Sarah Gabriel (4 page)

He frowned. “My God…I’ve seen you before.” His words were low, slurred.

“No,” she whispered. “Let go, please.” She wriggled in his hold, speaking English without thinking.

“Blast it, I feel dizzy…what the devil did you put in that tea?” With an iron grip, he held her so closely that she craned her head to look up at him. “Too sweet, it was…with a hint of bitter. What have you done?”

“It will not harm you, though you will sleep some,” she said. “Lie down over there.” She pushed him toward the cot, for he was unstable on his feet and in danger of falling.

“You spoke Gaelic before…damn, I am befuddled.” He shook his head. Then he teetered, and his knees buckled.

“Here, let me help you.” Kate fitted her shoulder under his arm to support him.

Leaning his weight on her, his hand capping her shoulder, he looked down at her. “I swear I’ve seen you before.”

With an arm around his waist, she guided him to the bed. “You’re dreaming. Sit, now.”

He collapsed rather than sat, falling to the mattress,
feet still on the floor. He kept hold of her, and Kate went down with him in a fast tumble. His arms felt so good—but she wiggled away and got to her feet. She struggled to lift his legs onto the bed, though he was tall and muscular, and greatly outweighed her.

He lay sprawled on the narrow cot, one knee raised, his rucked plaid revealing the knotted thigh muscles. His broad chest was bare, the red coat falling open, brass lapel buttons gleaming. She pulled the folded blanket over him and stepped back, but he snatched her wrist and tugged her toward him, so that she fell once again into his embrace.

“Oof,” she said softly, pushing.

“No, stay,” he murmured. With one hand, he swept his fingers over her hair, now loose of its pins. Blond strands spilled free in the lanternlight. “Fairy gold.”

“No—please, I must—” she shoved at him.

He resisted easily, despite his weakened state, wrapping her hair like a skein around his hand to pull her close. “You’re the one,” he said in a husky voice. “The fairy queen.”

She caught her breath. Surely he did not know about her ancestry. The herbs had addled his brain so that he spoke coincidental nonsense. “What—do you mean?” she whispered.

“I saw you in London,” he answered, his face near her own, his breath soft upon her lips. “We called you the fairy queen.”

She felt relieved. “My ancestress was a fairy, so they say. But no matter. You will not remember this in the morning.”

“I’ve caught you.” He drew her close by the winding of her hair, and with his other hand he cupped her face. “And now I’ll keep you.”

He kissed her then, his mouth warm and tender. Kate felt herself begin to dissolve under that luscious kiss, the sort of kiss to dream about.

She should flee. But his fingers slid along her jaw to cradle and tilt her head, and his mouth claimed hers again, deep and stirring. Heart pounding, she surrendered utterly.

Never had she been kissed like this—never. The power of it swept through her, took her breath. Sinking in his arms, she savored his kiss, the next, another, each one more delicious and tender than the last. She brought a hand up to cup his cheek, and the whiskery growth of a day or two felt like sand under her fingertips. Moving her hand upward, she found his hair, so thick and soft that she sighed. His lips moved over hers, divine and warm and vital.

She opened her mouth to his, pleading silently for more. But he paused, sighed, and his head sank to the mattress. He closed his eyes, drawing her down with him. She waited, realized that he was finally succumbing, and reluctantly drew back.

Leave
, she told herself.
Let him dream, and wake without a good recollection of the night, wondering who I am
.

In spite of herself, she leaned toward him again, longing for one more kiss. She felt as if she were the one bespelled.

He stirred and pulled her more fully into his em
brace, rolled to his side with her and touched his lips to hers again.

She had tasted a variety of kisses—dry, forceful, timid, mushy as pudding, many of them nice enough. But each one she had been able to dismiss from her thoughts and heart later. No man’s kiss had ever touched off such a needfire within her.

Oh, his were kisses to remember, to cherish. His lips caressed hers, kneaded, sending deep shivers of pleasure through her. His breath warmed her, his hands upon her excited her so that she wanted to melt in his arms and do all his will. When his mouth took hers again like a storm, she gave in to the passion building within her, and met his lips with maddening hunger. His hands traced along her shoulders, her arms, grazed lightly over her breasts until she wanted to cry out. Each touch, each kiss felt perfect, beautiful, something she must savor.

