The Devil Wears Plaid Part 8

Just a day ago, those words would have both outraged and terrified her. Now they sent a dangerous little thrill s.h.i.+vering through her soul.

She turned all of her attention to flipping the bacon with the tip of the knife, some perverse urge driving her to ask, "Has your Jamie had a lot of women?"

"Any lad born with a face like that can have as many women as he wants."

It took her a moment to realize Bon hadn't actually answered her question. When she slanted him a probing look, he blinked at her, looking as innocent as his fox-like little face would allow.

"Have you any potatoes?" she asked.

"I've got one, miss." Emma started as the hulking man with the scar carved deep into his left cheek thrust his hand over Bon's shoulder.

She hadn't realized Jamie's men had been creeping closer, drawn by the succulent aroma of the bacon she was gently coaxing to crisp perfection. Most of them were still keeping at a respectful distance, as if working up the courage to approach.

Bon scowled at the man. "Ye know better than to sneak up on a la.s.s like that, Lemmy. With that face o' yers, ye're liable to give her a fright she won't survive."

The towering man ducked his head shyly, his drooping mustache with its curling ends making his long face look even more melancholy. "Beg yer pardon, miss. I didna mean to startle ye."

Shooting Bon a chiding look, Emma took the potato from Lemmy's hand. "Why, thank you, Mr.... Mr.... Lemmy. That's precisely what I needed."

His offering was slightly withered and sprouting more eyes than a gorgon, but Emma made a great show of slicing it into neat cubes and dropping them into the pan next to the bacon, where they began to soften in the hot grease.

"I've more where that one come from, miss," Lemmy announced eagerly before heading back to his saddlebags.

"If Jamie were here," Emma muttered, stirring the potatoes with the point of the knife, "I suppose he'd try to convince me the earl personally cut that scar into Lemmy's cheek with his engraved letter opener for stealing a potato."

"'Tweren't a potato, but a bushel o' turnips. And 'tweren't the earl," Bon said matter-of-factly. "The auld buzzard don't like to get his own hands bluidy so he ordered one o' his men to hold Lemmy down while his gamekeeper did it."

Emma jerked her head up, gazing at Bon in horror. "The same gamekeeper who was going to cut off Graeme's hand?"

Bon shook his head. "The one before him. Or was it the one before that?" He ticked off a few gamekeepers on his fingers before giving up with a shrug. "The earl always did have deadly taste in gamekeepers. The more bluidthirsty, the better, as far as he's concerned."

Emma swallowed, her appet.i.te suddenly deserting her. She was still having difficulty believing the gentle soul who had rescued her family from ruin could be the monster these men were describing. Perhaps he just had terrible judgment when it came to hiring gamekeepers.

"Your cousin told me all about the longstanding enmity between the Hepburns and the Sinclairs," she said. "But this hatred between he and the earl seems more virulent somehow... more personal personal. Have you any idea why Jamie despises the man so?"

"All ye need to know is that Jamie Sinclair never does anythin' without a d.a.m.n fine reason."

"Even kidnap another man's bride?"

When Bon looked away, no longer able to meet her eyes, she knew she had struck a raw nerve.

"Why, you don't know what those reasons are, do you?" she said, understanding beginning to dawn. "That's why you were saying those dreadful things about me, wasn't it? To try and goad him into telling you."

A muscle in Bon's jaw twitched, but he kept his gaze fixed on the leaping flames of the fire. "He's always had a temper and a wild streak, just like his grandfather and all the Sinclairs who came before him, but I've never known him to be reckless. I don't know what he wants from the earl but I do know it's got a powerful hold on him. He's willin' to risk everythin', includin' all our necks, to get it."

Before Emma could press him further, a young fellow with moss-green eyes and a thick ginger beard appeared at her elbow to offer her a dirty package wrapped in paper and string. "I've some more bacon, miss."

