Devil's Highlander

Page 23

He could spend a thousand lifetimes atoning for his sins, and still he'd never deserve her.
He scrubbed at his face, longing to see an absent sun peek over the horizon.
What was he doing sharing a room with Ree? He was a brute for putting her in this position. An unmarried lass in the company of a creature like him?
He'd taken advantage of her on the beach. And she'd been as perfect as a spring morning. Opening to him, touching and whispering, in ways so sweet and hot that he thought he'd died and landed in paradise. She'd been such a revelation, he wished he'd die, so that he'd no longer have to face this torture, the beautiful woman who'd never be his. He was darkness and killing and shame, and he'd never be worthy of her.
Marjorie was dredging up painful, dangerous notions. Sympathies he'd thought long ago extinguished stirred to life in his chest. Feelings for her, for others like this boy Davie. He'd spent a lifetime building walls against such emotion. He needed to fight it harder than ever now.
He'd loved this woman as a child. But children were fools, with no idea about the real world and its suffering.
It was all disappointment in the end. He imagined Marjorie's only encounter with such profound sadness had been thirteen long years ago, when Aidan was taken.
She'd learn the lesson again, though, soon enough. And he hated the prospect. He'd help her search for the boy, but he braced for the inevitable despair they'd find at the end of the road.
He attuned himself to her breathing. It felt like a transgression, like he was spying on her. But the sweet sound of her was an irresistible balm to his soul.
Poor, lovely Ree. For all her mettle, she was still such an innocent. There was no way to protect her from it all. Would that he could've left her at home and searched for the boy on his own. But he'd known he had no choice but to bring her with him. If he hadn't, she'd surely be storming the docks this very evening, and all alone.
Or worse, with that sodding Archie character. Archie would've figured out a way to help her without sharing a room, without compromising her.
Rich men and friends in high places. He scowled. He knew in his heart that Archie's way wouldn't have kept her safe.
No, keeping Marjorie close like this was the only, best way to keep her from harm. And more than finding Davie, more than Cormac's own safety, Ree's welfare was paramount. If anything were to happen to her, he'd become completely unmoored.
That there was someone as good and as kind as Ree in this world had been the one thing keeping him going all this time. Cormac had seen such horrible things; he'd give his life, sacrifice what little humanity was left to him, to protect her from it all.
As though summoned by the intensity of his thoughts, she sighed and muttered in her sleep. There was a rustle and a shifting, and then the rhythm of her breath once more.
He girded himself. Her sighs were quiet, but they reverberated like thunderclaps through his core. He imagined he could detect even the smell of her, permeating their small space with the intoxicating scent of sleeping woman.
She'd seared him through, and not even the cold, bare timber underfoot was enough to ease the heat of his body.
He knew he shouldn't look. He should give her some semblance of privacy. But Cormac couldn't stop himself from stepping closer to her.
He felt his feet moving before he knew what he was about. And then he did realize, and still he paid it no heed.
Rather, he imagined himself a man moving through a dream, his movements inexorable, him helpless to stop them.
His first sight was of her lips, parted slightly. Soft and full, they appeared dark in the shadows, the shade of a ripened plum.
She lay on her side, her hands pressed palms together, resting under her cheek. Her hair lay strewn behind her, and curls that shone light brown in daylight spread across her pillow, streaking behind her like a dark wing. Her, an angel in flight.
Slowly, he reached out. Gingerly, he traced a lock of hair from her brow. He froze, waiting, but she didn't rouse.
Then Cormac smoothed his hand over her hair. It was coarse but somehow smooth, too, skeins of uneven waves tickling his palm.
And still her breathing didn't alter, and so he grew bolder, bringing his hand to her shoulder. Her bones were sleek and delicate, too fine for the weighty burdens she bore. He'd always thought of her as such a dauntless, braw thing, but truly she was a fragile creature.
He stroked his hand lower, and his groin tightened at the feel of her torso, the soft curve of it, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He imagined the bare skin beneath the fabric. Her breasts would be pale and perfect.
They'd fill his palms, neither too big nor too small, and he'd bury himself between them, a man come home.
He stroked lower still, his body humming now, alive. If before he'd imagined he was asleep and dreaming, there was no fooling himself now. He was awake, alert, and entirely aroused.
