The Devil Wears Plaid (8 page)

After saying his piece, Ian held his breath, waiting for his uncle to once again lash out at him in rage.

But for once the old man actually seemed to be considering his counsel. He pursed his thin lips briefly before saying, “Then we wait for Sinclair’s next move, just as I had planned. Since you seem to have made such a dreadful bungle of it, I shall attend to her parents myself and tell them our hands are tied until we receive a ransom demand from the wretch. Only then can we determine how to proceed.”

Galvanized by a fresh sense of purpose, his uncle retrieved his walking stick from the brass can in the corner and marched from the room. Ian started to follow but before he could turn away from the window, his own gaze was caught and held by the
magnificence of the view. Twilight was just beginning to descend from the heavens. The gathering shadows cast a gauzy lavender veil over the topmost peak of the mountain.

Unlike his uncle, Ian sought to avoid that view whenever possible. When he had first come to live at Hepburn Castle, he had been a pale, thin, bookish boy of ten who secretly dreamed of roaming the mountain’s crags and hollows, as wild and free as one of the eagles soaring over its majestic crest. But his uncle had quickly wearied of having a child underfoot and packed him off to school. Most of Ian’s holidays and summers had been spent at the earl’s town house in London in the indifferent care of one butler or another.

When his uncle had summoned him back to Scotland to attend St. Andrews at the age of seventeen, his shoulders had filled out considerably, but he was no less pale and bookish, a fact that made him a tempting target for his more muscular, less cerebral classmates.

A trio of them had been taking turns shoving him around the grassy expanse of St. Salvator’s Quad one chilly autumn afternoon when a voice had called out, “Leave the lad be!”

They had ceased pummeling Ian and turned as one to cast their disbelieving gazes on the young man standing in the shadow of the stone arch just below
the clock tower. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his robes were shabby and far too short for his long legs. His rich brown hair was poorly trimmed and falling half in his eyes. Light green eyes narrowed in unmistakable warning.

The leader of Ian’s tormentors—a hulking boy named Bartimus with tree trunks for calves and no discernible neck—snorted, plainly delighted to have found a new target for their bullying. “Or you’ll what, Highlander? Force us to eat some haggis? Blow us to death with your bagpipes?”

As Bartimus and his cronies came swaggering toward him, a lazy smile curved the stranger’s lips. Oddly enough, it made him look more ferocious instead of less. “I don’t think there’ll be any need for the bagpipes, laddies. From what I’ve seen, the three o’ ye are quite capable o’ blowin’ each other without my help.”

Their disbelief turning to outrage, the boys exchanged a glance, then charged the newcomer as one. Ian started after them, not sure what he was going to do but refusing to let a stranger take a beating on his behalf. He’d taken only a handful of steps when the first crunch of fist on bone sounded, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

He stumbled to a halt, his mouth falling open.

It wasn’t the stranger taking the beating, but his attackers. And it wasn’t being done with the refined
rules Ian had witnessed while visiting Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon in London, but with a ruthless efficiency that combined joyful abandon with brute force. By the time he was through with them, they were no longer swaggering, but staggering.

Moaning and clutching their dislocated appendages and bloodied noses, they went stumbling away, no doubt seeking some secluded corner where they could nurse their injuries away from the crowd of gawking onlookers that had materialized when the first punch was thrown. Aside from scraping his knuckles on their faces, their opponent looked none the worse for wear.

His own pride beginning to ache, Ian shot his rescuer a resentful look as he stooped to gather up his fallen books. “I’m in no need of a bodyguard, you know. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

The stranger swept his hair out of his eyes. “Aye, and ye were doin’ a damn fine job of it, ye were. Right after the three o’ them bluidied yer lip and blacked yer eye, I’m guessin’ ye were goin’ to give them a scoldin’ they would ne’er forget.”

Ian straightened, biting back a reluctant smile. “Ian Hepburn,” he said, offering the stranger his hand.

The young man hesitated, the ghost of a frown passing over his face, before accepting Ian’s hand and giving it a brusque shake. “Most of my friends just call me Sin.” He cast the ancient stone walls brooding
over the Quad a rueful look, muttering beneath his breath, “Or at least they might if I had any friends in this godforsaken prison.”

Heartened to have found a kindred spirit who hated St. Andrews as much as he did, Ian stopped trying to restrain his smile. “I’m afraid you won’t make many if you try to solve every problem with those ham-handed fists of yours.” Ian shook his head, marveling at the prowess of those fists in spite of himself. “Just how did you learn to do that?”

