Part 8 (1/2)
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.