Part 9 (1/2)
She spent a blissful moment breathing in the steam wafting up from the cup before lifting it to her lips.
The liquid slid down her raw throat, burning every inch of the way. She choked, shooting Muira a betrayed look.
”Drink up, la.s.s,” the old woman urged, settling her considerable bulk on the edge of the hearth. ”The whisky'll warm ye far faster than the tea will.”
Blinking the stinging tears from her eyes, Emma tentatively took a second sip of the whisky-laced tea. Muira had spoken the truth. The burn soon subsided to a pleasant glow that warmed her belly and made her numb fingers and toes begin to tingle.
Emma couldn't have said if it was the whisky or the compa.s.sionate sparkle in the woman's eyes that thawed her frozen tongue but she suddenly found herself blurting out, ”How long have you known Jamie?”
”Since he was naught but a wee lad ridin' on his grandfather's shoulder.” The woman's plump cheek dimpled in a smile. ”Ramsey couldn't take a step in those days without Jamie tuggin' on his coattails. Oh, he would fuss and bl.u.s.ter, but ye could tell the lad could do no wrong in his eyes. It nearly broke his heart to send Jamie away to that fancy school when the lad turned seventeen.”
”It's a shame they weren't able to teach him any manners there,” Emma muttered, still feeling oddly out of sorts after witnessing Brigid's overly familiar greeting.
Muira gave her a reproving look. ”Mind yer tongue now, la.s.s. A mon doesn't need manners when he has a stout heart. There's been many a bitterly cold winter when me and mine wouldna have survived if Jamie-or his grandfather before him-hadn't brought us milk and meat in the shape of a stolen heifer or two. If not for the Sinclairs, we'd have all been driven off this mountain and into the lowlands long ago by the Hepburn and his lapdogs. The Sinclairs are the ones who put meat on our tables and coins in our purses when times are lean. Why, three o' me own lads even rode with Jamie for a season before settling down with their wives to raise bairns of their own.”
”Would you be so quick to defend him if I told you he had abducted me?”
Considering the fawning welcome Muira had given Jamie, Emma hardly expected their hostess to gasp in horror and go running for the authorities. But she was still a little nonplussed when the woman leaned over and gave her a motherly pat on the knee. ”I suspected as much, dearie. Me own Drummond stole me right out from under me dear father's nose.”
Emma eyed the woman in disbelief. ”Do you mean to say your husband abducted you as well?”
”Aye, that he did.” Muira sighed, her eyes growing a bit misty at the memory. ”Tossed me o'er the back o' his horse and made off with me in front o' half the village. I had six younger sisters and they were all pea green with envy.”
Perhaps the woman was mad, Emma thought as she blinked at Muira's beaming countenance. Perhaps all Scots were mad.
”But this isn't the Dark Ages.” She took another sip of the tea and whisky concoction, feeling her indignation begin to mount along with her body temperature. ”Where I come from, a man courts the woman he fancies. He woos her. He writes poetry to praise the fairness of her face, the grace of her steps, the gentleness of her temperament. He doesn't toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his cave. Or his cottage,” she added, stealing a glance at their homey surroundings. The cottage with its worn rag rugs and scarred but st.u.r.dy furniture looked like a place where life was not only lived, but celebrated. ”Where I come from, men behave in a civilized manner. Like gentlemen,” she finished stiffly, ”not like savages or barbarians.”
”Och, but there's nothin' gentle or civilized aboot what happens between a man and a woman in the bedchamber.” Muira gave her a broad wink. ”At least not if a la.s.s is lucky, that is.”
”And Muira has always been among the luckiest of la.s.ses.” Emma jumped as Jamie's voice came from just behind her, warning her he'd probably heard every word of her ridiculously pa.s.sionate speech. ”She has seven strapping sons and twenty-seven grandchildren to prove it.”
Muira rose from the hearth to smack him on the arm, her laugh a bawdy bray. ”Go on with ye, lad! 'Twould be eight-and-twenty grandchildren now. Callum's wife had her seventh bairn while ye were off tweakin' the Hepburn's forked tail.”
Reminded anew that her fiance didn't have many admirers on this mountain, Emma drained the dregs of her tea in a single bitter swallow and waited for Jamie to inform Muira that he hadn't stolen her so he could make her his wife, but to sell her back to his enemy for a profit. But he simply plucked the empty tea cup from her hand and handed it to Muira before scooping Emma back into his arms.
She stiffened, no longer willing to submit to being treated like some slow-witted child. ”You may put me down now, sir. I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable-”
”-of holding your tongue for another five minutes,” he finished smoothly, striding toward the stairs.
Emma snapped her mouth shut, reluctant to make a scene in front of Muira or her servants. The girls had reappeared and were watching Jamie carry her off. The stout la.s.s was gaping with open-mouthed fascination while Brigid watched through eyes narrowed to feline slits.
Muira's younger sisters must have looked equally envious when Drummond MacAlister had gone riding out of that village with his squealing bride-to-be on the back of his horse. Emma knew she should be more concerned about how Jamie's manhandling could damage her reputation, but she could barely resist a childish urge to poke her tongue out at Brigid as they pa.s.sed.