"And I've some bread," said another man, shyly handing over half a loaf of brown bread so stale it felt like a rock in her hand.

"And we've some cheese," Malcolm and Angus chimed in unison. They engaged in a brief shoving match to determine which one of them would win the privilege of dusting the furry, green crust of mold off the cheese before presenting it to her with a flourish.

As the rest of Jamie's men gathered around her, Emma studied their expectant faces. They looked less like a band of fierce outlaws in that moment than a pack of grubby little boys desperate for a warm sugar biscuit straight out of the oven.

Shaking her head ruefully, she said, "Stand back, lads. A lady needs room to work."

WHEN JAMIE CAME STRIDING back into the camp, the last sight he expected to see was his men hunched over tin plates, shoveling food into their mouths with the blades of their knives as if they hadn't eaten in a month and might never again have the chance. back into the camp, the last sight he expected to see was his men hunched over tin plates, shoveling food into their mouths with the blades of their knives as if they hadn't eaten in a month and might never again have the chance.

He might have been more mystified by their behavior if the irresistible aroma of sizzling bacon hadn't come drifting to his own nose, luring him forward. Even though he'd eaten a chunk of stale bread paired with a thin strip of dried venison before slipping out of camp before dawn had yet to blush the sky, the succulent aroma still made his stomach clench with yearning.

That yearning sharpened to something infinitely more dangerous when he saw the woman presiding over their feast. Emma was leaning over Graeme's shoulder, sc.r.a.ping a fresh serving of potatoes-fried up tender on the inside and crispy on the outside just the way Jamie liked them-onto the boy's plate. Graeme gave her an adoring look before stuffing a heaping portion into his already full mouth.

Jamie glanced at the other men's plates to discover more potatoes, several rashers of bacon and thick slabs of bread toasted in bacon grease with cheese melted over the top.

He shook his head in disbelief. "'Tis a good thing we'll have food and shelter tonight since you lads appear to be gobbling down the stores of a fortnight in one sitting."

The men still had enough of their wits about them to look abashed but they didn't stop eating.

"Could I interest you in some breakfast, Mr. Sinclair?" Emma asked, the crisp formality of her tone only serving to remind him of the helpless little sounds she had made at the back of her throat while he was kissing her last night. She plucked a rasher of bacon from her own plate and offered it to him.

He reluctantly took the bacon from her fingers, knowing exactly how Adam must have felt when Eve handed him the apple.

Still eyeing her warily, he sampled a piece of the crisp pork. If the smell was heavenly, the taste was pure rapture. Before he knew it, the entire rasher was gone and he was licking the grease from his fingertips without a hint of either manners or shame.

"The la.s.s cooks like an angel," Bon mumbled through a mouthful of potatoes. "If she wasn't already promised to the earl, I'd marry her meself."

"Why, thank you, Bon," Emma replied, beaming with pleasure. "Even though my mother said it was a common pastime hardly befitting a lady, I've always loved to cook. When I was a little girl, Cookie used to have to chase me out of her kitchen with a broom. Fortunately, it was a pa.s.sion that served my family in good stead after Cookie... retired."

She lowered her eyes to avoid Jamie's sharp gaze. She had probably taken over the cooking after her papa had squandered Cookie's wages on faro and cheap gin. Jamie couldn't help but wonder if any of her sisters had ever lifted a hand to help her.

Reminded of the errand that had sent him stealing out of the camp before any of them had risen from their bedrolls, he retrieved the brace of cleaned and dressed hares slung over his shoulder and tossed them at her feet.

As her startled blue eyes met his, he said, "As long as you're riding with me, you'll never lack for fresh meat on your table."

With that, he turned on his heel and headed for his horse. "Finish stuffing your faces and pack up your gear. If we wish to reach Muira's before midnight, there's no time to dawdle."

"Who is this Muira?" Emma called after him.

"A friend," he said shortly. "And don't get too attached to the la.s.s," he tossed over his shoulder to his men. "She's not a pet. You can't keep her."

