Ten
Constance didn’t move. She was paralyzed by what she saw in Gordon’s eyes. He wanted to kiss her.
She wanted that kiss.
For the first time in her life she understood the power of attraction.
Her legs seemed to open with a will of their own, knowing better than she did how to bring him closer. His weight felt good on her body, and she couldn’t help but let her arms relax, her hands feeling the play of honed muscle beneath the warmth of his skin.
Gordon’s lips hovered just above hers.
Constance swallowed, waiting.
He lifted her braid, wrapping it around his hand, binding him to her—and just when Constance couldn’t take it any longer, he kissed her.
She parted her lips. He’d taught her that much in the first kiss…but she discovered there was a great deal more she had to learn.
Their mouths melded together. Her hips raised, as if this part of her, too, needed to be closer.
His tongue found hers, stroked, cajoled, caressed, and Constance was lost. Kissing this man was as natural as breathing. She liked the taste of him, the feel, the touch…the everything.
He moved his hips. Her very core tightened, yearning for something more. Her breasts grew full, as if reaching for him, needing him.
With a soft sigh, Constance opened herself fully to him.
The earlier kiss had been an assault on her senses. This one was much the same, except now she was assaulting him right back. And she wanted more than just a kiss. She wanted to climb into his skin, to completely surround herself with him.
She was no fool. She’d lived close to nature. She knew what happened between a man and a woman, but knowing and experiencing were two very different things—
Gordon broke off the kiss, throwing himself onto the pallet beside her. He breathed hard, as if he’d just run a long race.
A chill skittered across her skin. She turned to him, wanting his warmth and his touch. She was not ready to quit quite yet. As she leaned to kiss him, he stopped her by pulling the tartan tight around her shoulders, his hands holding her prisoner.
Constance smiled. His pupils were dark and wide, his eyes glassy with desire. She knew how he felt. Her senses were as stimulated, and she wasn’t about to quit something that was proving so pleasurable.
However, he stopped her. “Good night,” he said.
Then he rolled over onto his side, away from her.
“Good night?” Constance repeated dumbly. She frowned. She wasn’t ready to sleep yet. In fact, sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. And she defied him to pretend he felt different.
“Stop wiggling,” he said.
“I haven’t moved.”
“Good.”
Constance frowned at his back. Her passions were beginning to cool, replaced by a profound embarrassment. “Was that another one of your tricks to humiliate me?”
When he ignored her, she reached over and gave his side a pinch.
“Ow,” he said. He lifted his head to give her a cross look. “Go to sleep.”
“I would have, before you did that.”
His brows came together.
She tensed, preparing to defend herself against whatever charges he might make that she deserved such treatment. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me,” she muttered.
“I know.” He sighed heavily, raking a hand through his hair before laying down on his back beside her. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Yes, you should,” came out of her mouth before she could question the wisdom of such words.
His expression softened. He raised a hand as if to touch her hair but then let it drop. He whispered, “You know we can’t play that game.”
She nodded, disappointed.
Gordon’s gaze dropped to her lips. His own twisted ruefully. “I wish we could have met at another time, another place.”
“Like where?” she wondered.
He considered a moment. “A party, in London. I would be a talented young advocate with a promising career in the courts ahead of me.”
“What would I be?” she asked.
“What you are.” This time when he raised his hand, he touched her hair. “A vibrant, challenging creature who knows how to set hearts on fire.”
His words melted her last remaining defenses. “Not I,” she said, secretly wanting him to repeat those words, to substantiate them with more. “My sisters are the ones who turn heads. Everyone notices them first.”
“I don’t believe that,” he countered. “But I shouldn’t have said what I did.” He let go of her braid, a sadness in the seriousness of his expression. “I shouldn’t have kissed you—”
“I wanted you to.”
He acknowledged her words with a small nod. “’Tis wrong. You have no choice in the matter, Constance. We both know that. You are our hostage.”
She drew her brows together. “You weren’t forcing me. I kissed you back.”
