Authors: Christine Young
"Give me a good reason," he told her smoothly.
"Because I don't want this," she said.
Slade couldn’t turn the passion on and off. Not at first. But he had learned. He hadn't expected Lainie MacPherson to bring him to a passion he couldn't walk away from.
"I didn’t promise to stop," Slade said coolly. "I told you we’d negotiate what came next. Offer me something that is as fascinating as this."
Slade’s hand moved, pressing against Lainie, caressing her. She squirmed and tried to push his hand away.
"French brandy and perfume. Set to anchor just north of Dundee," she told him.
"You’re a spy. You can do better than that."
She shook her head. "Weapons on board."
"We’re at peace right now."
"There are always those who resist."
Slade shrugged and leaned close to Lainie. "You’re my fortune, when I deliver you to Bertram."
"My journal, the one you took. It’s no good to ye without the code," she said quickly, knowing what she said to be a lie. Her journal was personal, nothing else.
He paused, watching her. She had teased him with her kisses but now she wanted only to be free of him. Yet there was genuine fear in her eyes. He had done nothing to elicit that. She was afraid of him--or of his lovemaking--and the notion irritated him. He wanted to understand why.
Angry with himself and the fear he saw in her sky blue eyes, Slade withdrew his hand and moved away from her. He refused to be seduced into wanting a woman more than she wanted him. That was the kind of mistake he would make only once in his life.
"What code?" he asked skeptically.
"The ones the resistance designed to keep the English from intercepting anything important."
Slowly, Slade sat up, giving Lainie more room. But he was careful not to give her room to escape. He had seen Lainie move. She was fast, nearly as fast as he was.
"All right, little fox. Talk to me. If you’re willing to decipher it," he let the words hang between them. "The knowledge might save your life."
"My name is Lainie." She grabbed the shirt that Slade had tossed aside and covered herself with it. The torn fabric did little to conceal, yet it was all she had. What was left of it, she yanked on, trying to fasten it closed with clumsy fingers. When she finished the shirt hung in disarray, but it covered her.
She knew she had just had a narrow escape.
"All right," he said, "Lainie."
She was thankful this man kept his word.
"I’m interested," Slade told her. "In the codes."
He let his hand rest on Lainie’s thigh, the action both a caress and a warning.
"I can only decipher part of them. Each of us was given certain information. In case any of us was taken by the English the code could not be broken," Lainie said quickly, praying she could entice him with this little piece of deception.
Then she looked from Slade’s hand to his eyes, plainly reminding him of their bargain. Slowly he lifted his hand.
"I studied the journal, and I was able to breakdown some of the parts I wasn’t privy to. If I worked on it, I could probably figure out all of it," Lainie said with a hesitant smile.
"The most interesting part," she paused. "About ten years ago there was a plot against the King of England. A man was beheaded because he discovered the truth. No one was able to find proof of who actually plotted against your king."
He shrugged. "The plot involved a replica of the King’s seal."
"Yes," she said cautiously.
"What makes you think you can prove anything now?"
"I can’t."
"Or you won’t," he offered. "And why is that?"
When Lainie didn’t say anything else, Slade’s hand went to her belly. He spread his fingers wide almost spanning her hipbones.
Her breath came in with a rushing sound. It was the sensual pleasure that seemed to undo her. Despite the memories that haunted her, Slade's touch was nothing like Bertram's. For a moment she wished Slade’s touch could erase her sordid memories of the past.
"Go on," Slade said.
He knew his voice was too deep, too husky. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nor could he could control the intensity of his need, no matter how foolish he knew it was. Despite everything, he wanted to make love to the calculating Scottish lass who had once been Bertram's mistress.
She made him burn. The heat from her body was like an aphrodisiac seeping through his flesh and being absorbed into his blood, making it harder with each heartbeat to remember that she was just one more woman to get whatever she could by using her body as a lure.
Then Slade realized Lainie had said nothing more. He looked up and saw her watching him with shimmering sky blue eyes.
"You promised," Lainie said.
Furiously, Slade lifted his hand.
"It was my father who was executed," Lainie told him.
"Your brothers should be fighting this battle, not you."
"My brothers have suffered enough fighting for justice." She turned to look at him.
Without answering, Slade looked at the frail material of her shirt, which served only to heighten rather than to conceal the allure of Lainie’s body.
"Slade?"
When he finally looked at her, Lainie was afraid she had lost the dangerous game she was playing. Slade’s eyes were a pale green, and they burned with what she was coming to recognize as desire.
"I’m not so sure I believe any of your tall tales. I heard about the beheading of a MacPherson but nothing was ever mentioned about a stolen seal."
"A replica."
"'Tis all true
. '
Tis in the journal. My brother has sought revenge for years. He married--"
"Whitcomb’s daughter?"
"Aye, you heard?" Lainie asked quickly.
"Sometimes news travels fast," he shrugged.
"David Whitcomb had my father beheaded. He accused him of treason but it was someone else. A plot against your English king. The proof is buried in codes in my journal. As well as other things," Lainie spoke, emotions vibrating within her.
"I’m listening," he said. "Not real patiently, but I’m listening."
What Slade didn’t say was that he was listening very carefully. He had heard rumors about this and he wanted to know how the pieces of the puzzle would fall. He wanted to know what part Lainie MacPherson played and why Bertram was involved.
"Does your journal tell you who else was implicated?"
"I think it does."
"But you don’t know for sure," he asked dryly, wondering if any of this was true, having his doubts about her story.
She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. "I will when I can figure out all the codes. It’s very intricate."
"How did you figure out the first ones?"
"A friend of my father’s helped me. He was there when it all happened. He was charged with keeping my brother safe. He helped me decipher most of what I know. He sat with me for hours when I was a little girl, telling me that someday I might need to know this."
"Why didn’t he speak with your brother, Hawke?"
She paused then, looking at her hands, fingers interwoven and lying on her lap.
"Lainie, tell me. Don’t leave anything out."
"Hawke was too close to all that happened. He’d watched his father’s execution and vowed revenge," she hesitated again. "My friend was afraid Hawke would end up the same way as my father. He didn't think I would act on anything that was in the journal."
Slade’s head lifted abruptly. Lainie’s words, rather than her body, finally held his full attention.
"Ian, my youngest brother didn’t care. He thought Hawke’s need for revenge a foolish waste of time."
"Family tales, fairy tales, I don’t see much difference. Both woven to help heal old wounds or open new ones."
Lainie ignored the interruption. "Hawke doesn’t believe there are tales. Even though he was a little boy, he trusts what he saw."
"Does he know about the journal?" Slade asked.
Lainie shook her head. "I took it when I left my home. I thought I would have hours to try to figure all this out, but it’s so confusing."