Brigand (11 page)

What was he to do?

He housed Kaitlin in a chamber on the second floor of the
keep and bade her to bar the door. The last thing he wanted was Violet and his
betrothed meeting up and sharing…stories.

Besides, he wasn’t done with Violet yet. Not by a long shot.

And he needed some time. Time to figure a way out of this
conundrum. He was not marrying Kaitlin MacAllister. He couldn’t. Not now.

And he couldn’t bear to let Violet go.

Callum, however, he sent on his merry way.

He spent most of the day in his office with the door closed
and the whisky bottle open, wrestling with his churning emotions. On the one
hand, he needed to marry Kaitlin. Needed the
entrée
to the
ton
her rank would provide. Sophia would be coming home in a month to prepare for
her season and he couldn’t let her down. He just couldn’t. He’d worked so hard
to create this opportunity for her to marry a man who mattered. A powerful man
who could keep her warm and safe and dry.

She would never end up in the dire straits his mother had
faced. Never. This, he had vowed to himself long ago.

Sophia was a sweet, gentle soul. Ewan had done everything he
could to protect her from the harsh realities of life, done all within his
power to prepare her for a future of Quality. She deserved the absolute best.

But the thought of marrying Kaitlin—of marrying anyone
really—turned his stomach. And the prospect of letting Violet go made him ill.

What a pity that, at his core, he was an honorable man.

If he weren’t, he would abandon Kaitlin, abandon everything,
and flee with Violet in his arms.

He took dinner with her in the solar. They drank and ate and
chatted and he attempted to charm her from her peevishness—she was still
annoyed that he had tied her up and led her like a hound back to the keep. He
had it in his mind to seduce her tonight but his chances didn’t look very good.

Still he gave it his best, though all the while, through all
the soft words and cajoling smiles and witty ripostes, guilt prickled at his
nape. He should tell her Kaitlin had come but he couldn’t bear to do so.

Telling her really would end this. And he couldn’t bear it.

It was almost a relief when Mungo scratched on his door.

“What is it?” he asked through a sigh.

“Visitors,” the hulk muttered.

Ewan’s brow clouded. “I don’t see visitors.”

“I told them that. Said they was ‘old friends’.”

Curiosity twined in his chest. No one visited here. They
knew better. “Fine,” he grunted. He glanced over his shoulder at Violet sipping
her wine and staring into the fire. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

She merely sniffed. Tipped her chin at that intransigent
angle and didn’t answer.

Hell.

He winced as he descended the stairs. His men were in fine
fettle, drinking and carousing. A fight had broken out between Alasdair and
Cedric. They battered each other with glee. Thank God he’d locked Kaitlin away.
There was no telling what ideas might get into their heads when they were in
such a state.

His eyes lit on the coterie assembled in the foyer and
widened in surprise. Two men he’d never thought to see again, but he was glad
to. They’d all been locked up together in that French prison, jammed into the
same cell. Edward Weston and Charles Transom had saved his ass more than once.
He strode toward them with a broad grin.

“Transom? Weston? By all that is holy. I never thought to
see you here.”

Cedric took a meaty blow and crashed into the table, making
it wobble and spilling all the cups. The men around it leapt up and bellowed
their rage. Their cries bounced off the walls as yet another brawl ensued.

Ewan snorted a laugh. “The place is something of a mess. Had
I known you were coming, I would have tidied up. How long has it been?”

He shook hands with each man in turn but when he came to the
third, a young pup with a surly frown, his outstretched hand faltered.

“We need to talk,” Weston said. “Someplace private.”

Well. So much for the niceties. The smile drifted from
Ewan’s face. “My study?” He led the way, his mind awhirl. He couldn’t imagine
what they wanted. But he didn’t care. It was damn fine to see them again. “Sit.
Sit.” He waved at the chairs as he took his own. “May I offer you a drink?”

Weston’s brow clouded. “No thank you. Our business is rather
urgent.”

Really? “Urgent business? After so many years? I’m
intrigued.”

The young pup, the one who had refused to sit and was now
prowling like a caged lion, snarled, “Where’s my sister?” His fingers opened
and closed as though he really wanted to punch something.