“What? Fight?” Sin shrugged his broad shoulders as if dispatching three opponents without so much as breaking a sweat was an everyday occurrence for him. “Where I come from, if a mon can’t fight he won’t survive.”

Ian frowned thoughtfully. He had always been forced to rely on his wits to survive. Perhaps it was time to consider some other options. “Can you teach me?”

“How to scrap?”

Ian nodded.

“Aye. I s’pose so.” Sin studied him with a critical eye. “Ye’re a wee bit scrawny for yer height, but it’s nothin’ a few heapin’ portions o’ neeps and tatties won’t cure.” A wicked smile slanted Sin’s lips. “Until we get some meat on yer bones, I can teach ye a few dirty tricks that’ll make those witless oafs think twice aboot smackin’ ye around.”

Eyeing the frayed hem of Sin’s robe, Ian said, “I can pay you.”

Sin stiffened, his smile fading. “Ye can keep yer precious coin, Ian Hepburn. I’m not a bluidy beggar and I’ve no need o’ yer charity!” With that, he turned on his heel and went striding away.

Ian could feel his own temper rising. “If you’re too damn proud to take my coin, Highlander,” he called after Sin, “then maybe I could teach you something useful in return… like how to talk.”

Sin stopped and slowly turned, his fingers once again curling into fists. Although Ian feared he was about to be on the receiving end of those formidable fists, he stood his ground.

A grin slowly spread across Sin’s face. “Och, lad, an’ whit makes ye think I’d want tae learn tae gab like some prissy gent who talks like he’s got a walkin’ stick stuck up his crease?”

Ian blinked at him. “Was that even English? Maybe I should have volunteered to translate for you instead of teaching you elocution. You’re obviously quite fluent in gibberish.”

Ian felt his own lips curve in a smile as Sin responded by giving him a gesture that required no translation.

That smile faded along with the memory of that fateful day, leaving Ian standing once again before the window in his uncle’s study. While he had been lost
in the past, the last of the daylight had surrendered to the bruised purple shadows of dusk, forcing him to face his own pensive reflection in the glass.

He was no longer pale or scrawny but a man to be reckoned with in his own right. Thanks to the boy he had called Sin, he knew how to use both his fists and his wits to survive. Yet he remained at his uncle’s beck and call, no less a puppet to the man’s tyrannical whims than he’d been as a lonely nine-year-old who had come to this place in the hopes of finding a home and a family.

As he stood gazing up at that mountain, remembering the boy who was born to be his enemy but who had all too briefly been his friend, he knew in his heart that there was nowhere in the world either one of them could flee to escape its mighty shadow.

A
S THE MOON DRIFTED
higher in the night sky, Jamie eased back on the reins of his mount, his arms forming a natural cradle for the boneless bundle nestled against his chest. Emma had tolerated the infrequent stops and punishing pace he’d set for most of the day without complaining, but when he’d felt her grip on his waist give way and her body began to sway dangerously with each of the horse’s strides, he’d been forced to reverse their positions so she could ride in front of him.

She’d protested the switch with little more than a disgruntled moan and a cross flutter of her eyelashes before curling herself against his chest like a drowsy little cat. No matter how rigid Jamie held himself in the saddle, the rioting curls that had escaped the leather thong still managed to tickle his nose. How she could still smell so sweet and feminine—like lilacs washed by a gentle spring
rain—after a grueling day of riding was a complete mystery to him.

When she stirred and moaned again, he slowed his horse from a canter to a walk, ignoring the impatient looks from his men. Suddenly he wasn’t nearly as eager to make camp for the night as they were. Emma might have survived their grueling day in the saddle, but he wasn’t sure he would survive another night with her sleeping anywhere near him.

He had hoped his forbidding glower would deter conversation but it didn’t stop Bon from drawing his sorrel alongside him and casting a cagey look toward the sleeping girl in his arms. “I s’pose it’s good the lass is takin’ her ease now, isn’t it?”

“And just why would that be?”

Bon shrugged. “Well, after witnessin’ that kiss ye tried to steal this morn, I have a sneakin’ suspicion she’ll be needin’ all o’ her strength for the night to come.”

Not in any mood for his cousin’s teasing—or the deliciously depraved images it brought to mind—Jamie continued to gaze straight ahead.

Undeterred by his stony profile, Bon cheerfully continued. “She might buck a bit at first but once ye break her to the saddle, ye’ll be able to ride her long and hard. If ye find yerself growin’ weak in the legs and in need o’ any help, I just want ye to know I’m yer mon. Just give a whistle and I’ll be more than happy to—”

Jamie’s hand shot out and closed around Bon’s throat, choking off his words in mid-sentence. Still balancing Emma’s weight in the crook of his other arm, he leaned toward his cousin, looked him dead in the eye and said, “I appreciate the offer but I don’t believe your services will be required. Tonight or any other night.”

