If You Dare (23 page)

When in Paris, she'd seen gloriously handsome men walking by, and though she didn't sigh out loud like her girlfriends, she'd noted them appreciatively, but the looks these women gave MacCarrick were more sensual, more lascivious.

More . . . knowledgeable? They knew something about him that she didn't, which was maddening. So she kept his arm, and he didn't seem to mind. When she pointed out something and accidentally brushed him with her breasts, he hissed in a breath. His reaction to such a small touch was surprising and thrilling. She would make sure she did it often.

Now she gazed up at him, studying him as they walked along. He was exceedingly tall and broad shouldered. Of course, she'd known he dwarfed most men, but she'd always found his size intimidating, not attractive as other women seemed to see it. Though to be honest, there were things she
did
find attractive about him, now that she could look at him without . . . blinding hatred.

He had incredible eyes. Black like jet, but now she noticed they were flecked with silver. His face was hard, with rough features, but when these were put together, it was attractive, if one liked brooding and scarred. His hair was black as his eyes, and thick. She liked that, too.

She found herself asking, “MacCarrick, why did you become a mercenary?”

He scowled at her question. “What does it matter?”

“I'm curious about you,” she said. When he didn't answer, she added, “I will answer any question you have, if you answer this one.” No response.

She squeezed his arm, and he finally said, “Highland regiments were returning from far-off places talking about the
money to be made abroad. After their service, some of the soldiers signed on with a foreign crew, and I joined them.”

“It didn't bother you? Killing for money?”

He tensed and grated, “That's a second question.”

“Then ask yours.”

He pulled her into a shaded area and put his fingers under her chin. “Do you think about the night I kissed you in the study?”

She could feel her face heating.

“Do you?” he asked again.

“I might from time to time,” she said, striving for an airy tone. “It
was
my first kiss.”

“And when I touched you at the posting house? Do you think about that when you stare out the coach window?”

Her lips parted. How did he see so much? “MacCarrick,” she began in a steady voice, though she felt anything but, “that's a second question.”

“So it is.” He shocked her by brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek before taking her arm again. “But I have my answer now.”

T
he moment she opened the door to let him in after her bath that night, Court knew he had a problem, and was actually thinking to himself,
Court, we have a very serious problem.

Anna, breathless and smiling, with her hair down and curling about her bare shoulders was bad enough. That and Anna in a blouse with damn little underneath it to conceal her full breasts and clad in skirts that begged to be snatched to her hips as he turned her to a wall? . . .

“Why are you dressed to go out?” he demanded.

“The maid who brought my bath up told me there's going to be dancing tonight. I love to dance.”

“You ken you canna go tonight. Too risky.”

“I thought you'd say that, but I am asking you to
please
let me go.” She took his hand between hers and clasped them to her chest, exactly as Court had instructed at the posting house. “I know you'll keep me safe.”

“Have you forgotten the danger you're in? You just opened the door without asking—”

“If the knock is really high and hard that means you. And I haven't forgotten—that's why it's so important to go tonight. MacCarrick, it was made very clear to me when I was shot how short life can be, and if you knew how much I have to make up for, you'd let me go!”

She looked so young, so eager, and damn it, there was a hint of desperation in her eyes. He'd wondered how she could lightly brush off the attacks, and now understood she hadn't at all.

“Will you let me pretend for one night that I don't have this hanging over me?”

He finally said, “You'll have your night, then. But you canna go out like that.”

“Why not?” She glanced down at her blouse and skirt, then frowned at him.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and muttered, “Your hair's down.”

She smiled coyly and confided, “I
know
it is,” as if she'd pulled off a bold coup to have it free.

“Only the young women wear it so.”

She put her hand on her hip. “I
am
a young woman.”

“You're a
lady,
as you like to remind me incessantly. So you should dress as one.”

“You're right, of course.” She twisted her hair around behind her, tying it into a knot, just like that.

He exhaled as though put out, then offered his arm to escort her down. Once on the street, he braced for the torture of her breasts grazing him, fearing she'd discovered today to do that on purpose.

Still he walked proud to have a lady like her by his side. Even as he wanted to kill the men who ogled her, and envied him. . . .

Some children ran by, laughing, and she smiled after them.
“Thank you for taking me out, MacCarrick,” she said with a sigh, resting her head against him.

Her voice was so pleasing and the gesture so welcome that he almost regretted one of his reasons for agreeing to do so tonight—he planned to give her something more to think about when she stared out the window.

•  •  •

Annalía was determined to enjoy herself tonight and as she and MacCarrick walked to the center of the village, the music, the laughter, and the excitement around them helped relax her. As did the glasses of wine MacCarrick had gotten for her, though he didn't touch a drop. She felt warm and reckless and dimly noted that she couldn't seem to stop touching him. “MacCarrick, do you think I look pretty?” Where had that question come from? Did she care about the answer? Yes. Yes, she did.

“You know very well how you look,” he said, but ran his gaze over her appreciatively.

With a laugh, she asked, “Am I the type of woman who could bring you to your knees?”

He caught her gaze. “Depends,” he began in a low, husky tone, “on the context.”

The look in his eyes made her shiver, though she didn't understand what he was implying. “Context? Then right now, right here.”

