Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (9 page)

He shifted his knapsack from one shoulder to the other, not looking at her.

“Don’t you believe the innkeeper may have overreacted?” she said. “After all, I didn’t intend to hurt him.”

Mr. Campion stopped so abruptly, she ran into him. In the darkness it was like running into a iron wall. She took a step back. His eyes glittered in the night.

“You cracked the man’s pate open,” he said, the Irish in his voice stronger than normal, a sign
of how tired he was. “It took a good half hour for him to stop seeing double, and I’ve spent what little coin I had paying to have him stitched up. I know you don’t have a concept of money, Miss Harrell, but I do, and being without means we live by our wits, which lately seems to be in short supply.”

“I thought I was helping you.”

“You weren’t.” He took another step forward, then stopped as he thought of another crime to lay at her door. “Furthermore, I told you to stay in the room. Do you remember?”

She pulled her plaid tighter around her. “Yes…”

“The next time I tell you to do something—do it.”

She nodded, stung by the sharpness in his voice. And she felt like the outsider. Again. In fact, she didn’t know when she’d ever felt so alone. “Yes,
Irishman
, you’ve made yourself very clear.”

Tension lashed out between them. She had stepped over the line. Yet she would not call her proud words back.

His strong hands took each of her arms. He leaned down until his face was at her eye level.

“You are a job, Miss Harrell, nothing more and nothing less,” he stated as if he’d been repeating the phrase over and over in his mind. “I am going to take you safely to London and collect my money. And then, I’m going to pack up my sisters and their children and escape this infernal land
for someplace where we won’t be having our heritage thrown in our face whenever someone wants to insult us. Where we can be who we are and what we choose to be. So be thankful I need the money your father is paying me. Otherwise, I’d turn on my heel and leave you right here.”

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered, fearful that he would.

They stood so close they were practically nose to nose. He pressed his lips together, his jaw hardening, and for a moment she could see he struggled with himself before admitting, “Damn me for being a fool, I wouldn’t.”

His hands released her and he turned away. Running an exasperated hand through his hair, he said, “Damn, I wish I had my hat…If there truly is a patron saint of lost causes, I’d best light a candle to him.”

“We aren’t in
dire
straits, are we?” The idea hadn’t even occurred to her. Frankly, with him at her side, she’d not worried about the details.

At that moment a fat drop of rain landed on Lyssa’s shoulder, followed by another, and another. The moon was still out, but quick-moving clouds were taking its place.

Mr. Campion swore under his breath and didn’t even bother to comment. Hooking his arm in hers, he said, “We’d better run for shelter.” The truth of his words was proven as the rain started coming down harder.

They dashed off the road to what little protection the forest could offer. Within minutes, lightning also made an appearance. Lyssa pulled her plaid up over her head.

Coming out into a clearing, Mr. Campion had started to turn them back toward the woods again, when lightning lit the scene and he gave a shout. “Over there. A run-in shelter. Come on.”

They made it to the shelter just before the skies opened and the rain fell like sheets. For a moment, they sat in the dark, thankful for dry ground and catching their breaths. From what Lyssa could tell, their safe haven was only a few feet deep and perhaps six feet wide.

Mr. Campion moved first. He took off his jacket. “Here, get out of your wet shawl or else you’ll chill.”

She dropped her plaid, setting it to the side, and crossed her arms. “Where do you think we are?”

“In a shepherd’s shelter,” he answered, leaning against the back wall, one leg stretched out, the other knee bent.

Lyssa’s shoes were soaked—again. She took them off and placed them next to the shawl. Her toes were cold, so she drew her legs up and tucked them under the hem of her skirt.

“Do you think it will rain long?” she dared to ask.

“I don’t know.” After a beat, he said, “Lie down
and try to get some sleep. We have a long day on the morrow.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll keep watch.”

“You must sleep, too.”

With dogged stubbornness he said, “I earn my money keeping watch.”

Lyssa sensed she’d best not press the issue. She stretched out on her side, resting her head on her arms, careful not to touch him.

However, sleep didn’t come. She didn’t like the tension between them. She wanted to make amends.

Mr. Campion rubbed his face and yawned. She could hear the scratch of his whiskers. He settled himself more comfortably against the back wall.

At last she dared to say, “I’ve always enjoyed the sound of rain. If I listen closely, I believe I can hear someone whispering as when it falls through the branches.”

