His eyes drifted down to the knife in his hand, then back to her as indecision danced in the depths.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” She was proud of how haughty the words came out and knew her sarcasm wasn’t lost on him when he turned his head to the side and gave her a dark stare.
“Yes. I need my box. I should just take you to the watchman straight away.”
Panic sent her pulse racing, and she reconsidered fighting her way out. Her crimes in the past had been petty, and the city watchmen all took pity on her and her family, but if a titled Englishman brought charges against her, she’d never see the light of day again.
Her eyes drifted down, trying to come up with a way out of it. It came to her. Straightening her shoulders, she stuck her nose up in the air, displaying her split lip. “They willnae believe ye. I will tell them that ye kidnapped me and had yer way with me.”
The man’s eyes drifted from her mouth down to her breast and then lower. It unnerved her that just then, he licked his lips.
As he waved her knife up and down her body, his head shook. “You did all of this to yourself.”
“And do ye think they will believe a stranger over me?”
His face actually paled. Her bluff appeared to be working.
In two steps, he was on her and kneeling at her feet. The swiftness of the change in his position caught her off guard, and she was again reminded that there was more to him than just ruffles and fancy clothing.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, and she was about to stand up just to spite him until he shifted the knife and stabbed into the fabric of her gown.
Her heart sank. She’d misjudged him and thought him honorable. “What the devil are ye doing?”
“Cursing is a bad habit. It’s not very ladylike.” He continued to slice, and then she heard a rip as he yanked at the fabric, and it tore into a strip as it pulled from around her legs.
“And a gentleman would tear a lady’s gown?”
“You are not a lady.”
Somewhere inside, her childish dreams that she could be more than a gutter rat died, and she felt his words like a physical blow.
“Then don’t expect me to behave like one.” Her sarcasm was the only defense against the hopeless tears that threatened to well up in her stinging eyes.
She kicked out at him, but he easily caught her lower leg in the warmth of his palm.
“You are aware that I have a knife close to that pretty calf?” He let go, then stabbed and ripped again.
A new kind of panic welled up when it dawned on her what he was doing, one that breached the gate that kept at bay any thoughts she’d not get out of this predicament the same person she was this morning. “Nae, ye willnae tie me up.”
She stood, thinking to flee, but his hand returned to her leg and traveled up to her thigh. Flora froze. Instead of repulsing her, as it had when the only other man to touch her there had, the firm pressure on her sensitive skin caused a feminine awareness to assail her as unwanted tingles ignited in unfamiliar places. Thankfully, when she nodded, his grip eased, and she sank back down in the seat.
“I will let you free in the morning, but I cannot trust you not to take a knife to me during the night.” He was right not to trust her.
“Please.” Her heart thudded as he stood with the strips of her gown in his hand.
“Tomorrow, you will have the proper attire to take me to my box. Once I have my possessions, you are free to go. But for now, I need sleep, and I don’t trust you to not lead me into an alley and slit my throat. We will wait until full light.”
He set a strip of the material and the knife on the table just out of her reach, and then he clasped one of her arms and forcefully put it on the chair's support. It stung, but when she winced, he loosened his grip slightly.
“Sorry,” he muttered, remorse in his eyes, but that didn’t stop him.
Taking the first shred of fabric, he wound it around her arm and the chair several times. It was tight, but not so much so that it cut off the circulation. Tying the cloth off underneath the armrest, he tested the knot and then nodded with satisfaction.
Her heart clenched when she saw her ring on his second finger. The trinket had virtually no monetary value, but it was the only link she had to the family that had long ago deserted her, leaving her on the streets to fend for herself.
Moving to the other side of the chair, he retrieved the other sliver of her shredded gown, then pulled at her free arm, and she immediately flushed when the top of her breast was again exposed. He didn’t seem to notice, though, as he trussed her up on this side as he had the first.
“Be a good girl and be silent tonight, or I will be forced to gag you as well. I would do it now, but your lip looks bad enough without me causing more damage.”
Her tongue darted out, and the coppery taste of fresh blood greeted her. He was right not to let her near that dagger right now because she would gut him for this. “Isaac.”
He froze as if he’d seen a ghost, and she wondered if she should have said “my lord” but she kept going, “please, I promise I will not run.”
Appearing in front of her, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but there is no other option at this point. I’ll get you something to rest your head on, but tying you to the bed with me isn’t an option.”
On the verge of helpless tears, she pushed them back. “Ye dinnae even need the box, if ye can rent out a whole floor.”
“I need that box, Flora, and everything in it. And if I don’t get it back tomorrow, you will need to be down on your knees asking God for mercy because you will receive none from me.”
As he made the thief as comfortable as possible, Isaac pushed away the guilt that stabbed at him. He reminded himself that she had pulled a knife on him. Turning away, he undressed and climbed beneath the covers. Her back was to him, but with these Scottish summer nights, which seemed to have light until the dead of night, he could still make out her silhouette. She sat still before pushing the chair close enough for her to rest her head on the pillow he’d placed on the table.
She trembled like a leaf blowing in a soft wind. Whether it was from fear or silent tears, he couldn’t tell.
If he could trust himself not to touch her, maybe he would have tied her to the posts of the bed and lay next to her. But her skin had been too firm and subtle, and although he’d kissed her to distract her from the knife, he’d almost lost sight of his objective and given in to the need to let his tongue dart into her mouth—and if she were willing, sink other parts of himself between her thighs.
