If You Dare (25 page)

“Only touching? Nothing more?”

“I'll only do what you want me tae.”

She was about to be embarrassed. He should be vulnerable as well. “Then I-I want to feel you, too—without your trousers—”

In an instant, and amid a fierce groan, he set her beside him. He looked to her and then nodded to his groin. When she stared helplessly at his erection straining against his trousers—how exactly did one begin this?—he twisted loose the waist fastening. He seemed to be preparing for something as he glanced around to snag a seat cushion. He placed it behind her, then eased her back, hooking the hems of her skirts with his thumbs and raising them to her waist. Again a palm against her thighs, massaging her resistance away.

Her chest was bare—his should be as well. She unbut-toned his shirt, and just when she'd finished, he guided her hand past the loosened waist of his trousers, inside them . . . until she fully touched his erection skin to skin. He closed his eyes and shuddered, and it pulsed in her hand just as all the muscles in his chest and torso contracted.

She was overwhelmed by how hot it was, how hard and big. He groaned deep, then roughly pushed her palm lower until she cupped him. Another foreign word hissed out like a curse.

Just as she flung her head to the side, looking away in embarrassment and amazement, she felt the most peculiar sensation. His fingers skimmed the slit in her pantalettes.

When he'd removed the locked grip on her hand, she
placed her palm around his erection and was squeezing him, nervous. Just when she thought he'd finally feel her, he took both sides of her pantalettes and ripped. She sputtered, outraged, until she felt his fingers brushing over her sex. She moaned and her head fell back. The pad of one finger traced her. He would feel how wet she'd grown. . . .

“Anna,” he said with a growl. She tried to close her knees, but his hips had found their way between them. “Do you know what this does tae me? Tae feel you so wet? I've dreamed of this.” His eyes caught hers, preventing her from looking away even when he said, “Tonight I'll taste you,” just as his finger eased into her.

Taste?
She moaned low in her throat, adoring the surprising feel of his finger, of the filling sensation, only comprehending she was still squeezing him when he bucked against her palm. With every push of his hips against her hand, his finger delved into her at the same time. When she realized he was doing this on purpose, as if he were imagining his hardness pressing inside her or forcing her to imagine it, she stroked him hectically to make him go faster.

He leaned down and put the tip of his tongue against her breast, flicking the crest, wetting one, then the other. She watched enthralled, never ceasing her hand on him. Then another, new feeling. Somehow he touched her inside and then rubbed and teased another part of her with his thumb. This made her breaths shallow, made her legs fall open.

“Yes, spread your legs wider for me.”

She did, because he wanted it but also because the instinct was there. She needed to be open to him. She needed to say things to him, lurid things, thanking him for the wondrous acts he was doing to her, telling him how much he was pleasing her. She'd never felt such gratitude to another. . . .

“Anna, I lose my mind when I'm with you.”

“Yes!” she said, completely understanding. She couldn't
call up a single reason why he shouldn't be resting between her legs, fondling her sex, with her skirts up to her ears.

“You want me tae,” he said, as if he didn't quite believe it.

She nodded eagerly, not knowing what she was agreeing to. Just wanting to agree with anything he was saying since he was giving her so much.

His languid eyes widened, and in seconds he'd freed himself completely, looming above her, never slowing his fingers on her sex. He hung there, heavy and thick and magnificent, the muscles of his chest and stomach sharp as they tapered down, and all she comprehended was that she had to have her hand back on it.

She grasped him, and he threw his head back and yelled out. The strength of his reaction made the building tension inside her suddenly spike.
“Oh, Déu!”
she cried.

He faced her again and grated,
“Come for me. I want tae feel you.”

She moaned as her hips rolled against his clever fingers. Reason was lost. The tension exploded. As she arched her back, she heard his heavy breaths, felt them on her tight nipples, felt him drawing out her pleasure. Her body squeezed the finger inside her, needing it. She went wild, her hands on him everywhere.

When his touch became languorous, circling her, seeming to revel in the wetness, she opened her eyes, found herself still slowly stroking him.

“I wanted all of you, but I canna hold on. Will you help finish me for now?”

Whatever that meant. When she nodded, too content to do more, he raised her until she sat up against the side of the coach, then shrugged from his shirt to spread it over her dress at her lap. “Take me again.” At once, she did.

He put one hand against the coach wall above her to lean over her, then fit his other hand around hers, his large fingers
encircling hers and his manhood in a crushing grip below them. Tightly, shockingly so. It would bruise, possibly even break right there beneath her fingers. . . .

Then he moved his hand, and her hand, along the length just as his hips pumped forward. He swore in a deep, broken voice when his hips met their hands, his gaze never leaving her breasts, her neck, her face.

Annalía watched, bewildered, as their hands moved forward and then slammed back once more. The pressure increased.

His breaths were ragged. Low, tortured sounds broke from his throat. “Arch your back,” he ordered and she did. He leaned down to suckle her, only freeing her to grate,
“Anna, I'm about tae come—”
His mouth returned, but this time his teeth pinched her nipple, and she cried out with pleasure.

The coach skidded to a stop.

He released her hand and nipple, though he rubbed his face over her breast desperately before he hissed a harsh curse and drew back. When he forced his huge, swollen member into his trousers, he looked in more pain than with any of his injuries before. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled in shudders several times as if he was getting himself under control. “We are no' finished with this,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

She quickly shook her head, but he studied her expression as if he didn't quite trust that she'd resume what they were doing.

