Page 13 of Laird of Secrets
“Oof,” said the girl.
“Stay still,” he told her tersely, and lay flat in the straw, pressing her tightly against him. Like lovers, he thought, bundled and courting. He suppressed the thought.
“Beast,” she hissed. “Rascal.”
“This is for your good as well as ours,” he murmured. “We must get past those men, and we cannot do that if they see you.”
“I shall scream,” she said fervently, and opened her mouth to do so.
He set a hand over her lips, over smooth, creamy skin, and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Aye, do you dare?”
She looked at him—eyes widening in the dim light filtering through the tartan weave—and drew a breath. His hand prevented the sound she would make.
“Hush. Please, lass.” He did not want to frighten her.
She bit his hand. He yelped, broke his hold, clamped down again.
“Listen to me, my lass,” he hissed. “We will pass this road without incident. It is for the sake of many, not just us. Do you understand?”
She nodded, finally. Dougal kept his hand over her mouth, unwilling to trust her, though wary of being bitten again. He tucked her into his arms to keep her from writhing. A glimpse showed quick fear in her eyes, and he felt such remorse he could barely look at her.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, not sure she even heard in the commotion of the approaching horses and the rattling cart.
“You there! Stop in the name of the king!” A man called out harshly.
The cart drew to a halt. Dougal lay still, holding the girl against him. Warmth generated between them under the plaid. His cheek rested against her hair, her hand curled on his chest. He could feel her breathing quickly, air warmed by her nostrils. Her body trembled against his.
She smelled like rain, roses, a bit of earth and rock dust. Closing his eyes, he took in her scent. A long while had passed since he had held a woman in his arms. This one smelled like heaven and felt like a perfect fit for his very soul. He sighed.
Then her elbow jammed into his ribs, and he grunted. She mumbled under his confining hand, and he shifted his fingers away. Her lips were lightly moist. “Do not scream,” he whispered.
“Let me go,” she whispered. “I will not tell them you are smugglers. You have my word, I swear.”
“A fairy’s bargain,” he said.
“A what?”
“Never trust a stranger, especially a beautiful, charming woman who holds a man in her thrall. A fairy’s bargain is not to be trusted.” He moved his fingers over her mouth, but she pushed at them.
“What do you know of fairies?” she asked quickly.
“Some. Shh, now,” he murmured, covering her mouth with his hand.
“Stop in the name of the king!” The shout echoed closer this time.
Dougal froze, felt Miss MacCarran do the same. He held her tight, improperly so, his leg wedged between hers, her skirts wadded between their bodies. He waited, sensed she did too. The plaid covered them well, but he rolled over her just enough to hide her, risking his own shape being noticed.
“Who are you, and what is in the wagon?” one of the revenue men called out.
“MacGregors from north of the glen,” Andrew replied.
“Kin to the MacGregors who carry illicit whisky about these hills?” one man demanded.
“I do not know who you mean.”
“We are looking for them,” one revenue man said. “A slippery lot.”
“There are many MacGregors in this glen, and all around the loch,” Andrew said. “We are bringing a kinsman to the healing woman in the hills above Drumcairn. Old Hector MacGregor from up the glen side is in the back. He is very ill, sir.”
