Page 51 of Keeping Kate
“No more questions about my name and that. What is it?” She waited.
“Who is the hermit?”
“Hermit? Why would you ask?” Her voice went husky.
“My Gaelic is not good anymore, but I am sure that Ian Cameron mentioned a hermit, and something hidden, when he spoke to you.”
“I do not know who the hermit is. I am being honest with you,” she said. “It could be that Ian would rather go off and be a hermit then be jailed to wait for his execution.”
“Are you certain it was nothing more?”
“Do you think I would tell you some grand secret that would help you and the red soldiers undermine the Jacobites? I would not. But I do not know a hermit. Truly.”
“Talk to me about what you know, Kate. The Jacobites might not be undermined if you did,” he said, heart pounding. He was tempted to give up his own grand secret if he thought she would believe it.
She made a scoffing sound. “And how would that be, unless you were one of us?”
“You have to trust me, Kate, and tell me something. It would help you.”
“Sometimes I want to tell you—no, I cannot.”
“So you do know something.”
“I am so tired,” she said, and put her head down, reclining. A fall of golden hair covered her face.
Some progress, he thought to himself. A few fiery moments of passion seemed to have altered their relationship, created a bond rather than a divide. At least, he felt changed somehow, and thought she felt an affect too.
And just then, he had nearly revealed his own involvement in secret Jacobite activities despite his military position, had almost told her of the risks he was taking. He was beginning to trust her; that willingness, that softening of the heart, scared him.
“Good night, then,” he said, thumping the feather pillow and rolling to his back, cuffed hand across his chest. The chain jangled. “I promise not to touch you.”
“How gentlemanly.”
“Aye.” He closed his eyes.
“And what if I would not mind if you did?” she asked then.
He caught his breath. “That is no way for a custodial officer to behave,” he said, eyes closed. “If that came out in court, it would not help either of us, lass.”
“I thought,” she murmured, “you did not notice me, or were angry with me for what happened—in the tent—that first night.”
“I have always noticed you,” he said gruffly. “From that first day in London.”
She said nothing, did not deny being there. An affirmation of sorts, he thought.
“But I suppose I am like all the rest, pandering after Katie Hell like a fool. And that means little to you, Katie What-You-Will.” He folded his free arm behind his head.
“It means all to me. You are the only man who ever”—she drew a breath—“the only man who ever apologized for his treatment of me. The only man who could have had all his will with me.”
He turned his head to stare at her, dumbstruck. Not only was that an admission, finally, that she was this Katie Hell—it was far more than that.
“And you,” he murmured, “did you apologize for what you did?”
“To you, I will. Forgive me for tricking you. Good night, sir.” She stretched out, moved around, sighed. Alec felt more than the poor mattress sagging—he felt his own fierce and private response, and a longing that would soon turn to flame if she did not quiet down and go to sleep.
“I need more pillow,” she said.
He opened one eye. “Were you demanding as a child, too, or is it a recent habit?”
“Only with you,mo gràdh,”she answered, and tugged at the single pillow.
He listened to her gentle breathing, and a long while passed before he slept.
