Highland Song (12 page)

"So you do want me to kill him."

"No--yes." Her breath rushed out in a slow hiss.

Slade made a sound, which was too hard and too bitter to be a laugh.

"Which is it?"

She shook her head.

"The truth."

"The truth is I saved your life," Lainie whispered.

"Saved it?" Slade demanded. "You did your best to get me killed. You ran off and left me to fend for myself."

"When--" she began, but he cut her off.

"Disappointed I'm alive?" he interrupted, wondering what her answer might be.

"I turned back to see what had happened," she said, ignoring his interruptions. "Then Rory drew a knife and you were faster, but then another man pulled a knife to kill you in the back. I killed him first. You would have died on that spot."

Unexpectedly, Slade laughed.

"You’re a good, little fox, cunning and sly to the bitter end. The wide eyes and earnest, trembling mouth are unequaled."

"But--"

"Save those lips for something better than lying," Slade said, bending over Lainie once more.

"I killed him," she protested. “I saved your life."

"But you missed your mark, me. That’s why you hesitated before you sprinted out of the tavern as if it was on fire. You wanted to be dead sure I wouldn’t follow you and arrest you for your acts against the crown."

"You’re wrong
. '
Tis not the way it was. I--"

"Stop the charade," Slade said curtly, watching her with an intense hunger. "You’re exhausting my patience."

"Why won’t you believe me?"

"Because a man who believes a liar, a spy, and a runaway is more of a fool than Aaron Slade is."

His fingers closed around Lainie’s thigh once more. And once more, she wasn’t able to break away from his touch.

"I’m not a liar or a spy," she said angrily, her hand pushing futilely against his. "And I hate being so weak I can’t put a man like you in your place. I’m a lady born, but you’re an English soldier, and you have no respect for women. Despite my birth, there was a time I was given no choice. Since then my life has been dedicated to righting the wrong that was done to me."

Lainie’s voice shook with anger as she continued, not letting Slade interrupt.

"But you don’t listen to anything I’ve said, and you believe only the worst," she said. "So you should have no trouble believing this--my biggest regret about yesterday is not letting Bear's dirk find a place in your back. I should have left you to fend for yourself."

Astonishment loosened Slade’s grip for a moment. It was all Lainie needed. She jerked from beneath his hand with a speed that shocked him.

She rose taking a blanket with her. With hands that showed a fine trembling, she wrapped the blanket around herself, concealing everything of her body but her flaming cheeks that showed both her humiliation and anger.

Slade thought about taking the blanket away from Lainie. He had enjoyed looking at the satin curves and velvet shadows beneath the old, thin cotton fabric of her shirt. Her fury both astounded and fascinated him. Women who were trapped in deception generally became all soft and wary and willing to make reparation to any man who came along.

But not the girl named Lainie MacPherson. Her eyes were measuring him for a shroud.

Ironically, Slade admitted to himself that whatever else he could say about Lainie--and none of it good--she had nerve. He admired that in men, women, and horses. Somehow, he knew she wouldn't give up without a fight.

"Don’t be so touchy," Slade said slowly. "I might decide to get up and ride out of here, leaving you for Jericho."

Lainie hid the streak of alarm that knifed through her at the thought of Jericho and his gang.

"Shame you didn’t kill him, too." She said beneath her breath.

"So, you prefer me to Jericho. That's comforting," Slade said. "But you seem to be a wee bit bloodthirsty.”

Slade watched her for a moment before swearing softly beneath his breath.

"I’m not an executioner."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the thinness of Slade’s voice. "No, but you’re a bounty hunter. Aren’t you? Bertram hired you to find me and bring me to him. I'm not going."

His cold green glance searched her face for a long moment before he nodded.

"See that you remember who I am and why I found you," he said curtly. "Don’t ever set me up as an assassin again. I’ve got a job to do, and I mean to carry through with it."

She nodded, knowing she would do all in her meager power to keep him from doing his job.

Slade rose to stand in an unhurried, graceful movement that reminded Lainie of her brothers Hawke and Ian. Slade was every bit as dangerous.

"Get dressed," he said. "We can talk about our trip north over breakfast. Maybe I can figure out what I'm going to do with you."

"It's not your choice," Lainie said bitterly.

Slade hesitated, ignoring her. "You do know how to cook, don’t you?"

"Of course." She lied, not wishing to tell him she’d supervised kitchens but never actually cooked a meal.

He smiled. It was a slow, lazy grin. "Not every girl can cook."

The tender pleasure in his smile intrigued Lainie. It was as unforeseen as snow in August.

"Who was she?" Lainie asked before she could think better of it.

"Who?"

"The girl who couldn’t cook."

"An English lady. Prettiest thing a man ever did see. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes like amber."

Lainie told herself that the feeling streaking through her couldn’t be jealousy.

"What happened?" she asked casually.

"What do you mean?"

"If she was that beautiful--"

Slade stretched and looked down at Lainie from his much greater height. "Why didn't I marry her?" he finished Lainie's sentence.

She stood her ground. She waited for the response to her inquiry as though there were no disparity in size or strength between
herself
and the man who could have snapped her like a dry twig.

In his determination to bring her to his will, he reminded her once more of her brothers. But their male strength never diminished another. She wasn’t sure about Aaron Slade.

"Wouldn’t the pretty lady have a bounty hunter? An English soldier who took orders from pigs like Bertram?" Lainie asked. Why she taunted him she didn't know.

"I don’t take orders from Bertram. But that’s not why Josie wouldn’t have me."

"She liked gentlemen," Lainie guessed.

To mask his annoyance, Slade grabbed his hat and tugged it down over his unmanageable black hair.

"I am a gentleman."

Lainie looked from the corner of Slade’s hat to the worn buckskin jacket that came to his hips. His pants were dark and had seen hard use. His black boots were the same.

"When it suits me," he finished.

Nothing about Slade gleamed or flashed, and that included the handle of the dirk he’d stuffed into his waistband of his pants.

In all, Slade didn’t appear to be a gentleman. He was a man who was fast and dangerous and took what he wanted. He looked every bit the treacherous bounty hunter Lainie knew him to be, a man who’d be portrayed in shades of night rather than day.

Except for his eyes. They were the vibrant green of early spring leaves, as lucid and clear as cut crystal against the sun-darkened skin of his face. His eyes, if they were the mirrors of the soul, were the only light that emanated from him.

But a person had to be close to Slade to discover the clarity in his eyes. She doubted that many people got that close.

--or wanted to be. Lainie didn't think Slade let anyone get close to him.

"Josie is my little sister," Slade said flatly. "And she’s married to one of my best friends. Except for a few huge reasons, I might have tried my hand at romancing a woman like her."

"Romancing?"

Lainie’s gaze shifted to the tangled bedroll where she had known her first taste of passion.