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Authors: Shawnee Moon
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frustration.
“You murdered a better man than you’ll ever have the fortune to know,” she continued with obvious relish in English. At first, she’d contented herself with mumbling under her breath in Gaelic. Then, when she realized that he didn’t understand a word she said, she’d switched to his father’s tongue—liberally laced with a lilting Scots burr and an occasional sprinkling of colorful local expressions.
“You prove yourself to be more of a fool with every word that tumbles from your lips,” he replied with exasperation. “Your Johnnie MacLeod was trying mightily to kill me. And damned near succeeded. Was I to stop every Scot I met on Culloden Moor and say, ’Pardon me, are you my future father-in-law?’ ”
His barb struck home. For an instant, his gaze locked with hers, and Sterling read the surprise in her large, liquid eyes. Her lips twitched and almost curved into a smile.
“Aye, he nearly did catch you with that parry, didn’t he?” The smile took hold and lit her face with a glow that was almost supernatural. “He was a caution with a sword, was our Johnnie.”
Sterling sucked in his breath and turned away. What was this hold she had over him? Was it witchcraft, as the guard taking her to the gallows had muttered? One minute, he wanted nothing more than to choke the life from her—and the next ... He stiffened in the saddle and took the weight off his swelling groin.
He desired her ... this Scottish prize of war. He wanted to peel the clothes from her and lay her down in a bed of heather. He wanted to see for himself what was hidden beneath the rough homespun. Small she might be, but she was all woman. Her breasts were high and firm, her waist tiny enough to span with both hands. Her rounded bottom . . . Heart’s wounds! Her backside was as sweet and curving as that of any bold wench who plied her trade on London’s stage.
He could think of nothing else but seeing Cailin proud and naked, all that red-gold hair tumbled around her bare shoulders, arms upraised to welcome him.
He swallowed at the thickness in his throat.
He wanted her, but she had taken pains to tell him what she thought of him. He had never forced a woman—never had to. Wife or not, he was too old to change his habits. She must come to him, this little russet bird, of her own free will, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded with sensual abandon ...
“Luck. ’Twas luck alone, not skill, Englishman,” she said. “On a good day, Johnnie MacLeod would have carved you stern from stern.”
“Then I’m fortunate to have met him on a bad day.”
“It was a bigger mistake than you know. Untie me, Sassenach. You can keep your horse. Just let me return to my home and family. I’ve a blood feud to settle with you, but if you—”
“Enough.” His composure was fast slipping away. Most women liked him as he liked them. He’d met angry ones before, but a smile and reasonable words usually brought them around. With Cailin, everything he said to her seemed to be a spur in her side. “There is nothing for you to return to,” he explained with more patience than he felt. “Your home has been confiscated by the Crown. The Highlands lie under Cumberland’s boot. Everything you had before the rebellion is gone forever. Accept it.”
“I have a sister, a grandfather, and a young brother. He’s only a child, and I promised him—”
“You can do nothing for him. If you were caught on Scottish soil and he was with you, he would suffer for your acts. Any who give aid to proscribed outlaws will receive the same punishment.”
“My family—”
“Your grandfather and sister were well when last I saw them.”
“Liar! Ye dinna—”
“They were at the farm, were they not?” He turned and glared at her. “Your sister was the girl with the new baby?”
Cailin stared back at him with eyes as cold as frost-glazed flint. “Aye, still weak from childbed and turned out into the rain like a stray cur.”
“I ordered
“You murdered a better man than you’ll ever have the fortune to know,” she continued with obvious relish in English. At first, she’d contented herself with mumbling under her breath in Gaelic. Then, when she realized that he didn’t understand a word she said, she’d switched to his father’s tongue—liberally laced with a lilting Scots burr and an occasional sprinkling of colorful local expressions.
“You prove yourself to be more of a fool with every word that tumbles from your lips,” he replied with exasperation. “Your Johnnie MacLeod was trying mightily to kill me. And damned near succeeded. Was I to stop every Scot I met on Culloden Moor and say, ’Pardon me, are you my future father-in-law?’ ”
His barb struck home. For an instant, his gaze locked with hers, and Sterling read the surprise in her large, liquid eyes. Her lips twitched and almost curved into a smile.
“Aye, he nearly did catch you with that parry, didn’t he?” The smile took hold and lit her face with a glow that was almost supernatural. “He was a caution with a sword, was our Johnnie.”
Sterling sucked in his breath and turned away. What was this hold she had over him? Was it witchcraft, as the guard taking her to the gallows had muttered? One minute, he wanted nothing more than to choke the life from her—and the next ... He stiffened in the saddle and took the weight off his swelling groin.
He desired her ... this Scottish prize of war. He wanted to peel the clothes from her and lay her down in a bed of heather. He wanted to see for himself what was hidden beneath the rough homespun. Small she might be, but she was all woman. Her breasts were high and firm, her waist tiny enough to span with both hands. Her rounded bottom . . . Heart’s wounds! Her backside was as sweet and curving as that of any bold wench who plied her trade on London’s stage.
He could think of nothing else but seeing Cailin proud and naked, all that red-gold hair tumbled around her bare shoulders, arms upraised to welcome him.
He swallowed at the thickness in his throat.
He wanted her, but she had taken pains to tell him what she thought of him. He had never forced a woman—never had to. Wife or not, he was too old to change his habits. She must come to him, this little russet bird, of her own free will, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded with sensual abandon ...
“Luck. ’Twas luck alone, not skill, Englishman,” she said. “On a good day, Johnnie MacLeod would have carved you stern from stern.”
“Then I’m fortunate to have met him on a bad day.”
“It was a bigger mistake than you know. Untie me, Sassenach. You can keep your horse. Just let me return to my home and family. I’ve a blood feud to settle with you, but if you—”
“Enough.” His composure was fast slipping away. Most women liked him as he liked them. He’d met angry ones before, but a smile and reasonable words usually brought them around. With Cailin, everything he said to her seemed to be a spur in her side. “There is nothing for you to return to,” he explained with more patience than he felt. “Your home has been confiscated by the Crown. The Highlands lie under Cumberland’s boot. Everything you had before the rebellion is gone forever. Accept it.”
“I have a sister, a grandfather, and a young brother. He’s only a child, and I promised him—”
“You can do nothing for him. If you were caught on Scottish soil and he was with you, he would suffer for your acts. Any who give aid to proscribed outlaws will receive the same punishment.”
“My family—”
“Your grandfather and sister were well when last I saw them.”
“Liar! Ye dinna—”
“They were at the farm, were they not?” He turned and glared at her. “Your sister was the girl with the new baby?”
Cailin stared back at him with eyes as cold as frost-glazed flint. “Aye, still weak from childbed and turned out into the rain like a stray cur.”
“I ordered
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