But those silky chocolate eyes were what had gotten him in this mess to begin with.
Maybe once he retrieved his belongings, he could entice her to spend a night or two with him. If she weren’t a Scottish thief, he might even ask her to be his mistress and bring her home, but if his mother ever saw her or heard her speak, she’d go into one of her fits and send for a physician. Or worse yet, declare he was a disappointment just as his father had been.
Flora had called him by his given name. No one ever did that anymore.
His whole life, he’d been referred to as “my lord” or “Nate” by his family and close friends. His father had called him “Isaac.” He liked the way it rolled from the lass’s tongue with an accent that sounded more like a cat purring than the nasal priggish tones of the girls his mother had been pushing his way for years. Other than his sisters, he’d avoided the ladies of the ton who tended to need something constantly.
Isaac. He quite liked the ring of it—he might inform his family that he was a grown man and he wished to be called by his given first name. If he were lucky, he wouldn’t be seeing them so much anymore. Now, with his sisters married off, he only had his mother to concern himself with. And he was even hopeful that with the way she and Lord Jasper looked at each other, she would choose to remarry and move on with her life instead of griping about the injustices of the past.
He removed the lass’s ring from his finger. It was large enough to be a man’s mourning ring. Mairi MacGregor, 7 July 1789, Royal is my race, was inscribed on the inside. He would guess that the words were the MacGregor motto. Scottish clans held such things dear.
The smooth metal had several tiny dots of black enamel set out in the shape of a flower on the top. It was surrounded by thistles, which had been engraved on the surface. She’d worn it around her neck, close to her heart as if it were the most valuable thing she owned. The piece was only worth a few small coins, but perhaps it had more meaning to her. He slipped it back on.
Falling into a deep slumber, he dreamed of ships and sailing and freedom from responsibility he’d never wanted. In his dreams, everything came together until soulful brown eyes appeared on the horizon, heralding a coming storm.
Suddenly, his ships went down in a whirlpool as Drostan Webster’s laugh echoed in his ears.
As golden rays peeked through the windows, Isaac rubbed his eyes and stretched. Looking over to the table, he saw the thief’s brunette curls falling across the pillow and to the side, leaving the curve of her back exposed to him.
After peeling away the covers, he rose. He’d left the window open to the fresh, salty breeze blowing in off the ocean, and the room had chilled with the evening air. He slid on a pair of drawers, then pulled a clean shirt over his head before walking over to get a better look at her. Picking up the other chair, so it didn’t scrape across the floor, he sat next to the table so he could examine her.
What had made such a lovely woman become a criminal?
Long lashes rested just above her cheeks on warm, blemish-free skin. A scar of about an inch was barely visible at the top of her temple, just before her hair started. It must have been a serious injury at some point, although it had healed nicely. Her lip was still just a little puffy on the top-right corner where she had split it yesterday, even so, it seemed to be mending already.
He knew she was intelligent, but the side-to-side twitching of her eyes under the lids indicated that even in sleep, her mind didn’t stop working. What did a thief dream of?
Standing, he snuck back to the bed to retrieve the knife he’d hidden beneath the mattress and returned to her side. As he claimed the seat again, his fingers reached for her hand and gently stroked across the soft skin. She was cool to the touch. He’d given her a pillow but hadn’t accounted for the temperature drop that had occurred during the night.
Once he had sliced the bindings under the arm of the chair, he started to unwind the material. His intention was to move her to the bed and under the woolen blankets until she warmed. He looked back up to find dark, nervous eyes watching him like a cat ready to flee from a barking dog. “You should have told me you were cold.”
She didn’t answer, so he continued, “I would have given you a blanket.” He cut the binding under her other arm and unwound it without taking his eyes off hers.
When he backed away, she lifted her head and pulled her arms over to cover the skin above her breast. She appeared dazed and blinked slowly, not the vicious tiger she’d been the previous evening. Something was wrong, and panic assailed him when she spoke, and he realized his instincts were correct.
Slurred speech, along with her brogue, almost made the words unrecognizable. “I didnae eat last night.”
“I’ll have Fredrick bring in breakfast.”
She struggled with the next words. Something akin to shame washed over her as she looked away. He guessed her reticence was because she was admitting weakness to him.
“I need something now.” Her head lulled to the side, and she blinked and fought whatever was trying to claim her.
Placing his hand on her cheek to steady her, he was shocked at how chilled her skin actually was, and now he could see that despite her bronzed skin, she was much paler than she had been yesterday.
Taking her arm, he tossed the knife onto the table and helped her stand. “Let’s get you under the covers.”
She shook her head, but if he could just get her warm, some of her color would come back.
After he had her on her feet, they took two steps. Then her eyes fluttered, and her head lulled back, just as her body went limp. Catching her, he scooped her up in his arms and strode toward the bed. Placing her down and pulling the blankets over her, he grasped her cheeks in between his palms, trying to heat them.
What was wrong? She’d seemed healthy last night.
He’d barely had time to deliberate if he needed to go for a doctor or yell out for Fredrick when a knock sounded at the door. How was he going to explain the passed out Scottish lass, with a torn lip and dress, in his bed to the man who had been like a surrogate father for the last fifteen years?
Cracking open the door, still thinking of what to say about the small incoherent lass on his bed, dread washed over him as he was greeted with a bigger problem. In the doorway stood Nigel from the Aberdeen watchman’s office, worry and mistrust etched in the lines of the Highlander’s face.