Chapter Nineteen

“So, Charles Edward still lives.” Mara spoke the words speculatively as she and Diarmad moved slowly across the hillside. “You ken what that means, Ramsay.”

Diarmad did. Had they gleaned word of the Prince’s capture or death, they might have been able to give up this mad ruse. He could have gone home.

To what, though? To the absence of his father, and possibly Cainnech, as well. Ah, but if that were so, Diarmad would be doubly needed to take up the place of Chief. And perhaps provide comfort to Una—eventually, when her grief lessened, take her to wife?

Once that would have been his fondest wish; now it lay all tangled up with loss and pain. How could he even consider being with Una if it required the loss of his brother?

And what of this woman here beside him? He turned his eyes toward Mara, which did not afford him much benefit. For here on the path up over the heights the weather proved as Alasdair had warned: what had been sunny below had evolved, as they rode, into a sea of mist and clinging damp that cut their visibility and rate of travel drastically.

Mara appeared no more than a ghostly form on horseback, with jewels of mist caught in her wild hair. Funny how, even so, just looking at her raised his desire.

Night must come, and what then? Hours spent wrapped in her arms, the heat of her mouth upon him, her body welcoming his? Could he hope for any of that? Had last night been just a single, mad episode, never to repeat?

He could not ask her. He would not, for all his desire. But his flesh began to ache, and he had to clench his lips together to keep the question in.

Will you love me tonight? Might I spend myself in you and in so doing regain my strength all over again?

“You did well playing your part back there,” Mara went on, apparently taking his silence for concurrence. “But thirty thousand pounds! Can you imagine?”

“Nay,” he muttered unhappily.

“Still, I suppose the capture of the Prince would effectively end most of King George’s immediate problems. I wonder where Charles Edward is now, and with whom?”

Does she wish she were with him? Diarmad wondered. Does she regret she was not deemed fit to guide the true Prince, rather than a mere substitute? The question that had occurred to him this morning once more raised its ugly head: Had Mara MacIvor loved him so well merely because she fantasized about loving Charles Edward?

If so, it would be both a blow to Diarmad’s pride and a sorrow. For he wanted her to desire him. Only him.

Such thoughts followed him like the trailing mist. By late afternoon, the fog had turned into a soft rain and gloom hugged the shoulder of the mountain across which they traveled.

Diarmad felt rather than saw Mara shoot him a look. “We should find a place to camp before dark. A fall up here could be fatal.”

“Aye.” And would they lie together when they paused? Diarmad could not seem to banish the question no matter how he tried.

Mara, now riding in the lead, began casting around for a likely stopping place. By the time she found a small dell half choked with rowan trees, the rain had increased to a steady downpour.

“Here,” she bade Diarmad. “You tend the ponies, and I will rig one of the rugs between the branches. ’Twill not be completely dry, but better than naught.”

Diarmad drew the horses into the shelter of the copse where they could graze on the soft grass beneath, tethered them, and dragged his and Mara’s belongings farther in to where she crouched beneath the rug.

“No hope of a fire, I fear,” she said regretfully.

“I do not mind.” Diarmad could barely see her face in the dim light, but the very lines of her body called to him. He wanted to retrace the contours with his hands as he had before and taste her all over again.

“Why do you no’ take off that wet clothing?” he suggested huskily.

She tipped her head, and her wild mop of hair slid over one shoulder.

“And,” he continued, “I will do the same.”

She got to her feet and stood facing him. He wished he could read her expression better.

“Ah,” she said, “so that is the way of it. Will you expect what you had last night, to have it every night while we travel together?”

“No’ expect.” He admitted, “Hope. That is…” He caught back the words he had almost spoken. Here and now he did not care if she wanted the Prince rather than him. He would slake his thirst for her on any terms she offered. He concluded, “If you are willing.”

She did not move or speak. He stepped closer, raised a hand to her cheek and caressed it very gently. “Will you accept me, Mara MacIvor?”

Her cheek felt warm against his fingers, her hair damp against the back of his hand. His desire heightened impossibly, yet she still did not speak.

What to do? Cajoling was not easy for him; begging seemed undignified. But he would beg her if he must.

“Well, now,” she spoke at last, the words barely a breath, “I ha’ been thinking about that all the day long.”

“As have I.”

“I am not certain ’twould be wise, sharing your bed again.”

“Why?” He stepped still closer. “Did we no’ suit?”

“Aye, that we did.”

“Did I no’ please you in my attentions?”

“Och, aye. But that was the fulfillment of a promise and, I think, a reaction to the danger we had faced together.”

“We are still in danger.” He bent his head so his lips hovered above hers, and her breath hitched. “Terrible danger.”

“Aye, but there is another danger twice as strong.”

“What is that?”

“I might grow altogether too attached to you. And ’twould never do. I ha’ been thinking about that all day, as well. Surely before long we shall part—perhaps to face the hangman’s noose or the block, perhaps when this wild chase ends and you go home. Either way…”

Aye so, Diarmad thought. Her caution did her justice. Yet his flesh cried out in protest.