Had she gone mad? Logic reminded her that she must go, that her cousin waited for her. She must find the papers and run.

But she felt overwhelmed by a strength of passion she had never before imagined, felt herself succumb to the fragile will of the body against such a divine onslaught.

And she knew, then, suddenly, that a kiss could be food for an inner hunger, a caress warmth for a chilled and lonely soul. She had craved this for years and had not even known how much until this moment. She only wanted more.

She felt the wild pulse of his desire all through him,
felt it echo in her, so that she trembled, moaned. His mouth found hers again, the kiss this time so deep and rich that joy poured through her, pure and astonishing and wholly unexpected.

“Oh God,” she whispered against his mouth, “dear God—” And he took her again in a kiss, his hand cupping her breast, her body throbbing sweetly throughout at that single exquisite touch. Anticipation pounded within her like a drum as his hand moved over her in sweeping caresses. She kissed him in fervent response, forgetting where she was, who she was, and that anyone waited outside for her.

L
ooping her arms around his neck, she sighed as his hand tucked into the small of her back, and she felt the hard press of his body against hers.

She could not stay—but let herself savor more, sighing as his hands moved over her in delectable rhythm, while his body tightened against hers like iron. Only a moment more, she told herself, and she would run from here….

His tongue swept hers, his fingers slid up her back, over her shoulder and down, grazing over her modesty kerchief, over her stiffened bodice and the warm flesh beneath. She shivered, arched to welcome his explorations.

Another kiss, and one more, and she realized she was starved for this sort of touch, for true passion, deep and
genuine. He kissed her again, lips tracing over her cheek, her ear, his breath warming her.

For a moment she felt as if she were falling, and she clutched at him, her hands upon his bare chest beneath his red coat—that hateful red jacket. His skin felt warm, smooth, his heartbeat bounding beneath muscle.

Never had she let a man touch her like this, or even go beyond a few kisses—Katie Hell was still a virgin, though it might not fit her persona. Her kinsmen would kill any man who went so far with her, yet she did not, could not, put an end to what was happening.

She knew she was the one captivated, helpless against his charm and the surprising depth of passion he tapped within her. Lost in that current, she met him with her own hunger, sensing that she could discover something magnificent if only she would let her feelings flare. A little longer, she promised herself, gasping as his mouth traced along her throat.

Soon enough he would sleep, and when he woke, Katie Hell would be gone. His memory would be dim, but she would have her own memories to treasure and a sense of what passion, even love, might be like—a secret she could take into the rest of her life.

Silent, aware that her cousin waited outside to defend her if he perceived trouble, she sighed as he touched her, as her breasts tingled under her chemise and bodice. She nearly cried aloud as his other hand traced over her skirts, as he pushed aside her layered skirt and petticoat. When his warm palm grazed her
knee, then her thigh, she caught her breath and tucked her face against his shoulder.

Sublime madness
, she thought, as her heart pounded harder. She kissed his jaw, felt the rasp of his beard, the tender swell of his lips, his moist tongue upon hers. She groaned on a breath, and as his hand cupped her breast, she arched against him.

He was hard and insistent against her now, and she shifted her hand and found the shape of him, began to explore him, her fingers curious, trembling. She moved her hand over his kilt, pulled at the plaid, and he slid his fingers beneath her skirt. Each touched intimate flesh in the same instant, each gasped in harmony.

And she let him do what he would, this man, only this man. The wanton of the broadsheets, the fairy seductress, did not even exist. No man had ever touched her thus.

His exploration of her was astonishing, quickly thrilling as he found the innermost pulse of her body and brought it to heat, then flame. She cried out, the soft sound taken by his kiss. Consumed and released by bliss, she lay quiet and astonished in his arms.