Freeing Bon to give him a look that would have shamed the devil himself, Jamie returned his grip to the reins and his attention to the road.

Continuing to eye him as if he’d kicked a crippled kitten, Bon massaged the fingerprints from his throat. “There’s no need to be so techy, now is there? One would think that havin’ the Hepburn’s bride at his mercy would put a mon in a more generous temper.”

“Aye, one would think that, wouldn’t they?” With that cryptic reply, Jamie snapped the reins on his mount’s back, determined to escape the shrewd glint in his cousin’s eye.

I
T MIGHT HAVE BEEN
more difficult for Emma to continue to feign sleep if Jamie Sinclair’s broad chest hadn’t made such an enticing pillow. As long as she kept her eyes closed and her limbs limp, each of the horse’s plodding steps continued to rock her gently in the cradle of Jamie’s arms.

She had drifted out of her exhausted slumber just in time to hear him rejecting his man’s crude offer in no uncertain terms. That primal display of brute masculine force had sent a treacherous little thrill jolting down her spine. Unfortunately, it was quickly followed by a wave of self-contempt.

No matter how tenderly he held her or how staunchly he defended her, she could not afford to forget that Jamie Sinclair was her enemy. Perhaps he simply sought to confuse her with his small kindnesses. Instead of sheltering her in his arms, another man might have bound her wrists and tethered her to the back of his horse, forcing her to stumble along behind him until she collapsed from exhaustion. At least it would have been easier to hate that man, she thought with growing desperation, to despise him for being the black-hearted villain he was.

She’d be the worst sort of ninny to mistake avarice for chivalry. Jamie had already admitted she was worth far more to him alive than dead. If he sought to shield her from the lascivious intentions of his men, it was only to protect her innocence and his investment until he could wrangle a ransom from Hepburn. She was nothing more to him than some sort of brood mare to be bargained away to the highest bidder.

That bitter reminder hardened her resolve. It simply would not do for her to spend another night in
Jamie Sinclair’s company, or his arms. If she hoped to escape his clutches with her pride and her heart intact, she couldn’t afford to bide her time and wait for her bridegroom to either ransom or rescue her. She had no choice but to take her fate into her own hands once again the moment an opportunity presented itself.

And this time there would be no room for failure.

If you do try to run again, I just might decide your virtue is of more value to me than to the earl.

Emma shivered as Jamie’s warning echoed through her mind. It was not an idle threat. He possessed the power to ruin her. Not just for her bridegroom but for any other man as well. If he made good on his promise, no decent man would want her. And no decent woman would ever welcome Emma into her home. She would live out the rest of her life like a ghost drifting in the shadows on the fringes of society—both scorned and invisible.

She tensed as the horse ceased its rocking. The cheerful jingle of bridles and harnesses was followed by the relieved sighs and jovial banter of Jamie’s men as they dismounted. They must have finally decided to make camp for the night.

She yawned and stirred, pretending she had just been roused from a restful slumber. They had stopped on a barren expanse of moor bordered by towering trees on one side. A thin layer of mist floated just
above the ground, shimmering beneath the gentle glow of the moon.

Emma half-expected Jamie to dump her to her feet as he had in the clearing the day before, but instead he carefully balanced her weight atop the horse as he dismounted, then drew her into his waiting arms.

As he lowered her to her feet, her body slid all the way down his, inch by provocative inch. Her eyes flew open in shock. His battle-hardened body was in the exact same state she had found it in upon awakening that morning—the state he had claimed was more painful than a pistol ball between the eyes. She tipped back her head to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, no longer able to feign either sleep or innocence.

Keenly aware that his men were milling about only a few feet away, she lowered her voice to a tense whisper. “I thought you said that only happened in the morning. And that it had naught to do with me.”

He gazed down at her, his expressive mouth unsullied by even the trace of a smile. “I lied. On both counts.”

His big, warm hands were still splayed against her ribcage, his thumbs lingering only inches away from the soft swell of her breasts. She gazed into the depths of his eyes, wondering how frost could burn so hot it threatened to sizzle away her every fear and misgiving.
In that moment she was no more eager to escape him than he was to set her free.

Which was precisely what gave her the courage to close her trembling hands around the grip of his pistol, slide the weapon from the waistband of his breeches in one smooth motion and press its muzzle against his abdomen.