Chapter 4
"If ye try anythin' stupid, lass, I'll take immense pleasure in punishin' ye."
Ewan's voice was low and rough as he swung Maia up onto his destrier. The words were meant as a warning, even as his body betrayed him with feelings he had no business experiencing. Not now. Not with her of all people.
"Daenae tell me what to do!" Maia's voice came out sharp, even as panic washed over her, lending her courage she didn't know she possessed.
"Nay." His hands tightened on her waist as he lifted her higher. "Ye're comin' with me whether ye like it or nae."
He'd carried women before—rescued clan members from burning cottages, lifted serving girls who'd twisted ankles. But none of them had affected him like this.
None of them had made his hands burn where they'd gripped soft flesh, or made his chest tighten with the memory of how feminine curves felt when pressed against him.
"Listen to me!" Maia twisted in his grip, trying to find purchase against his chest. "Me uncle—"
"Yer uncle," Ewan growled as he settled her onto the destrier, "can rot in hell for all I care." He vaulted up behind her in one fluid motion. "And if ye're smart, ye'll stop squirmin' before ye fall and break yer neck."
He was gritting his teeth as he spoke, but inside he was all fighting to keep calm. The lass was all woman—thick thighs he'd felt even through her thin shift, full breasts that had pillowed against his chest as he'd carried her, hips that flared in a way that made his fingers itch to span them.
He tried to ignore the sight of her nipples, clearly visible through the damp fabric, pebbled from the cold Highland air. The thin cotton did nothing to hide them, and his fingers itched to tease those tight peaks, to see if she'd gasp or arch into his touch.
Would they be sensitive? Would she moan if he rolled them between his fingers, if he took one into his mouth and—
Oh, gods damn me!
Every inch of her was lush and warm and maddeningly distracting.
Ewan had spent the entire climb down the castle wall fighting the primal urge to press her against the nearest surface and discover exactly what sounds she'd make when he touched her properly.
His mind raced with the image of her naked, her skin flush against his, her lips parted in a silent moan. But he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was here.
"Where are ye takin' me?" Maia's voice trembled despite her attempt at defiance. Ewan leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear.
"Somewhere yer uncle cannae find ye. Somewhere both ye and yer uncle will learn what happens when MacMahon tries to take what's mine."
"What makes ye think I'm yers to take?" she hissed, even as a shiver ran through her at his proximity.
He used all the willpower he could muster to suppress his body's response at the mere proximity of her, a traitorous response to the sweetness of her scent. At the way her breath whispered against his skin as she spoke.
Focus, ye bloody fool.
He forced his thoughts away from the way she felt in his arms.
"Nae yet." He smirked, the words filled with dark promise.
MacMahon had tried to take what was his, sending men to claim McGill territory and steal livestock and crops that belonged to Ewan's clan. The bastard had thought himself clever, striking while Ewan was away dealing with a border dispute.
But he'd thought wrong.
Ewan vaulted up behind Maia in one fluid motion, settling into the saddle and immediately caging her body with his arms as he gathered the reins. She stiffened at the contact, her spine going rigid against his chest, and he felt a tremor run through her.
The tremor turned into a full shiver as he leaned forward, adjusting his seat. Her back pressed more firmly against him, and Ewan had to grit his teeth against the sensation.
She was soft everywhere he was hard, yielding where he was unyielding, and the thin cotton of her shift did absolutely nothing to hide the warmth of her skin or the shape of her body.
He could feel every breath she took, the rise and fall of her ribs beneath his forearms. Could smell the faint scent of lavender in her hair, mixed with something sweeter—honey, maybe, or chamomile.
He was here for revenge, not to bed some pampered niece who'd likely never done a day's work in her life.
"Pampered?" The lass's whispers rose with indignation. "Is that what ye think I am?" He hadn't realized he'd said that last part aloud. Ewan's jaw tightened. "What else would ye be? The precious niece of Laird MacMahon, locked away in yer tower like some fairy tale princess."
"Locked away," she repeated bitterly. "Aye, ye have that part right at least."
"But nae because I was precious. Because I was—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "It doesnae matter."