Then she turned her face against his cheek in silence. The exquisite tenderness of his touch had erased, in mere moments, any other kiss or caress she had endured for the sake of her loyalty to her clan and to Scotland. If nothing else came of this night, for that taste of freedom and passion alone she felt in his debt.

He held her—just held her, so that she sighed against him—then she slid her hands downward to find his
hard and vibrant shape, wanting to return to him what he had given her. Instinct and common sense told her what he needed. The hard length of him was warm, smooth, like heated iron within; but he put her hand away from him and turned with a low groan to sag against the bed. When he did not move, Kate pushed at his shoulder and realized that the herbs had finally taken him down.

Time was slipping past, and she knew she must leave, though some foolish part of her wanted to stay. But she could not.

She simply could not, no matter how her heart began to stir, began to awaken.

Besides, the lore of her clan held that she could only accept true love to preserve the fairy gift and the well being of the clan. Anything less would diminish the power within the clan.

And true love, she knew, was rare enough that she need not even think about finding it—particularly not so quickly, though what burned within her, newly lit, gave her hope.

She could imagine, at least, and could treasure what he had shown her about herself, and about loving. She kissed his temple, soothed a hand over the dark silk of his hair, and eased away.

She must hurry—the list must be found. Her cousin waited to see her home again, with several miles to travel on foot to safety.

Kate stepped away, limbs trembling, and went about her work.

He rarely dreamed, and never of fairies, yet this one had slipped into his arms and his dream as lightly as a summer breeze. Exquisite, luscious, she felt divinely real against him, though he did not know if he imagined, or truly experienced, his body’s throbbing response or her soft cries of pleasure at his touch. He only surrendered to the magic.

But he finally realized she was gone, had slipped away into the mist that seemed to surround him. Sinking into sleep, his mind was foggy, and he disliked the sensation. Something was not right.

Struggling against the miasma, refusing to give in, he inhaled, forced himself to surge upward. Opening his eyes, he saw slanting tent walls above him, lanternlight playing crazily on the canvas. He felt dizzy, dry-mouthed, impatient with the sensations that drained his strength.

Noticing a shadow on the canvas walls, he turned his head.

She was there, the girl he had held and loved in his strange dream. Her hair, haloed by the light, was like spun gold. She stood over his writing desk, searching through papers, unfolding pages, sifting through his notes, his correspondence, and several military documents.

No blasted fairy at all, he saw then, but the laundress. He scowled, rubbed his eyes, looked again. Dear God. Had he just played bedsport with the Highland laundress?

Silently, carefully, Alec raised himself on one elbow. Her back was turned to him, and she seemed intent on
her task of pilfering his papers. He sat up, slid his feet to the floor, watching her. The room spun.

The girl turned her head a little, and Alec saw her profile more clearly. She was the girl in his dream, most definitely—a delicate beauty with flawless skin, a slightly upturned nose, eyes of silvery gray. He had most certainly seen her before.

The realization hit him like a shock of cold water. She had been in London, gowned in yellow and gold. She was neither fairy nor laundress—she had to be the spy they had all been searching out. And he had been seduced and drugged.

What a fool he had been not to realize it sooner. She had been clever, her ruse easy enough to believe…and she had managed to take him down before he could stop her. Like all the rest, he had fallen for her.

Rustling frantically through his papers, Katie Hell did not glance behind her. Though his head whirled, Alec sat up and reached out toward the small table. His fingers closed on his pistol.

The little hellion selected a few pages, folding and tucking them in the pocket of her skirt. She slid another sheet into her bodice, into the warm cleavage that he had touched, kissed. Her scent, lavender and clean, still clung to him, and the strange influence she had over him—quite apart from the effect of whatever she must have dumped into his tea—whirled him around, head and heart.

The girl snatched up her plaid and stepped away from the desk, neglecting to look behind her in her haste to get away.

Alec cocked the pistol, the click loud in the silence.

She whirled.

“Katie, my darling,” he murmured, aiming the barrel at her. “How very good to meet you at last.”