Lyssa didn’t expect him to answer her, so she was doubly surprised when he said, “The whispers you hear are the fairies complaining they’ve had their sleep disturbed.”

She laughed, delighted with the image. She relaxed, cradling her head in her arms, but her mind was even more awake now. The air smelled of rain and wet earth. She waited, debating with herself whether or not she should say anything…and in the end, as always, curiosity won out. “You said
you have the keeping of your sisters and their children. Where are their husbands?”

“Dead.”

He was not one to mince words, but the way he said this one sent a chill through her.

Lyssa sat up, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer but she could see the silhouette of his profile as he stared straight out into the steady rain. His arm rested on his bent knee and she noticed he rubbed his thumb against his index finger, a sign he wasn’t completely as stoic as he seemed.

Before she questioned the wisdom of it, she reached out and touched his shoulder. Nothing more, nothing less. A quick, simple touch.

Slowly, he turned to face her, his features masked by the night. “I told them to stay where I’d left them, but they came after me. They worried about me and couldn’t stay behind.”

Exactly what she had done.

“Where were you?”

“Portugal. I knew the fighting would be brutal. I wanted them both to remain back. They didn’t need to be in the first assault.”

“But
you
were there,” she said, instinctively understanding. “How could you expect them to stay behind?”

“I knew what I was doing,” came his answer. “They didn’t.

“Of course, it’s my fault they were even there,” he said “Their only reason for joining the army was because I was going.”

“Were they not grown men and capable of making their own decisions?”

“They were followers. Whatever I did, they did. It’d been like that all our lives. I knew it…and in truth, I encouraged them. I had to go; they didn’t…but I didn’t want to go alone, you see?” He shook his head. “They should have stayed in Ireland.”

There was guilt in his voice and a touch of shame, too. The raw emotions touched her deeply. “Sometimes we can’t do what is prudent,” she whispered. “Sometimes we must just leap into life.”

He made a low hum of acknowledgement in the back of his throat. “Is that why you’ve run away, Miss Harrell? You are taking a ‘leap’ into life?”

Lyssa didn’t know if she wanted the conversation shifted to herself, especially by this man who had more layers to him than one would first suspect. Layers her always active curiosity could not resist. “Why did you leave Ireland?”

“That’s
my
tale, Miss Harrell, and not one I share.”

The rebuke stung, especially since she felt she’d been open about her dreams and motives.

Nor was she one to give up. “So, if you have turned your back on Ireland and choose not to live in England, then where will you go?”

“The Americas. British America or a place called Maryland. I don’t care. I’ll go where the land is plentiful and cheap.”

Land he would buy with the money from her father. In fact, she could see many similarities between Mr. Campion and her father. Both were men who went after what they wanted. Some thought such single-minded tenacity a disparaging trait, but not Lyssa. She’d cut her teeth on it.

The rain had let up a bit, its gentle sound calming. For a long moment she listened, wishing she could be like Mr. Campion and travel wherever her will took her. She turned to him—and with a start realized he’d fallen asleep.

He would not be pleased, and yet she did not wake him. Leaning closer until she could make out his features, she was struck by how much younger he looked when he wasn’t scowling.

A low snore rattled in his throat and his head fell at an awkward angle. He’d be awake in a thrice in this position, and she didn’t want him to wake.

No, he needed this sleep. She understood that now. Much of his frustration with her had been from the lack of it.

She would keep watch. Then he’d know how truly sorry she was for the trouble she’d caused him—and
would
cause him when she refused to return to London.

Lyssa knew what it meant to have a dream, and she regretted that in reaching hers, she would
deny him his. “I can’t go back to London with you,” she said quietly. He slept on, peaceful…and this was the way she wanted him to stay.

She lightly pushed on his shoulder and his sleep-deprived body needed no more urging to lie down on the hard earth. She moved so his long legs could stretch out and he appeared more comfortable.

Of course, he was a big man and there wasn’t much room in the shelter for her. She managed to wiggle a space for herself by the bend in his knees.

A lock of his hair fell forward over his eyes. For a second, she was tempted to push it back, but she didn’t.

In fact, she’d already dared too much. He would not be pleased in the morning, still he needed sleep.

Squaring her shoulders, she was determined to keep watch. Then he’d know she wasn’t as pampered and spoiled as he obviously thought her.