As their crestfallen groans echoed in his ears, Jamie decided he might do well to heed his own warning.

JAMIE DROVE THEM AT a relentless pace through that endless day, frequently glancing back over his shoulder as if fleeing some devil only he could see. a relentless pace through that endless day, frequently glancing back over his shoulder as if fleeing some devil only he could see.

At first Emma tried to sit stiffly in the saddle behind him, pride preventing her from clinging to him. But after the third time she was forced to make a frantic grab for the back of his vest to keep herself from sliding off the horse and over the edge of a cliff, Jamie bit off an exasperated oath, dismounted and swung himself back up behind her. Sliding one arm around her waist, he tugged her into the cradle of his thighs with a grip that warned he was in no mood to be defied.

As the hills grew steeper, the trees more scarce and the terrain ever more rugged, Emma was almost thankful for his bullying. Without his imposing chest and muscular arms to support her, she probably would have gone tumbling into some stony ravine and broken her neck.

They all had cause to be thankful they'd started their journey with full bellies since Jamie only allowed them a handful of breaks to meet the most basic of their needs for food, water and respite. Judging by the gruff impatience with which he urged them to hurry up and remount, the breaks were more for the horses' benefit than their own.

With each league they traveled, the air grew thinner, making the wind feel like the stinging snap of a whip against Emma's tender skin. Patches of dingy snow began to appear beneath the spa.r.s.e cl.u.s.ters of birch and cedar as they left even the most elusive hint of spring far behind them.

Emma's world soon narrowed to the well-muscled cradle of Jamie's body and the steady sway of the horse between her thighs. Her memories of England-of sunlight dancing over the tender spring gra.s.s and larks singing in the budding hedgerows-seemed nothing more than the distant echoes of a dream. Just when she thought she couldn't possibly grow any more wretched, a chill drizzle began to fall from the leaden sky.

Jamie retrieved an oilcloth from his pack and used it to fas.h.i.+on a makes.h.i.+ft tent over both their heads. His efforts were wasted when the capricious wind s.h.i.+fted and began to drive the icy needles of rain into their faces. It was soon dripping off Emma's eyelashes and running down her cheeks like tears. Forsaking her battered pride, she huddled against Jamie, s.h.i.+vering and soaked to the skin.

Before long they were forced to slow their pace so the horses could pick their way over the slippery rocks. Emma's head began to droop. She could not have said if she drifted into sleep or stupor, but when she opened her eyes, it was to a world both achingly familiar and utterly alien.

She must be dreaming, she thought, her exhaustion melting to a haze of wide-eyed wonder. How else was she to explain the enchanted tableau before her eyes? She blinked, but still the vision remained, cozy and substantial enough to put a lump of longing in her throat.

The rain had s.h.i.+fted to snow while she drowsed-fluffy white flakes that waltzed through the clearing before them in the arms of the wind. In the middle of the clearing sat a cottage. This was no tumbledown crofter's hut but a st.u.r.dy structure fas.h.i.+oned from weathered gray stone and crowned by a thatched roof. The cheery glow of lamplight spilled from its deep-set windows like a beacon to welcome the weary traveler.

To Emma's eyes, the cottage looked as if it should have been spun from gingerbread and marzipan instead of stone and mortar. She half-expected to see a bony, white-haired crone beckoning from the doorway, eager to offer her sugar plums and sweetmeats before stuffing her into a waiting oven.

It was a fate she might actually welcome at the moment, she thought, wracked by a fresh round of s.h.i.+vers.

Since the horse had finally ceased its rocking, there was only one other constant in her life-Jamie's arms. He dismounted, pulling her off the beast with him in one fluid motion. Instead of setting her on her feet, he gathered her to his chest and went striding toward the cottage, carrying her like a child.

Emma stole a furtive glance at him. Fresh snow-flakes dusted the rich sable of his hair and caught like diamond dust in his lashes.