Ewan’s gut clenched. His sister? He narrowed his gaze and
studied that face. And his blood curdled. He remembered that face. Oh, he’d
been younger, softer, less surly, but Ewan remembered that face. “Who are you?”
he asked, although he knew. In his heart he already knew.

“Edward Wyeth.”

Acid bubbled in his gut. “Edward Wyeth.” This, he spat. The
son of the man who had heartlessly savaged a boy and then tossed him and his
mother out in the snow.

Weston frowned. “Ned, please. Let me handle this.”

“I want her back, you bastard.”

“Ned.” Transom’s warning had no effect.

Ewan leaned back in his chair and poured himself a drink,
sipped it slowly. “What makes you think your sister is here?”

Ned opened his mouth to respond but Weston glared him into
silence and said, “Callum MacAllister.”

Annoyance curled through him. “Callum told you she was here?
I may need to squash that little bug.”

The boy visibly bristled. “He didn’t tell us anything, that
filthy cur. We found you all on our own.”

Ewan ignored this outburst. He poured a drink for Weston and
Transom, though they had declined. “So tell me, Weston. What’s your part in all
of this?”

His friend cleared his throat. “The name is not Weston,
actually.”

“It’s not? How unsettling. Never say you lied to us all
those years ago.”

“I didn’t lie so much as pose as someone I was not.”

“Hardly a difference.” He took another drink. “So who are
you?”

“Also Edward Wyeth.” He glanced at the boy. “It’s a family
name.”

The bottle stilled. Ewan’s gaze flicked up. He bit his
tongue and his jaw clamped shut.

“Violet is my…cousin.”

Everything in him seized. Suspicion curled. Weston—Wyeth—was
Violet’s cousin… “I take it your father was not a bookseller.”

“He was not.”

“What was he?” Tension crackled.

“A duke.”

“Fuck.”

“Moncrieff, actually. He’s the one who arranged our escape.
I’ve come to call in that favor, Ewan.”

“Fuck.”

“I will take Violet tonight. In return I’ll pay you the
money that is owed. You will leave Violet and Kaitlin alone.”

“Kaitlin?” Something in Edward’s tone when he said her name caught
Ewan’s attention. His finely honed instincts flared to life. “Not Lady Kaitlin?
What’s my betrothed to you?”

Edward bristled. “You will release her from this betrothal
and never bother her again.”

Ewan grinned. Yes. There was something there. Something
other than genteel concern over his cousin’s friend. “Your…passion is
intriguing.”

“I must insist.”

“And if I refuse?”

Edward narrowed his eyes. “You used to be a man of honor.”

Ewan plucked at a splinter of wood on the table. “That was a
long time ago.” He took another sip of his drink and pondered this interesting
revelation. He fought to keep a smile from curling on his lips as a
possibility, a sweet solution, unfolded in his mind. “I have need of a bride.
Surely I should keep one of them.”

Ned shot to his feet. Edward pressed him back down. He fixed
Ewan with a resolute stare. “I will pay you double what is owed. One debt for
each woman.”

Ewan stilled. He drew his finger over the lip of the cup.
“It is a substantial amount.”

“I know.”

“I will think on your proposal.”

Ned shot to his feet again. “What the hell is there to think
about?”

Ewan chortled. “You’re asking me to give up my dearest
Kaitlin. And a rather valuable captive. Come back tomorrow and I will give you
my answer.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” Ewan stood, indicating that this interview
was at an end. He needed them to leave. He need time to think, to play through
the permutations in his head.

Edward stood as well. But did not offer his hand. “Tomorrow
it is, Ewan. And do not forget. You owe me. You owe me your life.”

* * * * *

Violet spent her time waiting for Ewan’s return strolling
from one side of the solar to the other. It was not very diverting.

It annoyed her that he’d left again—on business, he’d said.

In truth he’d probably been anxious to escape her presence.
She hadn’t been very good company since their return to the keep. She’d needed
to take him to task for tying her up and humiliating her in front of his men,
but for some reason she hadn’t been able to shake her irritable mood. She’d
railed at him all day and through most of dinner.

