Page 52 of Keeping Kate
Chapter 14
She knew she must try to escape, even as a small inner voice urged her to stay. Dawn would arrive soon, when it would be too late to slip away unseen.
Alec reclined beside her, asleep, his profile classic, perfect to her eyes. The warmth of him, his presence, sent a subtle quiver through her, but she had to go before he awoke. She could not bear to be confined in Edinburgh and sentenced.
She knew that the military road outside the change-house cut through lands close to Glen Carran. She could not openly follow Wade’s route the whole way, but she could head over the hills to home and kin from that broad new road.
All she had to do was get the key and slip out quickly.
Alec’s hand lay beside hers now, wrists shackled together. His occasional soft snore proved he was truly asleep. Aware that he had dropped the key into his sporran earlier, she edged close, covering the chains with the bedclothes to smother their sound.
Shifting, feeling his solid warmth, his breath dancing over her cheek to stir her hair, she stilled there, stretching her hand toward the sporran, glad he lay on his back where it was most accessible.
His bearded jaw brushed against her forehead. She closed her eyes, sighing, resisting the thought of his arms around her, keeping her safe and comfortable rather than captive. Think about the key, she reminded herself, and freedom.
He stirred, moved a bit, and the mattress shifted, rolling Kate closer to him, her cheek just a breath from his now. She waited, hardly daring to breathe, then traced her free hand over his waistcoat and kilt toward the sporran. Feeling the buckle and leather in the dark, she slowly worked the clasp.
Of stiff leather and hide, the Highland purse rested just below his belt, shielding an essential part of his body beneath his plaid. As her fingers dipped inside, she felt him stir, boldly and certainly, on the underside of the sporran.
She caught her breath. The key lay just beyond her fingertips as she stretched into the pouch. She felt his body rouse again underneath, and she nearly smiled, ducked her head, feeling a sudden wild yearning to be in his arms, to explore and love him as he would do for her. A deep urge within stirred at the thought—but this was no time for fantasies, no time to ache for him. She stayed still, her free hand inside the pouch.
He turned a little toward her, rested a hand on her shoulder. She froze.
He breathed out again as if relinquishing to sleep. A moment later, he flexed his fingers, traced along her shoulder, touched her hair. His lips rested against her brow, leaving the softest kiss. She melted, but dared not move—
“What the devil,” he murmured, “are you doing in my sporran?”
She gasped, startled, as he caught her wrist, his fingers hard on the slim bones. She could feel the pouch and hard bulge beneath. He made a little grind of sound in his throat, and traced his lips from brow to cheek to her mouth. Kissed her, drew back.
“Take your hand out, darling,” he whispered. “And leave the damned key.”
“Damn it,” she swore softly, and felt him chuckled against her mouth. At the same time, he pulled her hand from the sporran.
But she had managed to trap the key in her fingers, dropping it in the nest of bedclothes before he took her fingers, curled them in his to make sure her hand was empty. He entwined her fingers in his.
“Now,” he said, as his lips slid along her jaw, his breath hot along her throat, making her shudder in reluctant delight, “what are we to do with you, Miss Hell?”
She gasped out, a small burst of protest and surrender, and his mouth took hers with powerful insistence. She wanted this, needed it, more than the key. Why that was so, she did not understand. She could not think when his lips were on hers, her heart beating with his, her soul slipping softly into his keeping.
He let her hand go, taking her by the waist, pulling her against him, the sporran and his body pressing against her. She was excited, curious, about the mystery of him, of what they could create together, here, now. Her heart pounded as his kisses continued. Just a few moments to savor this, she promised herself—and she would stop it, as he had stopped it earlier. He only deserved it, she thought.
But moments later, she ached for him to continue as his hand cupped her breast where bodice and chemise gapped, and the touch of his fingers made her body respond like a leap of flame. She tipped her head back, opening to kisses and more. She forgot about the key. He lifted her hand and his, manacled together, interlocking their fingers, and with his free hand, swept along her skirt to draw it up slowly. He paused. Waited.
She knew he was making it clear that she could end this now. But she wanted it too fiercely, wanted to be close to him, to whatever unspoken magic he held over her, the hunger deepening as she sighed, shifted, opened to him, felt his fingers slip upward, finding her there, even as he kissed her, even as she swayed against him, pleading. And with her loose hand, she found him, shaped him, arched against him as he teased and coaxed a frisson of sensation that seared through her, fast and irresistible.
He groaned low under his breath at her insistent touch, thrust against her, kilt and sporran pushed aside, his touch upon her exquisite, hers stoking, and the wildness she had wondered about swept onward. She felt almost drunk with feeling, plunging headlong into the secrecy, the closeness, breath and touch and desire. He held her, rocked her with him, caressing. This was where she wanted to be, in his arms, with him, in the wildness of the moment. No matter the clothing and bedclothes, linen and wool and propriety between them. She held him, coaxed him, he pulled her close, and soon enough, the wave passed, the breaths slowed. She tipped her head against his, breathing quietly with him in silence.
“My God,” he whispered. “Kate—”
“Hush. No apologies. All is well,” she said, and kissed him. He wrapped her deep in his arms, iron manacles between them. Yet she felt safer and more loved than she ever had in her life. Within moments, she fell asleep.
Then she woke, wondering where she was, wondering at the magic—and then at the time. He slept, breathing deep and slow.
And she remembered that the little key was caught somewhere in the bedclothes.
Slowly she groped about, found it, carefully inserted it into the lock.
She had to do this, she thought. She was like a bird, and the cage had just opened.