V
oices droned behind her though she hardly listened to them. She stood in stockinged feet, hands manacled with iron. Since earlier that day, her guards had not permitted her to sit or even to move. A short length of chain, pulled taut, ran from the manacles to a bolt high in the wall, and any attempt she made to sink down or significantly shift her weight would jerk the chain until it pulled painfully on her arms. Not long ago she had fallen, and a guard had appeared to prop her up, giving her a gruff warning to be careful before he left the cell.

Weary, near collapse but determined not to move, she watched darkness gather in the tiny prison cell. Cold seeped through the straw on the stone floor, making
her shiver. Somewhere behind her, lanternlight cast her shadow, slim and straight, on the wall in front of her, where the iron links bit into stone and held her in place.

Through the golden tangle of her hair, she saw other shadows—the stripes of iron bars, the shapes of guards out in the corridor. Dizzy again, she closed her eyes, but her head only seemed to whirl. She swayed on her feet, and when her knees buckled, jerked upright. Loose of its braiding, her hair spilled in a thick curtain over her face and shoulders.

She knew she was in the dungeon at Inverlochy Castle near Fort William, where governmental troops were garrisoned under General Wade. Days ago, after her arrest in Captain Fraser’s tent in the Perthshire encampment, she had been taken away by dragoons, enduring a long journey north by cart through rain and cold winds until they reached this place in the Great Glen.

She could never forget how Fraser had watched her as the dragoons took her—how he had frowned in silence, then cautioned her guards not to fasten her bonds too tightly and to see that she was kept safe. Then he had turned his back and walked away.

For an instant, her foolish heart had broken, stunned by a sense of betrayal and abandonment—and by a strange feeling that she had lost hold of a precious dream. Within moments she had gathered her wits and fostered her anger, hoping she would never see Fraser again.

But even the thought of that hurt deep within, as if something pulled hard and tight, more forcefully than the damnable chains that held her now.

She sighed, tried not to think about that day. But Allan—what of her cousin? She had not seen Allan MacCarran since that night, and she had feared at first that he had been caught. But none of her guards had mentioned it, and so she clung to the hope that he had escaped and would bring word of her dilemma to her brother, Rob, and their clansmen.

After her arrival at Inverlochy, Colonel Francis Grant had come to interview her—the same colonel she had met weeks ago in Wade’s Perthshire encampment. When he had questioned her, Kate had refused to answer—and so he ordered that she stand chained in her cell until she decided to talk.

Her strength was waning, but she still had her stubbornness and loyalty. She would not give her surname to her captors, for that alone would reveal her kinsmen. Grant would have sent troops out to Duncrieff to arrest them, too.

She understood the risks very well, and though her mind was muddled, she knew that Captain Alexander Fraser, who had showed her such tender passion, had arrested her and abandoned her to this fate. He had not accompanied her here. She told herself that he was not at all the man she had hoped he was. In a way, that conclusion made her feel better about despising him.

She stretched a little to ease her aching shoulders, but discomfort nagged at her everywhere—in overtaxed muscles, in chilled hands and swollen feet, in her full bladder. Ignoring all that, determined to endure, she stared ahead in silence.

After a while she heard more footsteps in the corri
dor, the scrape of a chair, low murmurs. On the wall, she saw shadows moving and heard the creak of the door as more footsteps padded over the straw behind her.

“Katie Hell.” Francis Grant’s voice, quiet and nasal, the very air around him seemed to hold loathing in it. She tensed for what might come.

Black boots and cream breeches entered her view, and she saw the thin, angular shape of his legs and the long tail of a red coat, crossed by the sash of an officer.

Glancing up, she looked into long-lidded brown eyes set in a pale and narrow face made paler by the silver wig he favored. She said nothing, though she glared at him.

She remembered Grant in the encampment weeks earlier, when he lay sprawled and snoring in shirtsleeves and loosened trousers, a silver flask in his hand. He had been quite fond of the contents of that flask, she recalled, and she had needed neither herbal potion nor a thump on the head to subdue him—only more whiskey. Grant had sucked it up eagerly, when he was not pawing at her bodice and sucking at her mouth like a kelpie sprung from a river. Strong and wiry, his advances had left bruises on her arms that had lingered for two weeks.