Just after he shuddered again, he somehow remembered to smooth down her skirts for her as she pulled her blouse back in place. He opened the carriage door and bellowed, “Why the
bloody
hell have we stopped?” He sounded on the verge of violence.

The driver called down, “A tree's blocking the road. Probably from the storms earlier in the week.”

MacCarrick slammed the door. “God damn it!” He reached for his bag and gave her a warning look. “I want you to stay down.”

“Wh-What is it?”

“Rechazados. With bloody,
bloody
bad timing.”

•  •  •

The rage Court felt that someone would seek to hurt her was nearly blinding. No,
kill
her. And he was the only thing preventing it. If he didn't get cold like he used to be, they'd both be dead.

So busy in her skirts that he wasn't aware of the danger they were in.

He snared his pistol and a bag of coin, retrieved his shirt with a bitter curse, then donned it and his jacket with more bullets in the pockets.
“Down, Anna,”
he ordered again, as he snatched his rifle from the overhanging net, then stormed out of the carriage, shirt still unbuttoned. He didn't bother to duck or cower, but strode to the front. Ducking wouldn't make a damn bit of difference with them, just would be the last thing you were doing when you got killed.

“Turn the carriage around.”

The driver nodded, obviously shocked at Court's tone. Court stuffed the pistol into his pocket, then tossed the bag to him. “This is a quarter of what you'll get if you get her to safety until I return.”

While he hefted the bag and said, “A
quarter?”
Court worked the lever on his rifle, laying it over his shoulder in readiness. He stalked up to the now skittish horses to snag a bridle, helping the driver work the coach around.

The first shot rang out, whizzing past his head. The horses shrieked but didn't bolt.

Court took aim at where the shot had originated and fired, then pumped the lever to fire three more times. With a second
of time bought, he climbed the block as the driver prepared to flee, then in a low voice gave him new directions.

Court was just climbing down when two shots pitted the coach roof. Anna screamed, “MacCarrick, please come back!”

Now.
Now he went cold.

The driver snapped his whip, and Court dropped down to return a shot of his own. He heard Anna scream again before they turned the corner.

T
hat bastard!” What was he thinking, jumping off the coach like that? Who did he think he was? What had she ever done to indicate that this would be in any way acceptable?

She'd called for Coachy, ordered him to
stop,
but they sped recklessly on, road dust trickling in from the bullet holes.

It wasn't fair. Just as before—it was worse waiting, worse not knowing. Worse being sped away so fast she couldn't even jump from the bloody carriage.

Why not stay with her and run? No, MacCarrick had to make some grand, idiotic gesture. He hadn't even ducked! She crossed her arms in anger, but soon had to uncross them to hold on to the strap inside the rocking coach.

She didn't care. She'd find her brother and get back home eventually. She didn't need Courtland MacCarrick.

“Oh,
Mare de Déu,”
she said with a gasp. She didn't need him.

But she
wanted
him. Even though he was stubborn and aggressive
and Scottish, she wanted him. And he would deny her to be some cursed hero?

Dismal hours passed before the coach finally slowed. She smelled the oddest scent and wrestled the working coach window down to find water stretching before her. The sea. They must have finally reached Calais, just across the channel from England.

She'd never seen the coast and had always longed to. For some reason kept mysterious to her, everyone who ever came back from the sea was happy.

Out of the corner of her eye, the sun was setting brilliantly, the waves meeting it ablaze with color.

And she felt none of the excitement she'd thought she would when she'd envisioned this day again and again.

The driver, inexplicably protective of her when he should be running away from a passenger who'd been ambushed and then abandoned, secured a room at a well-appointed inn directly on a cliff overlooking the sea. He even had a fine meal of fish brought up to her, but she could never eat when nervous. Instead, she stood on her balcony watching the lighthouse in England bandy with the French one on the next cliff up, their lights over the water like chalk on slate.

But where was he? She turned from the scene and paced until she thought she might drop. Why hadn't he arrived yet? She knew the most probable answer and refused it. Refused the deadening in her heart, realizing she'd never be the same if he died.

Annalía had hated her mother most of her life for her adultery, for throwing everything away for passion. Before MacCarrick, she hadn't understood how anyone could give up so much, but now she knew the feelings that could drive a person to risk it all. She'd give up everything she had to have him back, safe.

Her brows drew together in anguish. Though the night was slow to pass, the sun was rising. And he still was missing. What if he was hurt on the road somewhere? Oh God, what if he was lying in a ditch?

She'd go right back the way they came and retrace their steps. She'd browbeat Coachy if she had to, but she was going back.

Resolved, she yanked open the door. A dark figure stood just outside, and she nearly screamed in fright. “MacCar-rick!” He looked more exhausted than she'd ever seen him.

He shoved her in, then slammed the door behind them. Without a word, he ran his hands forcefully over her, looking her up and down for injuries, then stumbled away. She knew he hadn't slept since he'd left her, and her heart constricted when she realized he'd returned to her as quickly as he was able.

Still . . .
“You Highland bastard! Don't you ever,
ever
do that again. Don't you dare leave me!”

He stood his rifle against the wall. Before it had been shining and new. Now it was scratched all over, coated in mud, the handle dented. What had he gone through out there?

He sarcastically mumbled, “I'm alive and well.” He lifted a ponderous chair like it was weightless, then wedged it against the door. “Doona worry yourself.”