If You Dare (9 page)

Gavin scratched his neck. “From Otto.”

“Otto, huh?” Court's eyes narrowed. “Now why would he be contacting us?”

Gavin hesitated, then said, “He's . . . overextended again.”

“He usually is.” Which was why Court had broken from the Prussian's company years ago and formed his own. “What's it this time? Sixty against five hundred?” Otto kept his band winnowed down and repeatedly contracted for huge jobs. Great way to make a lot of coin. Sure way to get killed.

“Could be that many,” Niall said absently as he returned the bottle and selected another. By the look on his face, this one was even more valuable. Not that Niall was such the wine expert, but he had an uncanny sense for money and could perceive value like a dog could scent a trail.

“And he's coming to us hat in hand?” Court didn't like where this was going. Some of his men didn't mind playing the odds, no matter how bad they were.

Gavin nodded. “We might be able to recoup some of the pay we lost here.”

Court shook his head firmly. “We have no' lost it yet.”

“No shame in cutting bait,” Niall said. “Another crew, those Tyrolean sharpshooters, left without pay.”

Gavin added, “The region's unstable and everybody's tails are twitching. No one wants to go head to head with Pascal, especially no' after what he did to you.”

Niall removed his gaze from the wine to study Court. “They banged you up good?”

So much that Court was still astonished that he'd lived. “Them and the river. I had to jump blind into the falls, then ride them headfirst.”

“And your wrist?” Niall asked. Court had never met a more sharp-eyed person than his cousin. “Looks odd and you're favoring one hand.”

His wrist should look odd, since it was very stiff and sorer than usual, due solely to the fact that ten minutes ago he'd had both hands splayed on Annalía's lush bottom. “Broke it. Had a cast on it. I think another week till I'm right.”

“A cast?” Niall asked with disbelief. “What's wrong with leather between the teeth until it stops paining you? Casts are for bairn and lasses when they fall off their ponies.”

Only Liam and Gavin laughed. The impassive MacTiernay had never indicated he was capable of it, and Fergus had already crossed his arms over his chest and was slumped back asleep.

“I dinna have any say on the cast.” Court gingerly flexed his fingers. “The Andorran did it when I was knocked out.” He frowned at Niall, who was returning to the table with the bottle uncorked and a clutch of wine glasses. Perhaps they ought not be drinking this bottle if it was dearer than the one that Niall had whistled over.

“So how long were you out?” Niall asked as he poured a round.

“Two days.” Though Court wasn't normally a wine drinker, he accepted a glass, curious to see what it'd taste like. His drink of choice was whisky because it rendered him as jovial as he'd ever get. Wine? Not so much. “I'm just surprised Pascal dinna find me in all this time.”

“He's searching the countryside, but not as he might in the past because he's been busy. Hark this—he's taking a bride,” Niall said. “She's some Spanish aristocrat, supposed to have
royal blood or some such. Marrying her will give him more claim to Spain than any of the generals before him.”

Gavin drank and gave Niall an impressed look as if he'd grown the grapes, then added, “Rumor is that she's happy about the nuptials.”

Court leaned back, disgusted. “Then they deserve each other.”

Liam drank his glass in one gulp. “So where's this cast-making lass?”

“She'll be in her room.” He surveyed his men, trying to imagine what she'd think of them, and added, “Most likely for the night.”

Liam got a sly look on his face. “You tire her out so much that she canna leave her bed?”

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and couldn't help saying, “I wish.”

Niall raised his eyebrows. “A lass Court MacCarrick canna have? That breed does no' exist.”

He exhaled loudly. “It does in the Andorran mountains.”

•  •  •

They'd simply taken over the house, ransacking the wine cellar, flipping through books, pilfering a stash of tobacco, and Court suspected they'd already cleaned out the larder. Two hours and over a dozen bottles of wine between them later, Court was discovering that the stone of weight he'd lost ensured he was drunker than usual.

He'd just pushed aside his last glass when he heard the front door groan open. “I'll be back,” he said, his words just shy of slurred as he dashed out of his chair.

He caught up with Annalía on the path and took her shoulder. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To sleep
elsewhere.”
She flung her shoulder back to break his grip.

“No, I doona believe you will,” he drawled, finally releasing her.

“You think to order me in my own home?”

He said easily, “Aye.”

She smoothed her hair. She'd put it up again, but it was looser. He suspected she still might be drunk.

“It's one thing to remain in a house with an incapacitated patient,” she said, with her accent thicker than he'd ever heard it. “It's quite another to be an unmarried young woman staying with a gang of mercenaries.”

“Ah, Annalía, you have no' even met them.” Suddenly, he wanted them to see her, to understand what he'd been tempted with. He took her arm.

“What are you doing? MacCarrick?”

He hated that he liked hearing her say his name. She'd whispered it in his ear while testing her wiles on him—wiles that infuriated him because he knew if she'd had any experience . . .

He swung her inside and into the parlor, announcing, “And this would be the lady of the house. Lady Annalía Llorente.”

The men rose and her eyes widened at their size even as their eyes narrowed at her. When Court moved to sit and watch, they advanced on her until she backed to the wall.

“ ‘Bonny' was a bit of an understatement, then?” Niall said over his shoulder.

Court shrugged and retrieved his glass.

As Gavin introduced himself, he took her hand and kissed it. Court could see he was rubbing her skin with his thumb, and he wondered why that raised his hackles and why he now regretted showing her off. Gavin told the others in Gaelic that they had to feel her hands.