“Right now, right here, you're the type of woman that drives a man to drink.”

She gave him a mock scowl to match his. “Take me to dance, MacCarrick.”

“No.”

Her face fell. “Why not?”

“Canna keep watch.”

“Oh.” Of course, he wouldn't be able to. She thought about
returning to the inn, but just then a daring young man marched up and asked her to dance. She glanced back at MacCarrick, but he appeared as though he couldn't care less, which vexed her, so she accepted. As she'd known it would, her hair fell loose with the first turn.

After that, she danced with man after man. The whole experience was heady, though she had the regrettable habit of comparing each partner to the Highlander. As if he were the template others should aspire to? His manner was gruff, and she'd certainly seen more handsome, genteel men. Still, she wished he would look at her as these men did. As if they were besotted. As if they were on the verge of spontaneous poetry. MacCarrick always seemed to be studying her, yet never letting her know what he had decided.

But life was short and she was young. Another man swept her into a dance and she laughed—not a practiced ladylike laugh but a full-hearted one. And why not? Wasn't she already ruined? She'd been kidnapped by a gang of mercenaries. In fact, barring pirates, she couldn't call up a scenario where one could possibly be more ruined than that.

Young and ruined—there was a lot of freedom in that.
Salut
to young and ruined! She laughed again at her thoughts, and the man leaned in to whisper in her ear that she was lovely beyond words and that he wanted her.

Why, how adorable—

She was wrenched from him, leaving the man stumbling. MacCarrick had a viselike grip on her good arm and was hauling her away. The men she'd danced with actually booed him until he turned back. She didn't see the look he gave them, but whatever it was made them quiet.

She frowned. Quiet and a good deal paler than before.

•  •  •

“Where are you taking me?” Anna asked with a hint of slurring in her voice. “I was enjoying myself.”

Court bet she was. Tonight he'd recognized that while she was with him he would kill any other man who touched her. “What did he tell you?” he asked as he cut through the park, pulling her along to their inn.

She frowned. “Pardon?”

Court stopped and faced her. “The man dancing with you.”

“Oh, him,” she said with a grin. “He told me I was lovely and that he wanted me.”

He hid his clenched hands behind him, fought to control his tone. “A fine idea. I'll take my payment now.”

She blinked at him. “Your payment?”

“My kiss. I want it. Now.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

“Oh. Well, you are due, I suppose,” she said, shocking him. He'd expected her to beg out of it.

“Then put your arms around my neck.” Damn, if she didn't do just that. “And bring your lips to mine.” She stood on her toes to reach him. He'd wanted to go slow, to teach her—
not
frighten her as he had at the lodge.

Yet he found his lips on hers, hard and intent, and when he flicked his tongue against her lips, she gasped. At once he touched his tongue to hers, tasting the sweet wine she'd been liberally drinking.

She pushed at his chest and broke away, breathless. “You can't do that! That's not right.”

“It's a French kiss. We're in France.” It was then that he noticed her choker was not on her neck. This was the first time she'd left it behind, and it signified something, he knew it, but then when she mouthed “Ohhh,” he set right back, saying against her lips, “Kiss me back.”

She hesitantly did, with the tiniest stroke of her tongue. Then she broke away again, a look of wonderment on her face. “That felt
nice.”

His voice was harsh. “Then let's do it instead of talking about it.”

“Oh, of course.” She closed her eyes again and offered her lips up to him. He took them, kissing her, savoring her. When she lapped at his tongue, pleasure shot through him, making him squeeze her hips and grind her against him.

A last haze of sense returned to him. They were in the center of the park. No privacy. By the time they reached the inn, she would realize what she was doing. He knew her. He knew that tonight nothing would cool her ardor like the sight of a bed.

He scanned the area and saw a stone grotto only a few yards away. He took her elbow and led her inside, wondering if she would break away now, if she would come to her senses, but he didn't wonder for long. She reached up and kissed
him,
as she grasped his arms and squeezed the muscles there. He laid his hands on her face as he deepened the kiss, then slipped them down, glancing past the tips of her breasts.

She moaned against him and her hand flitted low on his torso. Without thought and greedy for her touch after her torture today, he took it and placed it against the ridge in his trousers. She froze and broke the kiss.

“I shouldn't do that,” she whispered.

“No' curious? You doona have to do more. Just feel me.”

She bit her lip, appearing to weigh his request, then she leaned up to kiss his chest in the V of his shirt. While he tried not to groan, she adjusted her hand on him—because she hadn't removed it.

He took her lips again as he dipped beneath the hem of her skirt and worked his hands up the sides of her thighs. He continued up, hungry to put his fingers inside her for the first time, to watch her come, but she stiffened and locked her legs together.

“No, MacCarrick.”

“Open your legs for me.”

“No, I-I can't.”

She was an innocent, he reminded himself, but he'd still hoped he could seduce her into giving him anything he wanted. “If you let me, I'll make you feel even better than the kiss did.”

She removed her hand from him and put her forehead against his chest, shaking her head, as if she regretted that she couldn't.

Growling his frustration, he rasped against her neck, “Then tell me I can kiss your breasts.”

She gasped.

“I think it will please you.”

“You've thought about this?”

“Every night since I met you.” He was kissing lower and lower until he reached the line of her bodice. “Anna?”