Ian woke slowly, not completely grasping his surroundings.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and yet he’d had the sweetest dream. He’d dreamed his body had been curled around a soft, beautiful woman and his sleep had been deep. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman—too long, and his body was painfully aware of the fact.

Now, as he slowly came to his senses, he realized it had stopped raining. Dawn was just breaking.
The birds were calling, and a squirrel sat not more than ten feet from where he lay and watched him with round, curious eyes.

Not only that, the woman hadn’t been a dream. Miss Harrell was snuggled up against him as trusting as a child, while his hand possessively covered her breast. His dick, as hard as a poker, was pressed against her bum.

All intelligence left his head. He couldn’t think, let alone move.

She was beautiful, with her red curls loose around her face and her cheeks rosy from sleep. She hummed a soft sigh and her lashes fluttered as she stretched and opened her eyes.

She smiled up at him, as lazy and supple as a cat…and then she turned toward his warmth, her breasts brushing against his chest.

Lust—strong, powerful, needy—shot through him.

In that moment, he had only one desire, and that was to plow into her, cock strong and sure.

I
AN
reacted quickly before baser instincts could take hold. He rolled away from her and rose to his feet, careful to keep his back to her.

He focused on the outside. The rain had stopped and the early morning smelled clean. Heavy fog floated across the ground, and there was a bit of a nip in the air.

He struggled for sanity. He counted to one hundred, thought of the names of
all
the members of his family alive and dead, and started in on the sixty-three initial clauses in the Magna Carta before realizing sanity wasn’t coming.

Lust still reigned supreme.

“Mr. Campion?” She still wasn’t quite awake, still didn’t know his reaction to her. Was still sleepily sensual. Warm. Inviting—

“Stay here. I’ll be back. In a moment.”

He strode off through the wet grass. Thick fog meant there had to be water somewhere, and his prayers were answered as he stepped through a
parting of the trees and found himself on the edge of a good-size lake. Ian walked straight for it, tossing off his coat, pulling off his shirt, unbuttoning his breeches, kicking off his boots, and shaking off his socks until he was naked as the day he was born, and dove in.

The water was freezing—and exactly what he needed.

He planted his feet on the soft, muddy bottom and lifted his head and upper body out, gasping for air. All thoughts of Miss Harrell’s breasts, her warm, round buttocks, and his strong desire for both were shocked out of his system.

A shiver went through him and he lowered in the water as he watched tendrils of fog floating across the surface of the lake. His body adjusted to the icy temperature and he took off swimming, needing the exercise while he came to terms with what had happened.

He’d fallen asleep on watch.

He’d
never
fallen asleep on watch.

Pulling his arms through the water, he feared what it meant. He was losing the honed edge, the hardness, and he couldn’t afford to,
not with so much at stake
.

But then, everything he touched, he seemed to destroy—starting with his own youthful ideals years ago. He’d had to flee college, his studies, and his father’s plans for his future.

Then had come the army. He’d hidden from the English right under their own noses. What he
hadn’t anticipated was for his brothers-in-law to die. It had been a stupid waste and he was tired. Bloody tired.

But he couldn’t give up yet. Not with Fiona, Janet, and their children needing him.

Ian lost himself in the rhythmic movement of his arms. He could have swam forever. Instead, he turned and headed back to shore, the angry voices in his head growing less powerful, until he could live with himself again.

And what of Miss Harrell?

The simple task of fetching her for her father was taking on Herculean proportions, and it wasn’t just because there was a group of murderers after her.

No, it was because she reminded him of the man he could have been. A man who could have presented himself to her. Who could have wooed and won her, even as an Irishman.

Instead, now, he was the outlaw, the pariah, the outcast. It wasn’t so bad for himself, except he’d taken his family’s honor with him.

Ian quit swimming and, curling himself into a ball, floated a moment, letting the water carry him.

His father had always boasted that Ian was like a fish in water. Floating, Ian thought he could hear echoes of his father’s voice in the murky silence of the lake…and his mother quietly answering him. They’d both been so proud of him, even when his youthful arrogance had cost them all they’d owned.

He shut his mind, not wanting the memories. The past was behind him. He’d learned long ago he could not dwell on it. If he did, he might go mad.

There was only one choice before him. He had to see Miss Harrell safe and collect his money. Money meant freedom and he desperately wanted to be free of his past. Somewhere in this world was a place where a man could be who and what he was. He’d find it—and not let them break him.