He dragged his hand over the blanket covering her legs, and the wool rasped against his fingers. He remembered those damned trews. They'd outlined her curves, hugging her legs, clinging in the cleft between. It had been all he could do to keep his wits about him and not come at the sight.
He stroked along her thigh. It sloped elegantly down, to bended knee, then to lean calf. Carefully he cupped her ankle, and the bone seemed perilously frail. Never before had she struck him as more a woman than she did in that moment. Never had she seemed more exquisite, more precious.
A vision came to his mind of taking both his hands, gripping those calves. Flipping Marjorie flat on her back, spreading her, mounting her.
He pulled his hand back as though burned.
The game he played was more dangerous than any wartime spying or any dockside brawl.
Hissing a breath, Cormac took up his plaid. Wrapping it about himself, he curled on the floor once more, where he'd wait for the sun to rise and the angry flesh of his body to retreat.
Marjorie woke strangely energized. She stretched, and despite the tension of the past days, her muscles felt invigorated, her mood light.
She flipped onto her back, staring at the wood beams overhead. She flexed and pointed her toes, thinking it was no wonder she was in such high spirits. They were to go to the docks today. Cormac was helping her, and they had a plan.
Cormac. A little flare of excitement ripped through her belly. She rolled onto her stomach, looking over the edge of the bed. He was gone. She knew a rush of disappointment and tamped it down at once. He was his own man, who surely had business in need of tending, concerns having naught to do with her or Davie.
Unfortunately, she had well over an hour to consider that fact, and she was dressed, staring idly out the window, and feeling just on the brink of impatience when he finally returned.
“We need to discuss the plan,” he said baldly, bolting the door behind him.
“And a fine morning to you as well, Cormac.” Moving from the window, Marjorie gave him her best dazzling smile.
She wasn't about to let him sully her curiously bright outlook. “I'd thought we were enacting our plan. Posing as a wealthy lord and his lady.” She stepped closer to him, wondering if he was immune to the tease in her voice.
Pretending to be Cormac's wife was already proving to be quite the diversion.
“I've made inquiries,” he said, looking away quickly. “I've identified a contact at Justice Port.”
“Did you go back to that smugglers' boat?” Her voice grew sharp. She didn't know which she felt more: fear for his safety or resentment that he'd leave her out of something. “Without me?” Disregarding her question, he continued, “We will go, claiming we'd like to purchase a boy.”
“That sounds… “ She shuddered.
“A horror. I know it, Ree.” He was silent for a moment, and just when she thought he was done speaking, he inhaled deeply and said, “But I've thought on this long and hard. It's the only way.” She turned her back to him and leaned against the windowsill. Pretending to buy a boy. Did people really do that? It was unthinkable.
His voice gentled. “Listen, Marjorie. There are many horrors out there, which I fear you're not ready to face.
You must consider this and tell me truly. Will you be able to—”
“Able to do my duty here?” Did he doubt her? She spun to face him, hands on hips. “I can be just as strong as you are. You aren't the only one capable of subterfuge, Cormac. Just because I find this whole business dreadful does not mean that I cannot do what's necessary to find and save Davie.” He merely shrugged and, maddeningly, seemed to be fighting a smile.
“What is it?” she asked, in no humor to brook any more of these inscrutable shifts in mood. And to think she'd started the day so cheerfully.
His eyes roved down her body and then back up. She resented the rush of blood she felt in her cheeks. For once, could she bear his gaze on her without blushing like an unschooled maiden?
Not that she wasn't an unschooled maiden. She'd reached her twenty-third birthday an unschooled maiden, and would likely see her seventy-third the same way. She pursed her lips into a frown.
His eyes lingered on her shoulders. “Aren't wealthy married ladies supposed to… to do something with their hair?”
She'd donned one of her finest dresses, but she hadn't given much thought to her hair, leaving it long and loose instead, as a young maid might. And although she supposed he had a point, she was feeling contentious. “I'm a spinster, Cormac.” The word spinster spat from her mouth like venom. “I can do what I like with my hair.” He opened his mouth, then shut it again, the look on his face unreadable. “A spinster, eh?” He shook his head.
Whatever did he mean by the headshake?
She lifted her chin, feeling ready for battle. “What did that mean?”
“What did what mean, Ree?”
She glared, unwilling to let him distract her with that blasted nickname. “The… this” she said, mimicking the slow shaking of his head with wide and impatient eyes.
A smile spread slowly on his face. He scanned his eyes once more along her body.