She knew she should have protested his high-handed treatment of her. Should have insisted he put her down that very instant. But she wasn't entirely sure her trembling legs would support her. So she looped one arm around his neck, telling herself it was less humiliating than going sprawling to the ground at his feet. As she rested her weary head against his shoulder, she thought how unfair it was that someone so untrustworthy should feel so strong and warm and solid.

As they approached the cottage's stone stoop, the wooden door swung open as if by magic.

Jamie ducked beneath the low door frame. They were immediately enveloped in a cloud of warm air, faintly scented with the delicious aroma of cinnamon biscuits.

It took Emma a dazed moment to realize it was no cackling crone who had granted them entry, but a ruddy-cheeked woman who was nearly as broad as she was tall. It wasn't a very difficult feat to achieve since the top of her head barely came to Jamie's elbow.

Judging by her rumpled tent of a nightdress and the long white braids draped over her shoulders, their arrival had roused their hostess from her bed. But that didn't seem to dim her delight.

She clapped her hands, a smile wreathing her rosy cheeks. "Jamie, me darlin' lad! Why, ye're a sight fer a puir auld woman's sore eyes!"

Even burdened with Emma's weight, Jamie still managed to bend down and graze the top of the woman's snowy head with a kiss. "There's no need for false modesty, Muira. You know you're still the bonniest la.s.s north of Edinburgh. I've been half in love with you myself since I was but a wee lad."

"Only half?" she inquired coyly, giggling like a schoolgirl. "I'm still waitin' fer ye to come to yer senses and ask me to be yer wife."

"And you know I would if I thought your husband wouldn't mind." Jamie straightened, glancing around the cozy but s.p.a.cious chamber that appeared to serve as both parlor and dining room for the cottage. "Where is he?"

"He's off huntin' with the lads again." The old woman's eyes twinkled with mischief. "'Twould serve him right if he returned to find a randy young lover in me bed."

"Bite your tongue, woman. You know he'd shoot any mon foolish enough to trifle with his blus.h.i.+ng young bride. He almost shot my grandfather once and all he did was wink at you."

She swatted Jamie on the shoulder. "After thirty-five years o' bein' wed to Drummond MacAlister, 'twill take more than a spoonful o' flattery from a honey-tongued lad such as yerself to make this bride blush. So how is that grandfather o' yers? I was hopin' the stubborn auld rascal would come doon from the mountain and pay us a visit before the winter snows set in, but we've seen neither hide nor hair o' him all these long months."

From Emma's angle, it was impossible to miss the sudden tension in Jamie's jaw or the faint quickening of the pulse in his throat. "He's staying closer to home these days. I haven't seen him myself for nigh on two months."

Muira snorted. "Ye canna expect me to believe the auld divil's retired to his rockin' chair. If 'twas up to him, he'd still be leadin' the lads and ye'd still be in St. Andrews or Edinburgh playin' the gent."

A mock shudder raked Jamie. "I would have never survived. The whisky was weak and the la.s.ses weren't nearly as bonny as you."

Worry dimmed the twinkle in Muira's eye as she peered past them into the shadows of the yard. "Shall I fetch the pistols and bolt the door? Are ye bein' followed?"

"Not at the moment. Except by a band of wet, hungry, weary men who would gladly trade their mortal souls for a bowl of hot neeps and tatties and an invitation to bed down in your stable for the night."

Muira rubbed her plump hands together, as if being stirred from her sleep in the dead of night to feed a dozen ravenous men was her idea of paradise. "I'll put a pot on the kitchen hearth right away. And tell young Nab to lock up the sheep," she added with a ribald wink. She turned her attention to Emma, her toffee-colored eyes as bright and inquisitive as a robin's. "And what have ye here? Did ye find some half-drowned muskrat doon on the moors?"