He rolled on his side to face her. His gaze traveled over her face as if memorizing the details. She wanted to touch him, to place her palm against the side of his jaw and promise him that everything would be all right.
But she knew better.
“I understand,” she whispered.
“I know.” In the same serious vein, he added, “I have nothing to offer a woman, Constance. My life will probably end with a hangman’s noose. But every once in a while, I yearn for a taste of what I can’t have.”
A coldness crept through her at his prophetic words. “Your rebellion might succeed. Freedom is a good thing. My country rebelled.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
But he knew differently, and so did she.
Constance folded her arm under her head. “Why?” she asked. “If you know you will fail, why do you continue?”
“Justice,” he said, as if that one word explained all.
“Is it worth your life?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand the way people think here. Why stay if you are mistreated?”
“It’s our home.”
“This?” She cast a glance around the tent.
“Scotland is,” he corrected. “And there have been many good men who have died for it.”
“Yes,” she conceded. “But how long does a fight continue? I come from a place where if a man doesn’t like where he is, he moves on. He doesn’t attempt to overthrow a government.”
“A man can’t move on forever.”
“In America he can,” Constance said boldly. “There is so much land there, he can keep moving forever.”
Gordon shook his head. “You don’t understand, lass. A man has to take a stand. If he doesn’t, if he keeps running, then he isn’t much of a man. Now, go to sleep. You have had a long day. We can argue tomorrow.”
He closed his eyes.
Constance didn’t. She lay awake, watching him. The lamp’s soft light turned his skin the same golden color as his hair.
With the exception of Alex Haddon, her half-breed brother-in-law, she generally had not admired men.
They held all the power and didn’t hesitate to use it against others, especially women.
She’d scoffed when Miss Casey had taught the “knightly ideal” in classes on history at Madame Lavaliere’s. Men always thought of themselves.
But Gordon Lachlan was different.
She knew because moments earlier, when they were kissing, he could have done anything he wished…and yet, he’d put the needs of his people before his own desire. He’d known he could not return her as damaged goods.
Constance pulled his tartan up around her shoulders, snuggling into the wool-stuffed pallet, her gaze never leaving Gordon’s sleeping face. She was safer with him than anyone else in this camp.
He was like Sir Galahad, the knight Miss Casey used to illustrate her position. He believed in ideals larger than himself.
She didn’t want him to die.
She reached out to touch his golden hair, wanting to see if it was as silky as it appeared. She stopped just when the tips of her fingers could reach him.
Her feelings for him weren’t wise.
But sometimes the heart challenged wisdom.
After all, hadn’t her sister Charlotte married a man who was once her enemy? And Miranda had defied not only their father, but all society, to marry a half-breed.
In light of that…what was one Scottish rebel?
Constance pulled her hand back, suddenly all too aware of the risks.
Charlotte and Miranda were stronger than she. They were more intelligent and far more lovely. She was just the youngest and the least graceful. Everyone was always telling her she was too young to know her own mind. What if they were correct?
She formed a pillow of her arms, ensuring that her hands would not be tempted to touch him again. She had to keep her wits about her. She had to be wise.
That was her last thought as she drifted off to sleep.
Constance was attempting to paddle a canoe in swirling, angry waters. Mad Maggie sat in front of her, shouting that they were going to die and it would be her fault. She wanted her to be quiet but the crone kept rocking the boat back and forth until it was in danger of tipping completely—
The tightening of a hand on her shoulder woke Constance with a gasp. A woman about her age with hair the color of cinnamon leaned over her, the woman whom Gordon had ordered to take care of Mad Maggie. He’d called her Fiona.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Fiona said, rocking back on her heels.
Constance nodded that she was fine as she pushed her hair back from her eyes. Her braid had fallen out in her sleep. She started to rise and realized she was alone on the pallet. Gordon was gone. Tad, once again, guarded the doorway, his ears alert as he watched Fiona’s every move.