Nor would he allow an idealistic bluestocking with uncertainty in her eyes and a taste for adventure lure him into making another grave mistake.

Ian Campion knew who he was. He was far from perfect, but he’d promised himself long ago he’d live life according to his own dictates.

He straightened his legs and stood, throwing his head back and letting the water run in rivulets down his chest and the flat expanse of his abdomen. The sun was burning off the fog and gilding the tops of the trees surrounding the lake. The chill in the morning air hit his warm muscles and he felt clean and whole again. He had direction—

Someone was watching him.

A prickle of recognition danced over his skin. He took a step deeper in the water for the sake of decency before slowly turning toward the shore, the water barely covering his hips.

Miss Harrell stood there, her mouth wide open.

Their gazes met, and for a moment the air between them was charged—and then Ian’s sense of
humor got the best of him. She appeared so shocked and he didn’t know why. There was a path of his clothing spread on the ground for anyone to see.

He broke the silence. “You seem to have a problem, Miss Harrell, with staying where I tell you to.”

Deep color flooded her face. She shut her mouth and he knew in that moment that he was the first man she’d probably ever seen the way God had made him. He was tempted to give her a better show just to see if her blush could grow more heated.

“I heard a splash,” she said, slightly indignant, as if the fault was his. “I ran to see if you were all right.”

A hundred quips leapt to his mind. With a more experienced woman, he might have said one, and depending on how she reacted, could have found himself spending the morning in a very pleasurable fashion.

But this was Miss Harrell. Miss Harrell, the “job,” one that could make his fortune, and he’d best remember that fact.

Still, he couldn’t resist teasing her a bit. Spreading his arms, he said, “I am fine. But I want to come out now. The water is cold.” He moved two steps forward.

Her reaction was everything he could have hoped for. Her eyes widened and she scrambled
backward so quickly, her feet slipped on the damp grass and she landed on her bum.

She popped back up to her feet, her face afire. “You need a haircut,” she tossed out and then, turning, went running back the way she’d come, her red curls bouncing.

Slowly, Ian sunk beneath the water, swallowing his laughter until he could release it in bubbles.

Lyssa did not stop until she reached the shelter. There, she snatched up her plaid and threw it around her shoulders before collapsing on a log someone had once set there for a stool.

“Stupid! What a stupid thing to say,” she chastised herself under her breath. Mr. Campion was no doubt laughing at her expense.

And how could she have thought about his hair when the man had been standing naked in front of her? Worse, when his back had been turned to her, she had gotten an eyeful of his bare buttocks.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the male form before. After all, she was a sophisticated woman. She lived in the city. She’d seen nudes many times displayed in art and in certain pieces of sculpture. She’d even seen workers and seamen without their shirts on rare occasions. No, she wasn’t a stranger to the human body—but there was a big difference between cold stone or a scrawny chest and seeing the well-muscled Mr. Campion rise out of the water like some pagan prince.

He’d
been a work of art…and in truth, she had followed the trail of clothing because she was curious.

Of course,
then
what had she done? She’d gaped like the village fool. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of him.

Lyssa dropped her head to her hands. How was she going to face him again?

As if on cue, she heard him whistling. A second later, he came out of the woods. He was dressed, to a degree. He wore breeches and boots; his shirt-tail, however, was untucked and he carried his jacket and neck cloth. His hair was still wet and combed back with his fingers. He apparently had used his shirt for a towel. Damp, it molded itself to his chest.

She was struck anew by his casual elegance and athletic grace. He could have easily passed for a member of the Court with the right clothes.

Lyssa shifted around, uncomfortable.

He strolled into their small camp as if nothing was amiss and picked up his knapsack. From the corner of her eye, she watched him pull out a clean shirt. “Would you care to bathe, Miss Harrell? I do have a bit of soap.” He tossed the clean shirt over his shoulder and smelled the sliver of soap he’d carried. “No scent, but it is of good quality. My sister makes it and Janet has a talent for soap. I also have”—he held up a tin—“tooth powder.”

The minute he made the offer, she felt gritty. Still, she wasn’t prepared to face him.

There was an awkward silence, and then he took two steps closer and prodded her with the bit of soap. “Come along and take it. You don’t need to be embarrassed, the sea serpent has his clothes on.”

