Chapter Two
As the coach rolled to a stop, Ewan McCloud peered out the window and frowned at their destination, a dilapidated cottage on the edge of town. Not what he had expected.
He opened the door and dismounted, shooting a glance at Mungo, who sat on the box. “Be ready,” he said.
The note had come from MacAllister, but in this business, one never knew. It paid to be cautious. He checked the load in the pistol on his hip. And the one strapped to his thigh. And the boxlock flintlock in his pocket.
He readjusted the lapels of his long frock coat and strode to the door and knocked.
“Who is it?” The thready whisper from inside the cottage irritated him. There was no need for melodrama. Either MacAllister had her or he didn’t.
“McCloud.”
“Thank God.”
The door opened and Ewan peered into the gloom, quickly quartering the room. The cottage was nearly empty but for a squirming bundle on the floor. Ewan let his tensed muscles relax. He nodded to Mungo and stepped inside. “Well?” It was a short, sharp query. He was a busy man. He wanted this over.
“Come in. Come in.” Judging from the tension on MacAllister’s face, his frenetic movements, it was not over.
Ewan frowned and surveyed the bundle on the floor. A woman, tied, a jumble of skirts. Her face was obscured by the gag and a matted fall of shadowed curls but Ewan could see the streaks of tears on her cheeks.
Hell.
What a way to start a marriage.
“So, MacAllister, have you finally delivered my bride?”
The boy paled. “Nae. ’Tis not Kaitlin.”
A worm writhed in Ewan’s gut. Damn MacAllister. Damn him to hell. “Our bargain was for your sister’s hand. You can’t just bring me some random woman and think your debt is settled.” He wasn’t a filthy procurer, for Christ’s sake.
“Nae. Nae. You doona understand. This is the friend I was telling you about. The one who helped Kaitlin run away.”
Ewan crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”
“Don’t you see? When Kaitlin finds out we’ve kidnapped her—”
“We?” Annoyance bristled at his nape. “I dinna kidnap anyone. I doona kidnap women.” He didn’t. Never had. Oh, he’d done plenty of other dark and sinful things, but never that.
MacAllister ignored him—not a wise move. One did not ignore the McCloud. Not anymore. He was far too powerful for anyone to dare. “When Kaitlin finds out we’ve kidnapped Violet, she’ll have to come back. To save her. Don’t you see?”
“Violet?” Ewan’s blood surged. God. Why did she have to have that name?
“Aye.” MacAllister gestured to the woman on the floor. “Her best friend in the whole world. Violet Wyeth.”
Violet Wyeth.
Ewan’s breath caught. Every muscle tightened. An unholy burn surged in his brain as visions of a beautiful girl, a heartless girl, a spoiled girl—one who had ruined his life—winged through his mind.
Violet Wyeth.
It couldn’t be.
He put a boot on either side of the wriggling form and shoved her hair out of her face and his heart stopped.
God. That face.
Something vicious and feral surged through him. He couldn’t name it. Surely it wasn’t heady anticipation. The bitter taste of opportunity. For vengeance.
Surely it wasn’t that.
But it was.
He could tell from the way she glared at him over the gag she didn’t recognize him.
That she didn’t remember him—didn’t remember what he’d sacrificed for her and how she’d repaid him—only solidified his resolve.
In that second, a plan formed. He smiled.
A wolfish grin. “Well, we do need a maid at the Cloud.” He squeezed her arm.
She tried to wrench away but he didn’t allow it.
“She’s a little scrawny but she’ll do. I’ll take her.
Besides,” he caught and held her gaze, threading menacing meaning into his tone, “the boys could use some entertainment.”
He liked that her nostrils flared, her beautiful, treacherous face paled.
And he liked that she was, once again, within his grasp.
As Callum MacAllister lifted the girl and carried her to the carriage, Ewan’s mind spun with the possibilities.
Good God. Violet Wyeth.
Not what he had expected when he’d awoken to Callum’s urgent missive this morning. But holy hell. What a windfall.
He had suffered for years because of her, lost so much.
He would enjoy making her pay for every heartache.
He would enjoy it immensely.
Violet glared at her captor through unruly hanks of her hair as the carriage jerked into motion. So this was the man Kaitlin had run from. And no wonder. He was truly horrifying.
For one thing, he was huge. His head nearly brushed the roof of the coach and his brawny mass filled the seat across from her. For another, his face was frightening. Hard and harsh. A thin scar traced his left cheek, only adding to his menace.