They did so, one at a time, introducing themselves, with Liam exclaiming, “You have yourself some wee, soft hands.”

Niall alone didn't touch her. Probably because he'd determined exactly what Court was thinking.

Their petting seemed to put her in a panic, but her reaction to the men didn't surprise him. They were all huge and scarred. Fergus was missing fingers and MacTiernay was taller than all of them and had only one eye. She'd been intimidated by Court, too, but she'd still initiated a kiss. Whatever she wanted of him, she wanted it very badly indeed.

“Lady Annalía, thank you for allowing us to stay here,” Niall said.

“She didn't,” Court informed them. “She wants all of us gone.”

She put her chin up. “Mr. MacCarrick, my first priority is to the people of this place. Even if you are not allied with Pascal any longer, your presence still jeopardizes everyone here.”

Court gave a harsh laugh. “Now that sounds very noble, but why do you no' tell them what you told me at the door? You want us gone to preserve appearances.”

She didn't back down. “That is important as well. If my reputation is tarnished, I will not be able to make the match that is expected of me.”

Niall muttered, “Court, she's right—”

He interrupted, “You were planning to ask me for something tonight, were you no'? Do it now.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and turned her face away.

“Perhaps in the morning you'll be inclined to make your request. Perhaps we'll be inclined to hear it—if we stay here.”

She faced him again. “Very well, stay. We can speak when I return—”

“You stay here, too.”

She straightened her choker, appearing so miserable he almost
relented. He could feel his men watching him and her, knew they were confounded by his behavior.

She swallowed and then said in a pained tone, “Yes, of course. I extend my welcome to your men and look forward to our meeting.”

“Go to bed, Annalía. You'll need your rest after the night we've had.” She looked like she'd been struck, gasping a breath before sweeping from the room.

Niall didn't wait until she was even out of earshot. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Doona start on me. She's no' as helpless as she appears and she's been insulting me regularly for a week.” When Niall looked unconvinced, Court added, “She's calculating and she's spoiled, and tonight she sought to manipulate me, cutting her teeth and testing her wiles.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uneasy because he knew if she'd had any experience . . . she could've worked him like dough. “It was no' right.”

Niall shook his head. “I doona believe I've ever seen you treat a lass this poorly.”

“That's because you've no' met a woman like her. I'm telling you, you've never known such an arrogant female in your life. Tomorrow you'll see.”

A
nnalía had awakened before dawn to wretched memories of her deeds the night before.

She'd known several unsavory things about her character. She'd realized flaws in her morality—apparently inherent flaws. Now she knew another fact: In the presence of whisky, the simple application of a man's lips to her own, and then to her chest, induced her to lose her mind.

And this morning she would have to ask that Philistine for his help in front of his hulking . . . associates. She would force herself to do it, even though she knew that
if
he did decide to help her, he would first make her . . . grovel.

But by no means did she count on his assistance. Before the sun had risen, she'd dragged Vitale from bed and instructed him to have Iambe ready. She was due at Pascal's today, and if she couldn't persuade the Highlander to help her, then she was gone. She'd left her travel bags in the stable, confident that if she needed to leave in a hurry, she could.

Yet Vitale had quarreled with her over her plan because he didn't want her to leave under any circumstances, whether she could sway the mercenaries or not.

Even lusty old Vitale feared what a monster like Pascal would do to her on their wedding night. She wasn't as nervous as she had been, though. She quite liked kissing, and that had been with a ruffian she
loathed.
The rumors had it that Pascal was very meticulous about his dress and cleanliness, so truly, how much worse could it be?

She'd returned to her room before the Highlanders had risen and had taken extra care with her hair and dress. Now that she heard them milling about, she descended.

When she approached the parlor, she had to bite her tongue to keep from screeching at their boots on the table, at the smell of tobacco cloying inside the room, at the food they'd already rooted through.

Mare de Déu!
There were empty bottles of wine everywhere. She glanced around, eyes wide. Had more Highlanders come in the night? No, just the six of them had run through the abundant supply in the sideboard and raided their collection in the cellar.

They saw her then, and she forced a smile to her face. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, pleasantly enough. When they stood and seemed as if they might approach her, no doubt to touch her hands again, she backed to the doorway and pressed her palms against the molding behind her. “I trust you slept well.”

“Aye. Thank you for your hospitality.” She thought that one was Niall. They'd introduced themselves last night, but all their names had sounded the same, alike in their oddness and unfamiliarity. More ridiculous, every surname began with
Mac.

“Should we no' cut through the chatter and get to what you wanted to ask me?” MacCarrick muttered. He appeared
exhausted, his eyes bloodshot again, and when she'd walked in he'd been rubbing his forehead.

A brittle smile. “Of course, Mr. MacCarrick. Your directness is always . . . refreshing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Refreshing, is it now? How did you put it before? Aye, I remember. You said my people lacked delicacy.”

She could feel herself blushing. These mercenaries looked embarrassed
for
her. She hated this man.
Hated
him. But she would do whatever it took to help Aleix.
Remember that, Annalía.
“I would like to hire you to help me and my family.”

He smirked, clearly relishing her discomfiture. “And just what would you have us do?”

She was a private and mistrustful person by nature, and above all else she was proud, but she would have to overcome these traits for they didn't serve her now. “M-My brother, Aleixandre Llorente, has been captured by Pascal.”