Jamie turned left at the top of the stairs, carrying her to a chamber at the far end of the narrow corridor that was little more than a dormer tucked beneath the eaves. The only furniture in the room was a ladder-backed chair, a small table with a lamp on it and a round wooden tub banded in iron.
A round wooden tub with curlicues of steam rising from the heated water within.
”I'm afraid it was the best I could do since I didn't have time to compose an ode to the fairness of your face and the grace of your step. Or the gentleness of your temperament,” Jamie added wryly.
Emma slid to her feet and drifted forward, forgetting all about her annoyance with him. In that moment, she would have forgiven him anything, even murder. She'd heard the maidservants trudging up and down the stairs while she languished in front of the fire but her mind had been too numbed by cold and exhaustion to realize they'd been hauling buckets of heated water. Now she knew exactly what Jamie had whispered to Muira before ducking back out into the snow to tend to his horses and his men.
”Oh, Jamie,” she breathed, trailing her fingertips through the warm, silky water. ”It's beautiful!”
She lifted her head to find him surveying her with an odd light in his eyes. Her smile faded. ”What is it? Why are you staring at me?”
”That's the first time I've heard my Christian name on your lips.” His gaze dropped to those lips, its smoldering caress warming her in places even the whisky had not been able to reach. ”I rather fancy the sound of it.”
Before she could fully absorb the impact of his words, he was gone, leaving her all alone to run a trembling finger over her parted lips.
OH, JAMIE...
Jamie went striding from the cottage, trying not to think about just how badly he longed to hear those words on Emma's lips again, this time ending on a breathless sigh of pleasure or perhaps even a deep-throated moan of surrender as he knelt between her fair, freckled thighs and...
He bit back a groan of his own. His restless strides carried him to the very edge of the rocky slope behind Muira's cottage. The snow was still tumbling from the sky but the brittle flecks of ice did little to cool his fevered flesh. Despite the frigid bite of the wind, all he could see was Emma peeling off her damp garments and sinking into the warm water just as he longed to sink into her.
It was far too late to entertain such a foolish notion. He'd already waited a lifetime to wrest what he wanted from the Hepburn and now his time was running out.
If the Hepburn gave him what he wanted, he would have no choice but to honor his word and send Emma back to the front of that abbey, where she would take the earl to be her husband, her lord and master, and the father of her babes.
His hands clenched into fists. He'd managed to convince himself long ago that there was only one thing the Hepburn possessed that he could not live without. He'd scorned the man's greed, his arrogance, his insatiable l.u.s.t for power.
After all, why should he-Jamie Sinclair-envy an ancient pile of stones when he possessed something far more precious-his freedom? He wasn't caged by four walls, but slept beneath the star-spangled expanse of the sky, the entire mountain his kingdom. Why would he require a bevy of servants to be at his beck and call when he had loyal men willing to ride by his side for little more than the promise of companions.h.i.+p and adventure?
And yet here he stood coveting the Hepburn's proud and p.r.i.c.kly tempered bride. Why couldn't she have been some spoiled, grasping creature willing to sell her succulent young body to the earl for a pair of diamond earbobs or a cloak trimmed in ermine? If she had been, he might not want her so badly for himself. He wouldn't be standing out there in the cold, every inch of his body burning so hot he could almost feel the snow melting beneath his boots. He might still be content with the sort of woman who would welcome him into her bed without requiring so much as a kiss, much less a lifelong pledge of devotion.
Almost as if his thoughts had conjured them from the swirling snow, a pair of warm female arms materialized to slip around his waist.
Jamie closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine for the s.p.a.ce of one heavy, thudding heartbeat he felt all the way to his groin that they were Emma's arms. That it was Emma who had braved the snow to seek out his company, fresh from her bath, her skin still damp and rosy, the irresistible softness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against his back.
But it wasn't the intoxicating scent of rain-washed lilacs that tickled his nose. It was a hint of woodsmoke from the kitchen fire underlaid with the unmistakable musk of female desire.
He turned, his sigh visible in the frigid air. ”You should get back in the cottage, Brigid, before you freeze your silly self to death.”
The buxom servant girl twined her arms around his neck, laughing up at him. ”Ah, but there's no danger o' that as long as ye're around, is there? As I recall, ye've yer own special way o' warmin' a la.s.s.”
Jamie groaned as one of her greedy little hands ventured between them, rubbing the rigid length of his staff through the soft buckskin of his breeches.
”Oh my,” she breathed, shooting him a coy look. ”I told Gilda ye'd be eager to see me tonight. But I had no idea just how how eager.” eager.”
Jamie didn't have the heart to tell her he'd been eager eager ever since he'd tossed a certain willowy young English miss over the front of his saddle two days ago. ever since he'd tossed a certain willowy young English miss over the front of his saddle two days ago.
It seemed she wasn't in the mood for conversation anyway. She was too busy nuzzling his throat with her moist, hot lips and rubbing her plump b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest.
Jamie knew he'd be a bluidy fool not to hike up her skirts right there where they stood and take her up on her offer. Perhaps if he could relieve the unrelenting ache in his groin, he would be able to shunt some blood back to his brain. He'd be able to quell his growing obsession with another man's bride.
Biting off a savage oath, he wrapped his arms around Brigid and gave himself over fully to the ripe, open-mouthed carnality of her kiss.