He could have been a handsome man but for the evil intent latent in his expression. His eyes were gray and sharp, like a wolf’s, and his nose was crooked, as though it had been broken time and time again.
His thick muscles bunched as he crossed his arms over his chest. He surveyed her with a wicked smile.
A shard of trepidation slashed her.
The boys could use some entertainment, he’d said. What on earth could that mean? Not for the first time since this debacle began, she sent up a frantic prayer that Aunt Hortense had been able to rally some help. That Ned and Malcolm were rushing to rescue her.
But they would go to MacAllister House to beard Callum in his den. They couldn’t know she’d been taken to some ramshackle cottage. They certainly couldn’t know she’d been handed over to Kaitlin’s brigand betrothed and trundled off to God knows where as his prisoner.
Oh, what a state of affairs.
Her fingers throbbed and she wriggled them to get some feeling back.
Callum’s cravat was still tied tightly around them and they were beginning to throb.
He’d shoved a greasy rag in her mouth and secured it with another when she’d started screaming, and now a revolting slime was trickling down her throat.
To make matters worse, her captor was staring at her with a hungry expression. He leaned forward, boxing her in, and tucked her hair behind her ear. The heat of his touch seared her. She winced.
Apparently he found this amusing. He grinned. When she glared at him and muffled an imprecation through her gag, he laughed. “Ah,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, “I’m going to enjoy this.”
And to her horror, he lifted her off her seat and set her on his lap.
Oh, lord. He was hard and hot. The feel of his bunching muscles beneath her weight shocked her.
As a lady, she’d certainly danced with a man and been courted by a man, and even been kissed once.
But she’d never been plastered against one of them.
Never felt his breath waft over her. Never had huge hands on her belly holding her still.
She refused to be still. She jerked and writhed and tried desperately to wrench free.
His chuckle unnerved her. “You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?”
“Mret me mo!” she commanded.
He ignored her. With ease, he held her in place with one hand while the other roved.
The scalding heat of pure mortification washed through her as this big brute of a man fondled her. When he cupped her breast, she howled in outrage, but when his thumb drew over her nipple, that outrage melted into something else entirely.
Delight whipped through her.
Dear heavens. She’d never felt anything like that.
She shouldn’t like this. She couldn’t. What was wrong with her?
He nudged the hair off her neck with his chin; the sharp bristles of his beard scraped her nerves, sending more arousal cascading down her spine. It pooled in her belly.
And then his mouth found her.
She froze. An exquisite, illicit thrill consumed her as his lips danced over the sensitive skin at her nape. His grip on her breast firmed. He found the other. His thumbs began a torturous dance, nudging, prodding, plucking at ever swelling nipples.
He rumbled a groan and thrust something hard into the curves of her bottom. She shuddered as she realized what that rigid length was.
He went stone still at the movement and then, holding her tight with one arm over her belly, he began fumbling with her skirts, yanking them up over her knees.
Oh, she fought him, scrabbling, writhing, desperately clenching at her petticoats to keep them down. To no avail. He stroked her bare thigh; his palm skated upward. Hot, panting breath scalded her neck.
“No! No!” she wailed, but the gag consumed her plea.
And he found her.
“Ahh.” The dark satisfaction in his tone terrified her, even as the harsh sensation of his coarse fingers rubbing against her most tender parts sent rivulets of delicious agony trickling up her spine.
He dandled deeper and found her font, dragged the dampness up and circled her aching nub in an excruciating caress.
As he stroked her, he turned his attention back to her neck, her nipples, plying her with pleasure. She couldn’t bear it. It was awful. It was wonderful. It was unlike anything she’d ever known.
A pressure built in her belly. She tried not to undulate her hips, tried not to moan, but she couldn’t help it. Her nerves screamed for more, though her mind, her heart, denied the bliss.
She hated him for making her feel this way. Hated him.
He increased his pace, barraging her with one exquisite sensation after another.
His lips roved to her earlobe. He nibbled, nipped.
His caresses became harsher, harder. The plucking at her breast firmed to pinches, tugs.
A sharp slap to her labia broke her. The storm within her crested.
She exploded. Ecstasy flooded her, rode her, took her.
All thoughts of this man, this carriage, this indignity, fled as absolute bliss descended.
He continued caressing her as her crisis waned, drawing it out, tormenting her. Reminding her that though she had not wanted his touch, it had delighted her.
She fully expected him to ravish her then. To yank off his braes and force himself into her wet and ready body. But he did not.