“Don’t mind the dog,” Fiona said. “He listens to me as well as Gordon. I can slip you by him—” Her words broke off with a soft sound of distress. She took hold of Constance’s wrist. “He hurt you. He promised he wouldn’t.”
“He didn’t do this on purpose,” Constance said, defending Gordon. “It was what happened.”
Fiona pressed her lips together as if trying to hold words, but she failed. “It was what happened because he brought you here,” she said in a flash of temper. “Please, gather what things you have quickly. If I am to help you escape, we must hurry.”
“Help me?”
“To escape,” Fiona said impatiently, rising to her feet and shaking off her black skirts.
The last traces of sleepiness in Constance scattered. “You want me to leave? You’re helping me?”
“Yes,” Fiona said. “My brother has gone too far. You’ll bring the English down upon us. I don’t want that. None of us wants that.”
There was true fear in her voice, fear Constance ignored because she was too stunned by this new information. “Gordon is your brother?”
“My half brother,” Fiona said, as if wishing to disclaim him. “We don’t look much alike.”
She was right. Her eyes were brown, her hair red to his blond…but Constance could also see a resemblance. It was there in the way she held her head, the sensual curve of her lip, and the aristocratic tone to her voice.
“Your brother has not harmed me,” Constance said.
“But he could,” Fiona warned. “You must go now. I’ve prepared a pack with food.
” She moved to a cloth bundle on the tack chest. “I told Gordon I would see to your needs today since he will be busy drilling the men. That gives you at least ten hours. I don’t know about a horse, but it would be best to walk anyway—”
“You would betray your brother?” Constance interrupted.
Fiona drew herself away at the accusation. “I’m protecting you.”
Something about the way she said those words set Constance on guard. There was a fragility to Fiona. She appeared strong and whole, but she wasn’t. Someone, or something, had hurt this woman.
“Your brother is leader of this clan,” Constance answered. “To betray him betrays all.”
“You can’t stay.” Fiona snatched up the bundle.
“Yes, I can,” Constance replied. “You need me to ransom the sword.”
“We don’t want the sword.” Fiona moved toward her.
“Who is ‘we’?” Constance asked, fearing the answer. What if Gordon’s clan was turning against him? What if they had all grown afraid like his sister? If so, Constance thought, she had arrived just in time.
“Everyone,” Fiona declared, and then amended it to “Me.” Her gaze fell. “He didn’t…” She paused as if almost afraid to ask. “…hurt you, did he?”
It was then that Constance realized she wasn’t asking about the bandages on her wrists.
Fiona glanced at her with an anxious expression. She feared the answer.
And Constance understood.
Fiona’s fear for her was based on her own experience. She had been raped. Constance had met women who had been raped before. Some could manage, all were left with scars.
Gently, she attempted to reassure Fiona. “Your brother has not touched me in any way that is dishonorable—” “He kissed you. I’ve heard the others talk about it. He slept with you here. Alone.”
“Gordon has been completely honorable.”
“Look at your wrists,” his sister ordered. “That was not honorable.”
Constance held up bandaged hands. “This couldn’t be avoided.”
“Yes, it could have.” Fiona held out the packet. “There’s cheese and bread for a day or more. I gave you what money I have. It isn’t much. Gordon has spent all we have on his rebellion. Now, go.”
Constance raised her gaze from the packet to meet the other woman’s eyes. “I can’t,” she said simply.
Being her brother’s sister, Fiona frowned as if unable to believe Constance would disobey an order. “And why is that?”
“Because I’m going to join the rebellion,” Constance said, not knowing until that moment that she would say it, that she had swung over to his Cause.
But once she heard the words spoken, they sounded right.
She was too late to reach Edinburgh harbor before the Novus sailed, and she didn’t want to return to Madame Lavaliere’s or be put on the marriage mart in London.
“I’m going to stay and fight,” she announced. “I’m joining the Scottish Cause.”
Fiona dropped the hand holding the bundle in stunned surprise. However, her reaction was not one Constance could have anticipated. “Dear Lord,” she said. “You’ve fallen in love with my brother.”