How to Abduct a Highland Lord (25 page)

 Campbell laughed. “My dear, I hope you don’t take this wrong, but champagne does not seem to be your drink.”

 “I am not going to drink ratafia. Old women drink that.” The two glasses of champagne so close together were taking their toll; she felt frothy and light and completely free.

 Which she was, thanks to Jack Kincaid. She was unfettered, free, and damned happy. She lifted her empty glass. “Another toast!”

 Campbell laughed and gestured to a footman, saying something to him in a low voice. “There,” he said when the footman had nodded and scurried off. “I believe I have solved your problem.”

 “I don’t have a problem,” Fiona said, tossing more markers onto the table without caring where they landed.

 Campbell took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I never argue with a beautiful woman.”

 Fiona peeked past him to Jack. His face was like a thundercloud. Good. It was time someone besides her made a little rain. She turned back to Campbell and smiled at him sweetly. “I appreciate your help, but please do not think this means I will allow you any liberties.”

 He turned her hand over and peeled the glove from her wrist, then placed a kiss on her pulse. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear. If you want me to stop, just say the word.”

 The footman returned, a single glass on his tray. Campbell handed it to Fiona, who sniffed it gingerly.

 The glass was warm; the scent of cloves and cinnamon and a dozen other delicious spices curled through the steam that rose over the cup.

 Fiona took a sip, smiling as the taste caressed her tongue. “This is delicious!”

 Campbell smiled. “Drink it up. Then we will dance.”

 She did as he said, setting the cup down with athunk . “I am ready.”

 “Good. I promise to hold you much too tightly and make it seem as if I’m whispering sweet naughties in your ear.”

 “Just do not whisper real ones, for I would laugh, and that would not help matters.” She was almost giggling now, and she had no reason to. “What was in that drink?”

 “A little of this. A little of that.” His eyes darkened. “Did you like it?”

 “Oh, yes. Wayyyyy too much.” She pushed her markers to Lord Penult-Mead. “I think I am through.” She turned to Campbell and started to stand but fell back into her chair.

 He swiftly caught her elbow and pulled her hard against his chest. “Easy, my sweet! You don’t want to fall.”

 Fiona realized her chest was pressed against his, his hands holding her intimately. She pushed away from him and smoothed her gown, aware that though many watched, no one seemed shocked. All behavior was accepted and expected here.

 Of course, that would not keep anyone from gossiping about what they saw.

 Fiona put a hand on a nearby chair and forced a smile at Campbell. “Shall we dance?”

 “Of course.”

 “Good. Just try not to step on my new shoes.”

 With that unromantic rejoinder, Fiona allowed Campbell to escort her to the dance floor.

 They never made it.

 One moment, they were walking out of the card room. The next, Jack was standing before them, his face furious.

 “Ah,” Campbell said smoothly. “I wondered how long it would take you to reclaim your wife.”

 “She is going home now.”

 Fiona snorted inelegantly.“She is doing no such thing.”

 Jack’s gaze burned into hers. “You don’t know what you are doing; you’ve had too much to drink.”

 “Nonsense! I only had two glasses of champagne”—she held up three fingers—“and one glass of…what was that?”

 “Rum punch,” Campbell said succinctly.

 Jack’s face darkened. He grasped her arm and pulled her forward.

 She stumbled against his chest, and he caught her firmly.

 “No,” she said, pushing away from him. “I am going to dance with Campbell, and he is going to whisper to me and not step on my new shoes.”

 “Like hell,” Jack said. He pulled back his fist and smashed it into Campbell’s face. Campbell dropped to the floor like a lead weight.

 “Jack!” Lucinda rushed forward. “What are you—”

 Jack ignored her. He stooped and flung Fiona over his shoulder, and turned for the door.

 “Jack!” Fiona’s hair fell completely out of its pins, dropping over her like a curtain. “You’re hell on a woman’s hair, Kincaid! I hope you know that!”

 Jack just walked out the front door and into the rain to the carriage, ignoring the faces that stared out the windows at them.

 Chapter Eighteen

 I’ve often thought it unfair that women are expected to stay at home when there’s a fight to be won. If a woman has the strength to bear a child, she can swing a sword as well as any man.

 OLDWOMANNORA OFLOCHLOMOND

TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT

 “May I take your hat, my lord?”

 Gregor tossed it to Devonsgate. “Is my sister ready yet? We are to ride this morning.”

 The butler handed the hat to a waiting footman. “I believe her ladyship will be down in a minute.”

 Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed and someone stomped across a floor.

 Devonsgate looked stoically ahead.

 Silence reigned for a moment, then the sound of raised voices—one female, one male—lifted in the distance.

 The front door rattled, wind buffeting the heavy panel until it shook.

 Devonsgate frowned. “My, but the weather has been abrupt lately.”

 Gregor smelled the scent of lilacs, faint but unmistakable. He sent a hard glance at Devonsgate. “What’s that jackass done now?”

 The butler returned his look blandly. “I am sure I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

 The sound of voices raised in discord once again floated downstairs.

 “It seems as if the storm may be inside this time,” Gregor said.

 Devonsgate sighed and nodded in agreement, then caught himself. “I do not know what you’re speaking about,” he said stiffly.

 Upstairs, the door slammed again, voices were raised, and then came the stomp of booted feet on the stairs.

 Jack stopped when he saw Gregor in the foyer.

 Gregor rocked back on his heels. “Sounds as if you’re having a rather windy morning.”

 Jack eyed Gregor a long moment and then continued down the stairs, past Gregor, and went into his library, slamming the door behind him.

 Gregor strode across to open it, his large form filling the entryway. “What’s going on, Kincaid?”

 Jack dropped into the chair behind his desk and pulled his papers forward. “Ask your sister.”

 “I plan to. I thought you might want your side of the story to be heard, too.”