She sighed. No wonder he wanted to flee.

It wasn’t the fact that he’d tied her to the bed that
plagued her. It was the revelation of her true feelings for him, and the depth
of them, that perturbed her.

She’d never imagined she could have feelings like this for
someone. It was sheer delight and fear and terror and need all rolled into one
churning, burning emotion. It was as though her vision had narrowed down to one
flickering, capricious point. The whole of her life had been lived solely for
this reason. To love him. To be with him.

The fear and the terror sprang from the suspicion he did not
feel the same.

Oh, who was she trying to fool?

It wasn’t a suspicion.

Still, when he returned to the chamber, when he opened the
door and stared at her with a hungry look in his eye, she wanted to run to him.
To fling herself into his arms and cling.

He closed the door and turned the lock. Then faced her,
still staring as though he could eat her up. He strode across the room until he
stood before her, close. His heat, his desire, licked her in waves.

She wrung her hands and searched for something to say.
“How-how did your meeting go?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She tipped up her chin and studied his face. It was tight.
Drawn. Harsh. Had she displeased him? Again?

“I don’t want to talk.” He cupped her face. Thumbed her
cheek.

Her heart thudded. “Then…what do you want to do?”

“I want this.” His mouth took hers in a dizzying rush. He
consumed her. Kissed her wildly as though he would never kiss her again. The
yearning in his touch made her chest ache.

She couldn’t stop her arms from curling around his neck. He
grunted—she tasted his satisfaction—and swung her up in his arms, not breaking
the kiss.

Her head reeled, her heart pounded as he whirled her around
and headed for the bed. “Violet,” he murmured, peppering her lips, her cheeks,
her lashes, with tiny busses. “Violet.”

“Ewan,” she said, because she could think of nothing else to
say. Indeed, nothing else needed saying. She tugged impatiently at his shirt
and he complied, ripping it off. Buttons flew. “Ah.” She set her palm to his
warm chest, stroked him, petted him.

He groaned and shifted down to feed on her neck. He fumbled
with the buttons on her bodice and when he couldn’t undo them quickly enough,
he ripped it open. She had it in her mind to complain—this was her only dress
after all—but then he took an aching crest into his mouth and sucked and all
thoughts flew from her completely, like startled birds scattering in the trees.

Delight, pure and sweet, raced through her body, a
shimmering, shivering stream. She clutched at his head, holding him there as he
feasted. But she couldn’t hold him long. He wanted more. He worked his way down
her torso, ripping the gown as he went. She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Joy
skirled in her soul.

But when he had bared her completely, when the dress lay
about her in tatters and he continued his downward journey, everything within
her constricted.

He spread her legs. He thumbed her cleft, opening it. His
breath, hot and harsh, danced over her core.

“Ewan!” A howl. Panicked and frail.

Still, he did not stop.

He touched her. With his tongue. There.

Her mind went blank. Her body clenched. Every nerve ending
awoke and sang.

Never. Never in her life had she imagined…

He nuzzled deeper between her folds, drawing that hard
button between his lips. He sucked, nibbled, lapped.

She braced her feet on the bed and arched up into him with a
feral howl. “God, yes!” His chuckled vibrated through her, causing more
delicious sensations to spiral from her pearl straight through to her womb.

When he nudged his fingers into her body she lost all
connection with the mortal world. Her mind reeled, her heart froze, her breath
stalled in her throat. Wave after wave of agony, of the sweetest bliss took
her. She writhed, whimpered, wailed.

He kept at her, working her, worshiping her until she was
boneless and replete. Only then did he work his way back up to capture her lips
again. He eased his tongue into her mouth. At the same time, he entered her
with his rigid cock.

And he fucked her.

He fucked her slowly and gently at first, as though she were
made of spun sugar. But then when his passion reached its zenith, when his cock
swelled inside her and his moans became feral grunts, when his desperation was
near a keening edge, he fucked her hard. And fast. Filling her with one deep
exquisite plunge after another. Driving her, taking her, commanding her higher
and higher and higher until, like those birds, she flew.