The Irish lilt in his voice lent teeth to his teasing. She jerked her head around to glare at him while she took the soap and tooth powder. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say, and stood, her back rigid.

“Here,” he said and pulled off his shirt. “You can use this for a towel.”

She didn’t take the shirt from his hand or give him the benefit of comment but marched away, head high.

“I’ll keep watch,” he called, tossing the shirt aside.

Lyssa stopped. “You keep your eyes to yourself.”

“Yes, Miss Harrell,” he responded dutifully, and she knew he was implying that she hadn’t. She hurried down to the lake before he could see the heated glow on her cheeks.

However, close to an hour later, after a leisurely washing, she did feel better. Her breath was freshened and the soap had been a luxury after the past two days. She was a bit embarrassed she had little to return to him. Of course, she’d not jumped in the lake naked the way he had. No, she’d maintained some decorum…although as a child, she used to swim with her father. Even cold, the water had been inviting.

The space of time by the lake gave her back her poise. After all, other than a glimpse of bare buttocks and his naked chest, she’d seen nothing, well,
damaging
.

No, what held in her memory was waking up beside him, of having her body cradled in his warmth…and of feeling his obvious arousal.

She had been confused when she woke. She hadn’t realized what had happened. But after having tracked him to the lake, she instinctively understood exactly what had been poking into her backside—and she was not displeased.

Mr. Campion was the most handsome man she’d ever met. If he were in Society he’d be handsome enough to turn more than a few feminine heads amongst the
ton
, but nothing must happen between them. He was what she’d overheard one matron describe as a “guilty pleasure,” a man one could dally with after she’d given her husband an heir.

Of course, Lyssa had no doubt her father would murder her himself if she were to lie with, of all things, a penniless Irishman. Whether she was married or not.

In the way of those who hungered for social status, he’d become more of a stickler than the stick-lers.

However, such closeness as she and Mr. Campion had shared waking this morning was to be expected, she rationalized, and she was too honest to think he’d been taking liberties with her person.
After all, she’d been the one determined to keep watch and he’d been right where she’d placed him the night before. If anything, she had been the one to move in her sleep toward him.

Mr. Campion had taken time in her absence to continue his toilet, and his clean-shaven jaw only served to make him more striking. He’d built a small fire to boil water for tea. Pulling a pouch with tea leaves from his magic knapsack, he brewed the tea in a tin cup.

“Would you like a cup?” he asked.

“It would be nice. What is for breakfast? Dried beef?”

“Funny you should be hungry for some,” he teased back, offering her a strip of it.

They shared the tin cup of tea, an act more intimate than waking in his arms. Lyssa watched the way his fingers curved around the cup handle. A man’s hands said a lot about him. His moved with grace and efficiency, whether he was putting out the fire or cleaning the tin cup. And his nails were clean.

They started walking. Her feet felt fine. The salve had done its trick and her shoes were breaking in.

The road did not make for easy walking. After last night’s rain, there was deep mud in many places but they managed to find ground high enough to travel.

She noticed he had slowed his pace a bit, a kindness she was truly thankful for. However, he
didn’t seem in the mood for conversation. His earlier lightheartedness had vanished, replaced by his relentless determination to travel fast.

All right. She didn’t have to talk either.

However, after about a half hour of silence, she could bite her tongue no longer, and talking would make the time pass faster.

“Do you think we’ll make Amleth Hall by tomorrow?”

“It’s doubtful.”

More silence.

She fished her mind for something to draw him out. “I’m sorry I fell asleep last night. I meant to stand watch.”

A muscle hardened in his jaw. “I was the one keeping guard.”

“You can’t go days on end without sleep and expect your body not to rebel.”

“Making excuses for me, Miss Harrell?”

His cynical tone could have been a warning, but she sensed the anger wasn’t directed toward her. “No, I’m being factual, Mr. Campion. And no harm came of our lapse.”

“Do you always rationalize, Miss Harrell?”

Lyssa stumbled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Rationalize,” he said. “I haven’t known you long but—and please beg my pardon—I’m beginning to see a pattern. In mine, I see things as they are. It’s the only way I can survive. The world isn’t always safe or pleasant, but I know how to live with it. You, on the other hand, are like a character
in one of your novels searching for adventure, the circumstances contrived of your own imagination. You believe you can change your lot. That you have control over your universe and that good triumphs over evil.” He finally looked at her. “It doesn’t.