 “I don’t need anyone to hear my side, least of all you and your brother. In fact”—Jack’s eyes flashed—“if you and Dougalever give Fiona another piece of advice like yesterday’s, I will rip your tongues out and feed them to my hunting dogs.”

 Gregor’s irritation faded. “Fiona didn’t do anything foolish, did she?”

 “You might want to ask your sister what she was doing at Lady Chester’s last night.”

 Gregor stiffened. “She wentwhere ?”

 “With Alan Campbell, who took great delight in giving her champagne and rum punch.”

 “That bast—”

 “I took care of him,” Jack said shortly.

 “And Fiona?”

 “I had to toss her over my shoulder, but I managed to get her home.”

 Good God. Gregor didn’t know what to say.

 A sharp clip on the staircase told him his sister was approaching. He looked at Kincaid, whose face was grim, the deep lines beside his mouth and eyes telling their own tale.

 A flash of guilt went through Gregor. Since the beginning of this debacle, he’d been angry. Angry with the Kincaids for Callum’s death. Then angry with Fiona for sacrificing herself as if she alone could solve their problems. Angry with Jack for not treating Fiona as he should have. But mainly, Gregor had been angry with himself. He should have been with Callum that night. Should have seen Fiona’s plan and stopped it. Should have found a way to set her marriage with Kincaid aside.

 And he hadn’t done any of it. He’d been a selfish bastard, unable to put the needs of others ahead of his own impulsive emotions. And now, because of that and his misdirected sense of humor, his sister had ended up in a gaming hell where God knew what could have happened to her.

 “Thank you for watching over my sister, Jack.”

 Jack’s gaze swung up to meet his. “She’s my wife, Gregor. I may not be happy about that, but Iwill take care of her.”

 “I shouldn’t have suggested she cross you. I never thought she’d do something unsafe and—”

 Jack threw up a hand. “Just don’t be so flippant the next time Fiona asks for advice. She’s worth more than that.”

 Fiona’s footsteps could be heard on the steps behind Gregor, and he asked Jack, “Would you care to ride with us this afternoon?”

 Jack raised his brows. He’d never thought he’d receive an invitation from one of Fiona’s brothers. It was a pity to have to reject it. “I’m sorry, but I have a meeting with my man of business. Perhaps tomorrow?”

 Gregor nodded, his expression harried. “Very well. I’ll see what’s to be done with the lass. Perhaps I can talk some sense into her.”

 “Don’t bother. I’ve already tried, and—”

 But Gregor had already left. Even now, his deep voice could be heard booming through the foyer as he welcomed Fiona.

 Jack strained to hear her soft reply, but her voice was lost when the front door opened and a strong wind whistled in. In a moment, the wind and the voices disappeared as Fiona left for her morning ride.

 It had been a long night, and he’d thought he wanted nothing more than the peace of his own library. But now the silence was screamingly loud.

 Jack rose to stir the fire, his gaze drawn to the window. The wind whipped wildly, large clouds rolled by, trees bent and swayed. He found himself standing at the window, looking down as Fiona and Gregor joined Dougal.

 She was dressed in the green riding habit that hugged every curve, her hair pinned up beneath her hat, tendrils whipping with the wind. Her face was tilted up as she listened to something Gregor said, her eyes intent on his face, her lips slightly parted.

 Jack rubbed a dull ache in his chest. Last night had been horrid. Fiona had refused to speak to him after he’d carried her out of the gaming hell, refused to sleep with him when they’d arrived at the house, and, this morning, refused to listen to his attempts to explain his behavior.

 She was wrong, damn it! She should not have been at a gaming hell. Period.

 Before long, the two of them had engaged in a witless battle that had culminated in a slammed door and terse good-byes.

 Jack leaned against the window frame and watched as Gregor helped Fiona onto her mount, a neatish bay named Ophelia. She was the perfect lady’s horse. She was a mite restive if left too long in the stables, but after a brief ride, she calmed and offered a sweet gait.

 The horse was full of spunk today, prancing so that the groom had to hold the bridle for Fiona to mount safely.

 Jack frowned at the man. What was that groomsman’s name? He didn’t look familiar; Jack would have to ask Devonsgate about that.

 Fiona placed her boot in the stirrup, slid into the saddle, then hooked her knee over the pommel. After she was seated, Gregor turned to his own horse. The groom handed Fiona the reins and stepped back to adjust a strap.

 Whether it was the large cart rumbling by or Fiona’s skirts blowing in the wind, something startled Ophelia. The horse shied nervously, tossed its head violently, then suddenly reared. Jack watched in horror as Fiona clung to the horse’s neck, her hat and whip falling to the ground as she scrambled to hang on. The horse pawed the air, then came down hard.

 Jack gripped the window frame, his breath frozen, as Ophelia wheeled and ran madly down the road, Fiona clinging to the horse’s mane.

 Jack rushed through the foyer and outside. Gregor spurred his horse after Fiona. Jack grabbed Dougal’s leg and yanked him to the ground. Jack swung up onto the huge black horse, slammed his boots into the stirrups, and galloped off, leaning low on the horse.

 Hehad to catch her, had to save her. Life without Fiona would have no meaning, no flavor. He couldn’t accept it. Not now. Not ever.

 Leaning close to the horse’s neck, Jack began to pray.

 Fiona hung on to the horse’s mane for dear life as the mare ran madly through the streets of London, dodging carriages and sending other horses bucking in its path.

 Fiona was jolted savagely back and forth. If she loosened her grip the slightest bit, she’d go flying and land on her head. If she continued to hang on, her neck would break from the violent jolting. Every time she went up, she came crashing back down. Her bottom was already bruised and sore, and her neck already pained her.

 Suddenly, something snapped, and the saddle slid a bit to one side.