He released her cheek and slid his hands down her shoulders until he captured her elbows. “Wise lass. But the night will be damp and cold. I would do you a service by keeping you warm.”

She stiffened between his hands but made no reply. He bent his head and ran his lips along her soft cheek.

“Surely,” he murmured between kisses, “’tis not good for you to linger in those wet clothes. Let me wrap you in my plaid, just for the night.”

“Just for the night?” she repeated a bit wildly. “And what of tomorrow night? And the next?”

“We will consider them when they come.” He planted a kiss at the corner of her mouth and nearly lost his control, a man drowning in desire.

She groaned. “A ruinous course.”

“Is it? Would you rather lie alone and shiver until dawn?”

Slowly he reached up and untied the laces on her bodice; she did not protest as he fought the damp strings, his fingers clumsy with eagerness.

“Just tell me ‘nay’ if you would.”

As the fabric fell open, he kissed her throat and her collarbone, slid his mouth downward. When he reached the swell of one breast, she seized him by the hair and halted the progression.

“Nay.”

“Nay?” Devastation hit Diarmad, twice as powerful as his desire. Would she truly deny him?

But breathless and hurried she said, “Let us first shed all these damp garments.”

****

Mara, weak and absolutely drunk with pleasure, opened her eyes into soft, damp darkness. Her languid sense of security told her she lay wrapped close in Diarmad Ramsay’s arms.

The man had promised to keep her warm and had done a braw job of it. His mouth had heated her skin most generously, his hands—to which her flesh could not help but respond—had been everywhere, spreading flame. Now she hovered between feeling shockingly sated and wanting him again.

Did he sleep? After the last time he loved her, he had come to rest with his head beside hers and her body cradled against him, as if he would shield her from the hard ground. His hair brushed her cheek and his breath, deep and regular, trickled across her breasts.

He slept.

Mara smiled. Aye, but she had only to touch him in turn—run the palm of her hand down his hard chest, over his taut, muscled stomach, and wrap her fingers around what lay below—to have him once more. Heady knowledge it was, that made her feel both powerful and helpless.

For she might hold his arousal in her hand, but he held her heart.

She contemplated this fact with a mingling of acknowledgement and sorrow. It would not be a good idea for her to arouse and accept him again. For each time she touched him her feelings for him deepened; each time he entered her she found it more impossible to imagine living without him.

But who could fail to love such a man? One who, clever and courageous, nevertheless made love with such tenderness it touched a woman’s soul?

Mara knew herself for lost. She would have done better to cut the connections after tasting him only once, for now the craving rode her very blood. Aye, and even the thought of it made her lips tingle with desire. Powerless to resist, she softly pressed them to his.

He responded groggily, his lips—warm and supple—molded to hers before parting them. His tongue entered her mouth as if he owned it. He did.

Could he guess how he now commanded her life? That she would do anything, grant him any request—anywhere they might be—if it pleased him, that she would follow him to the end of the earth if he but crooked a finger?

She’d best not tell him that!

But she would open both her mouth and her legs to him, snuggle down farther beneath his body so the most wondrous part of him, down below, might rest just where she wanted it, between her thighs.

Slide into me, she begged in her mind, unwilling to release his mouth and ask. Surely her flesh called to his without words. No question but he stood ready for the task.

He broke the kiss, and she nearly wept in protest.

“Mara,” he said.

“Ramsay, please.”

He laughed, and the sound rippled through her like the tremors when they came together. “What is it you want?”

She growled in frustration and tugged his hair with both hands. A suggestive movement of her hips and buttocks invited him in.

“Ah, but”—his voice both teased and caressed her—“are you no’ the woman who doubted she should lie wi’ me?”

“I still doubt the wisdom of it.”

“Then I would do naught to displease you.”

“You do not displease me!” She growled again and pulled his hair harder. He slid further into place, very nearly where she needed him.

“Beast,” she breathed.

“Vixen,” he returned, with the laughter spilling from his voice. Dhé, that laughter could well prove her undoing.

“Do your duty, man!”

“First I must taste you.” He slid his mouth down to her breast. Aye, it did seem to be one of his favorite locations on her body. She nearly convulsed with pleasure, but he did not stop there. Instead he kept his mouth moving down, and down.

She gasped wildly when the heat of his mouth met the place where she ached so intensely for him. Och, wonderful man, talented man! If only she could lie with him so forever. So that was what he meant by tasting.

Just before the top of her head flew off, she growled yet again, flipped Ramsay onto his back, and straddled him. She stared down into his eyes, now just visible as the morning grew around them.

Aye, dawn approached swiftly, their miraculous night nearly done. Best to make the most of it.

Ramsay smiled at her. “I confess, you do no’ look like a woman plagued by doubt.”

“Hang that. Prepare yoursel’, Ramsay.” She lowered herself upon him, and in a wild rush they greeted the new day.