Any other time Emma might have balked at being likened to a rodent. But at the moment she was helpless to squeeze so much as a squeak of protest past her chattering teeth.

She felt Jamie's arms tighten around her. "I was hoping you'd look after her while I tend to the men and the horses."

"That I will, lad." Clucking like an aggrieved mother hen, Muira gave him a chiding look. "And from the looks o' the puir child, I'll do a d.a.m.n sight finer job of it than ye."

Plucking a glowing oil lamp from its hook, their hostess ushered them across the room. After sleeping on the cold ground for two nights, the cozy cottage with its low plastered ceilings and neatly swept flagstone floor looked like a king's palace to Emma. A narrow wooden staircase was tucked into an alcove in the corner. Apparently, the cottage had a full second story instead of just a sleeping loft.

Fragrant bunches of dried rosemary and thyme had been hung from iron hooks set in the exposed oak rafters along with an impressive array of iron pots and copper kettles. Jamie had to duck to avoid banging his head on the largest of them.

Emma forgot about all of the room's other charms when she saw the fire crackling merrily on the stone hearth. An ancient hound with a grizzled muzzle was dozing on a rag rug in front of the fire. It was all she could do not to shoo him away so she could curl up in his place.

Jamie gently deposited her on the bench closest to the hearth, then straightened just enough to whisper something in Muira's ear.

"Aye, I'll see to that as well, lad." The woman bobbed her head, the sly twinkle returning to her eye. "'Twill be ready when ye return."

As if eager to make good on her mysterious promise, she turned toward the back of the cottage and clapped briskly. Emma craned her neck, waiting to see if a trio of elves or perhaps a unicorn would appear to do her bidding.

But it was simply two servant girls who emerged from what must have been the kitchen, rubbing their bleary eyes. The one with the ruddy complexion and pug nose was nearly as short and stout as her mistress but the other was a tall, comely young creature with dark, glossy gypsy ringlets and plump b.r.e.a.s.t.s on the verge of tumbling out of her low-cut bodice.

Her eyes lit up when she saw Jamie, making Muira's welcome seem positively chilly in comparison. "Why, Jamie Sinclair, as I live and breathe," she purred, resting a hand on one shapely hip. "'Tis been far too long since ye've paid me... I mean, us... a visit."

Chapter Fifteen.

STEADFASTLY AVOIDING Emma's eyes, Jamie bobbed his head briefly. "You're looking well, Brigid. As always." Emma's eyes, Jamie bobbed his head briefly. "You're looking well, Brigid. As always."

Emma could only stare, fascinated by the hint of color gracing his high cheekbones. She wouldn't have thought him a man capable of blus.h.i.+ng.

"Not nearly as well as ye," Brigid replied, looking him up and down as if she'd like nothing better than to lure him off to the nearest hayloft for a l.u.s.ty tumble. And not for the first time, if the way she was licking her ripe lips was any indication.

Emma glared at the impertinent chit through the sodden ropes of her hair, then quickly lowered her eyes when she realized what she was doing. Fortunately, Jamie had already turned and was striding back toward the door, no doubt relieved to be free of the burden she had become.

Muira shooed both the servants back toward the kitchen. "Go on with ye now! There's no time for gawkin' and dallyin'! We've much to do and little time to do it."

Brigid spared Emma a disdainful glance before flouncing back into the kitchen with Muira and the other maidservant following at her heels.

Emma tugged off her boots and huddled in front of the fire, perfectly happy to bask in its warmth and keep company with the grizzled old hound. The moments were punctuated by the m.u.f.fled clang of pots, the occasional Gaelic curse, and the sound of footsteps trudging up and down the stairs behind her. Her garments were just starting to go from soaking wet to unpleasantly damp when Muira reappeared to hand her a wooden bowl. Emma quickly spooned down its contents, caring only that they were warm and bore a vague resemblance to vegetables she recognized. She was equally grateful for the cup of hot tea Muira pressed into her still trembling hands.