"Try me." The words came out before he could stop them, genuine curiosity threading through his voice. She was silent for a long moment.
"Why should I tell ye anythin'? Ye just stole me from me bed like some, some brigand."
Silence stretched between them before Ewan released a long breath. "Ye're right." He paused. "I took ye for a purpose, and that is the only interest I have in ye."
Damn liar.
He tried to push his senses away from the intoxicating way she smelled that made him want to bury his face in those loose brown waves and breathe her in until he was drunk on it.
Stop it. She's a prisoner. A tool. Nothin' more.
But his body wasn't listening to his mind's commands.
His body was too busy imagining what she'd look like spread beneath him, all that soft flesh bared for his hands and mouth.
Too busy wondering if her skin would flush pink when he touched her, if she'd gasp or moan or whimper when he put his hands in her folds.
"Listen to me," he barked, his voice harder than necessary as he tried to wrench his thoughts back under control.
Fear. She should be afraid of him. Should understand exactly what kind of man had stolen her away in the night. That fear would keep her compliant, would prevent her from doing anything foolish, and it would sure as hell keep him from acting on these unwanted urges.
He leaned forward, his lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear. "If ye scream, I'll gag ye. If ye try to run, I'll catch ye and tie ye to the saddle. And if ye think yer uncle's guards can save ye, " He paused, letting the silence stretch taut between them. "They cannae."
Maia's breath hitched, but when she spoke, there was steel beneath the tremor. "Ye might as well let me go right now. Or I willnae make things easy for ye."
"If ye try anythin', ye'll lose." His voice was dark silk and iron. "But I suspect ye already ken that, lass. Ye cannae escape me."
Instead of responding, another shiver rippled through her, stronger this time. Her hands came up to grip the pommel of the saddle, knuckles white in the moonlight.
The movement pressed her backside more firmly against his groin, and Ewan sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
He wondered, in a dark corner of his mind that he usually kept locked tight, how she'd look shivering from unquenched desire instead of fear.
Would her grey eyes turn hazy and unfocused? Would her lips part on breathless little gasps? Would she arch into his touch or shy away from it?
Would she beg him to stop, or beg him for more?
"Aye." The word was barely a whisper, breathless and shaking.
The sound of her voice, small and frightened and unbearably feminine, did nothing to help his situation. If anything, it made things worse, stirring something possessive and primal in his chest that he had no right to feel.
Satisfied, or at least pretending to be, Ewan spurred the destrier forward.
The massive horse leaped into motion, its hooves thundering against the packed earth as it shot through the open postern gate.
Behind them, shouts rose in a cacophony of fury and alarm, but they were already clear of the walls, already swallowed by the darkness beyond.
Ewan urged the horse faster, leaning low over Maia's shoulder to reduce wind resistance.
She made a small sound of distress as they accelerated, her body pressing back against his instinctively, seeking stability.
Her bottom nestled more firmly into the cradle of his hips, and one of her hands flew back to clutch at his thigh for balance.
"Easy, lass," he murmured against her ear, his voice rough with emotion. "Hold on to me tight if ye need to."
"I cannae—the speed—"
"Ye can." His arm tightened around her waist. "I've got ye. Ye willnae fall."
Her fingers dug harder into his thigh, and he felt the tremor that ran through her.
And by the gods, he liked it.
He liked the way she fit against him, tucked into his body as if she'd been made to rest there.
He liked the warmth of her body through the layers of leather and linen between them.
He liked the small, helpless sounds she made as the horse's pace jarred her against him with every stride, and especially the way her hair whipped back in the wind, catching against his jaw and throat.
His arm tightened around her waist, ostensibly to keep her secure, but really because he couldn't resist the urge to feel more of her pressed against him.
Through the thin fabric of her shift, he could feel the softness of her waist, the curve where it met her hip. His hand spanned nearly the entire width, his fingers splaying across her ribs just below the swell of her breast.
He could move his hand higher. Just a few inches. Could cup that soft weight in his palm, feel if her nipple would harden against his touch even through the fabric. She'd probably gasp, might even squirm in his lap—which would only make things worse for him, but God, what a way to suffer.
She's a means to an end. Nothin' more.