Authors: Christine Young
"Is that what you call it?" she asked. "Romancing?"
"Romancing is for ladies. That--" Slade turned his head and looked pointedly at the blanket"--was a quick romp with a woman who gives her favors away for trinkets. Something that is fast and fun with a sly little fox
who
spends her free time spying on the English."
All color drained from Lainie’s face. She couldn’t think of anything to say except the kind of words that would give Slade a lower opinion of her than he had. Silently, she turned to her saddlebags, grabbed another shirt and a pair of pants, and started walking away.
Slade’s hand shot out with startling speed, grabbing her arm.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
"Even spies deserve a small portion of privacy." She looked to the thick copse of trees and brushes. "I don't think an Englishman who called himself a gentleman would want to watch," Lainie said.
He acted as if he didn't hear. "Not without me."
She sat down and stared at the fire. "Fine," she said sweetly. "Have it your way."
A second passed and Lainie could have sworn she had surprised the arrogant, highborn Englishman. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
Lainie looked at him again,
then
stalked off into the nearby trees as Slade’s words followed her.
"Don’t be long, little fox, or I’ll come find you."
~ * ~
When Slade reappeared after hunting for more firewood, he looked approvingly at the small, hot, nearly smokeless fire. Wood smoke from the tiny fire drifted only a few feet into the air before it disappeared.
He dumped the fuel near the fire and sat on his heels by the small, cheerful flames.
"Who taught you to make that kind of fire?" he asked.
Lainie looked up from the fire where the rabbit Slade had caught earlier spun on a stick over the heat. Since she had returned from the forest dressed in men’s clothing, she hadn’t spoken to Slade unless asked a direct question. She had gone about preparing breakfast the best she could. Despite her lack of culinary skills, it seemed to be working out all right.
"What kind of fire?" she asked, trying to dodge his questions.
"The kind that won’t attract every outlaw or every English soldier for fifty miles around," Slade said dryly.
He didn’t have to add Jericho Manning to the scenario. She had been wondering what had happened to the man, and why he had seemingly given up so easily.
"A friend," she said, remembering the man so long ago who had wanted to marry her. Life would have been so much simpler if she’d given in to Hawke’s wishes. She might have been happy. Perhaps she would have stayed safe. But she didn't love that man and she’d always wanted something more from her life.
"Does this friend have a name?"
Lainie gazed at the firelight as she spoke. "Lachlan," she said.
Irritation prodded Slade. He was tired of being made to feel as though he had offended the tender sensibilities of some shy little innocent. She was a spy, a cheat and a hussy, not some aristocrat that should be cosseted. She gave up that role a long time ago. She gave that up when she chose to run wild in the Scottish highlands.
"Your brothers should have seen to your upbringing. You should have been married a long time ago. They neglected you."
"My upbringing is none of your concern."
Slade made a noncommittal sound.
"They should have put you in a tower room and found a suitable husband for you. You'd have children now, and you wouldn’t be in my custody headed to an English jail."
"They tried that. I refused the man they chose for me," Lainie continued heatedly. "And I won’t end up in that English jail. I'll find a way to disappear. You won’t be able to hold on to me all the way to Edinburgh. You have to sleep sometime. And when you do--"
"Too bad your brother didn’t tell you about the difference between honey and vinegar when it's used to attract flies."
"He did. I’ve been using vinegar ever since I met Bertram. What sane girl would want to draw flies when honey attracts men like him?"
A smile flashed across Slade’s lips. For a second he thought how much Josie would have enjoyed Lainie’s tart, quick tongue--right up until the time she cheated, lied or stole something from them. Then he would have to explain to them why he had brought a cunning, little fox into their homes.
Lainie pulled a piece of rabbit from the spit and tasted it.
Silently Slade admitted to himself that Lainie didn’t look like a woman who could have been Bertram's mistress. She looked more like some waif blown in by the wind, worn and sad and frayed around the edges. Her clothes had once belonged to a boy, from the look of them--too narrow in the chest and hips and too loose everywhere else.
"Whose clothesline did you steal those clothes from?" Slade asked idly while he used his dirk on a stick meant for the fire.
"They belonged to my brother."
"You don’t expect me to believe that? I’ve seen both your brothers."
"Believe what you want."
Slade stopped, struck by a thought.
"I suppose you’re going to tell me the clothes were from when they were small boys."
Lainie said nothing in response. But she shrugged.
"You know, little fox, sooner or later I’m going to break you of lying."
"I’m no liar." She said tightly. "What you said is partially true. I saved them. I liked to go for long walks. The only way I could get past the guards was to pretend I was a boy."
"When?"
"The English are incredibly arrogant. It was their downfall," she changed the subject.
With a speed that brought a startled gasp from Lainie, Slade straightened and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her so close she could feel his heartbeat, see the pulse beat in his neck. His eyes were cold.
"If you handled the English guards that deftly, using only boy's clothes as a decoy, I’d hate to see what you could do if you presented yourself as a lady dressed to kill and flaunting your assets." Slade pushed Lainie away with a muffled curse.
Saying nothing, Lainie went back to tending their meal.
"You should change."
"The breakfast?"
He smiled unwillingly.
"Your clothes. I’d like to think the judge would look more kindly on a woman than a little hellion. If you wear a dress, it might go better for you."
"I’m not going to Edinburgh and so I’m not going before a judge. So what does it matter what I wear?"
"You like wearing silk."
"How did you know?" she asked, watching him as she poked at the bacon.
"Your breasts beg for satin and velvet, silk too."
A blush of pink swept up Lainie’s cheeks. Her heart thundered as she remembered the feel of Slade’s mouth on her breasts. The branch she’d fashioned into a fork jerked, and hot grease spattered on the back of her hand.
Before the pain of it registered on Lainie, Slade was there, looking to see how badly she had burned herself.
"Little fool," he muttered in the softest voice she’d ever heard from him. "Are you all right?" he asked after another moment passed. "It will hurt for a little while, that’s all."
Dazed, she stared at the top of his dark head.
He turned her hand palm up and seemed to gaze at it. Silently he took her other hand and glanced at the palm. She knew there could be no doubt she’d used her hands for something other than drinking tea and playing parlor games.
"Those Scotsmen you ride with must have treated you as if you were their slave," Slade said.
The unexpected gentleness in his voice made Lainie’s eyes burn worse than the skin that had been scorched by hot grease. A wave of memories swept over her, making her shake. Scrubbing herself until her flesh was raw with the rocks and mud in the icy water of the lock after Bertram raped her was something she would never forget.
"I had no choice," she whispered, "especially after what he did to me. I wanted revenge. Do you think it will matter that I never found the satisfaction I looked for?"
Slade’s hands tightened over Lainie’s as he looked at her bent head. The intense compassion he felt for her was as unanticipated as it was annoying. He didn’t even know why she sought revenge. No matter how often he reminded himself that she was a traitor, she kept sliding beneath his guard as easily as the fragrance of roses was absorbed into his body with every breath he took.
He inhaled deeply, trying to control his physical reaction to Lainie. The breath didn’t help. Her soft, golden hair smelled of the same fragrance that her breasts did. He had never been especially fond of scent--any scent--but he suspected that roses would haunt him almost as much as the memory of her nipples rising eagerly to his mouth.