Her kinsmen had nearly gone out to kill him, but she had stopped them, not wanting revenge on her conscience. After all, she had told them, no real damage had been done to her, and for the sake of the Jacobite cause, her kinsmen could not chance deliberately harming a regimental officer.

Staring at the wall, Kate wished she could tell Grant
that she had saved his life—and that he owed her in return for it.

“Kate,” Grant said. “I’m sure you’re thirsty and tired by now. Tell me what I want to know, and you’ll be permitted to rest and given a hot meal.”

Even the thought of rest and food made her tremble. But she stared at the wall, willing the strength of that immovable rock into her legs to keep her from collapsing.

“Tell me your name, and who sent you.” She heard an edge in his voice like a knife in velvet. “Tell me why you returned again to that encampment. Your mistake, my dear, and our good fortune.”

A greater mistake than anyone knew, Kate thought, thinking of Fraser. Her eyes stung. She closed them, silent.

He touched her arm, and she jerked in surprise, and when his fingers tightened, she gasped out in pain.

“Four days since they brought you here to Fort William,” he murmured. “Four days without a word, and now over eighteen hours on your feet. How much can you take?”

She stared at his boots and swallowed, her mouth dry.

“Stubborn little strumpet,” Grant hissed. “You will not last out this game with me. You’ll talk, or die on your feet.”

Panicking inwardly, Kate wondered if he was right. She struggled for breath and against the pain of his grasp.

“I do not wish to see you suffer. I remember when you came to me before…so tantalizing,” he whispered, as he stroked her shoulder now. “You did not stay long
enough, my dear. We would have enjoyed such delights together.” He leaned closer. “I could have been the only man to know all Katie Hell’s secrets, the only man to sample all of her intoxicating magic.” His fingers stretched, grazed over her bodice, over the fullness of her breast above the stays. “I still could be that man.”

She shuddered and leaned back, chains clanking, but that only extended her arms uncomfortably. Grant stood close.

“Either you tell me what I want to know, or I will tell everyone that Katie Hell was mine,” he said, his breath hot and meaty on her cheek. “If you do not cooperate, you will be mine for certain, every night,” he growled. “Every goddamned night.”

Hearing that, her heart pounded, her knees nearly gave way. She said nothing in reply, turning her head as Grant waited.

“So be it,” he hissed. “Remember, I offered you mercy.” He let go of her so suddenly that she rocked with it. His boots disappeared from sight, the iron door clanged open and shut, and she heard the furious thud of his retreating footsteps.

Standing there, Kate flexed her cold, stockinged toes. Her shoes had been taken earlier, along with her plaid arisaid. All she wore was the shabby green dress, simple stays, chemise, and petticoat that she had worn as the laundress.

Her silver chain and pendant—one of the fairy crystals of Duncrieff—had been taken from her, too. Her father had plucked the crystal from the rim of the golden Fairy Cup at Duncrieff Castle for her to wear. Her sis
ter, Sophie, had been given one, too, in a small family ceremony to mark the privilege for both of them. According to clan tradition, each child identified with the Fairy’s Gift—extraordinary abilities inherited from an ancient ancestress born of the fairy folk—was given a crystal to keep with her or him. Without the protection and enhancement of the little stone, Kate knew that her inborn gift could become unreliable or even disappear altogether.

MacCarran blood held a trace of fairy, diluted over the centuries. In recent years the magic had appeared rarely in the family. Both Kate and Sophie had inherited magical talents from their fairy ancestress, abilities that could affect not only their lives but the lives, luck, and well-being of the entire clan.

Kate sighed, lowering her head. She had often questioned her own gift, even the truth of the family legends. Now, without her little crystal necklace, she felt defenseless and frightened.

Katie Hell, she thought, would not so easily charm her way free of this.

“How long has she been standing there?” Alec demanded in a low growl, gazing into the dungeon cell. “And who the devil ordered it?”

“She’s been standing there since last night,” the sergeant answered. “Colonel Grant’s orders, sir.”

Alec swore under his breath. He should have come earlier, but Wade’s damned documents and tasks had delayed him.

Standing in the dark cell, the girl looked like a wisp,
a shadow of the girl he had seen before. He frowned to himself, watching her through the barred door. Her back was turned, and he could see that chains and fetters held her upright. She was shoeless and unkempt in the drab green gown, and her hair cascaded down her back in loose waves in a dingy tangle that he knew would be golden ripe in sunlight.

She wavered a little, straightened, hair rippling, feet shifting in the straw. Her weakness was obvious, but Alec also saw the steely will inside of her. The sight was heartrending.

Guilt had tormented him ever since he had called the guards into his tent after discovering the girl going through his papers. When she had been whisked away for interrogation, he had not been able to follow immediately. Once free, he had ridden northward in a grim fury. Even his ghillie had complained of the pace—and Jack MacDonald enjoyed a little madness now and then.

Alec, by nature, did not.

Dear God
, he thought as he looked at her now. She appeared frail and harmless—had he made a terrible error in having her arrested? How could she be the wanton described by so many officers, the virago depicted in the broadsheet? Somehow, this fragile, determined waif was the laundress, the notorious Katie Hell, and the dazzling young woman at the king’s court all at once. But how, and why?

Some said it was fairy magic, he remembered wryly, but that was nonsense. The girl had added something to his tea, pilfered documents, lain in his bed with him.
She was a schemer, a spy, a hellion, worse. Nothing fantastical about any of that.

Yet he remembered the passion he had felt for her, the comfort of holding her in his arms, the sweet taste of her kisses, her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. Had she been a harlot, or even well experienced, he would have known, but he had felt sure, that night, that an innocent had come into his bed.

He was definitely sure she was no damned fairy princess.

None of it made sense, he thought, bewildered. Whoever she was, she had a changeable nature and a host of secrets, and he meant to discover who she was and what she was about, preferably before the English military got the information out of her.

Seeing her, so tormented, he felt an angry protectiveness toward her, part compassion and part something deeper he could not define.

The girl was driving him a little mad, and he did not like that. He preferred life to be orderly, even a little predictable. At least, he tried to convince himself that he did. But her unpredictability intrigued and challenged him.

He turned. The guard sat on a wooden stool, back propped against the wall behind him, one leg extended outward. In the larger cell next to the girl’s, two men reclined in shadows—one man in breeches and shabby coat, the other a large and unkempt Highlander wrapped in a plaid. Both slept.

“Has she been interrogated?” Alec asked the guard.

“She refused to reply, so Colonel Grant says she is to
stand there until she does.” The sergeant struck a match and lit a pipe. The tobacco glowed, and pungent smoke filled the air.

Francis Grant. Alec frowned, remembering the man’s written testimony about his meeting with Katie Hell. Alec had met Grant before, here and there, and though the colonel was his superior, Alec had scant respect for him. Grant was tense, critical, and temperamental, and carried a grudge a long way. “Sergeant, surely the girl is permitted to rest, and allowed basic courtesies.”

“Not until she answers questions, says the colonel. She’s hiding Jacobite secrets, Grant says, and so we’d best use strict measures. Will you be interviewing her, sir?”

Alec glanced at the girl again. She swayed, jerked upright. Then she turned her head and saw him. Recognition, and keen anger sparked in her eyes before she looked away.

“Aye, let me speak with her,” Alec said. “Open the door, if you will.” The soldier complied, and as the door grated open, Alec entered the cell and walked quietly toward her.

She stared at his feet through a skein of tangled hair.

“Kate,” he murmured. “How are you faring?” When she glanced away and did not answer, Alec leaned close. “You’ll need to talk, lass. Tell me your family name. We’ll start there.” He spoke quietly, watching her.

She looked away, but let out a soft, disdainful huff.

“I know you do not want to speak to me after what happened,” Alec said. “But I may be your best ally here.”

Kate rolled her eyes a little in silent disbelief.

“Captain,” the sergeant said, “there’s no use talking to her. She’s Highland, and may not know much English.”

“Or chooses not to speak it,” Alec murmured, watching her.