Brigand Page 2

  The boy paled. “Nae. ’Tis not Kaitlin.”

  A worm writhed in Ewan’s gut. Damn MacAllister. Damn him to hell. “Our bargain was for your sister’s hand. You can’t just bring me some random woman and think your debt is settled.” He wasn’t a filthy procurer, for Christ’s sake.

  “Nae. Nae. You dunna understand. This is the friend I was telling you about. The one who helped Kaitlin run away.”

  Ewan crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”

  “Don’t you see? When Kaitlin finds out we’ve kidnapped her—”

  “We?” Annoyance bristled at his nape. “I didn’t kidnap anyone. I don’t kidnap women.” He didn’t. Never had. Oh, he’d done plenty of other dark and sinful things, but never that.

  MacAllister ignored him—not a wise move. One did not ignore the McCloud. Not anymore. He was far too powerful for anyone to dare. “When Kaitlin finds out we’ve kidnapped Violet, she’ll have to come back. To save her. Don’t you see?”

  “Violet?” Ewan’s blood surged. God. Why did she have to have that name?

  “Yes.” MacAllister gestured to the woman on the floor. “Her best friend in the whole world. Violet Wyeth.”

  Violet Wyeth.

  Ewan’s breath caught. Every muscle tightened. An unholy burn surged in his brain as visions of a beautiful girl, a heartless girl, a spoiled girl—one who had ruined his life—winged through his mind.

  Violet Wyeth.

  It couldn’t be.

  He put a boot on either side of the wriggling form and shoved her hair out of her face and his heart stopped.

  God. That face.

  Something vicious and feral surged through him. He couldn’t name it. Surely it wasn’t heady anticipation. The bitter taste of opportunity. For vengeance.

  Surely it wasn’t that.

  But it was.

  He could tell from the way she glared at him over the gag she didn’t recognize him.

  That she didn’t remember him—didn’t remember what he’d sacrificed for her and how she’d repaid him—only solidified his resolve.

  In that second, a plan formed. He smiled. A wolfish grin. “Well, we do need a maid at the Cloud.” He squeezed her arm. She tried to wrench away but he didn’t allow it. “She’s a little scrawny but she’ll do. I’ll take her. Besides,” he caught and held her gaze, threading menacing meaning into his tone, “the boys could use some entertainment.”

  He liked that her nostrils flared, her beautiful, treacherous face paled.

  And he liked that she was, once again, within his grasp.

  As Callum MacAllister lifted the girl and carried her to the carriage, Ewan’s mind spun with the possibilities.

  Good God. Violet Wyeth.

  Not what he had expected when he’d awoken to Callum’s urgent missive this morning. But holy hell. What a windfall.

  He had suffered for years because of her, lost so much.

  He would enjoy making her pay for every heartache.

  * * * * *

  Violet glared at her captor through unruly hanks of her hair as the carriage jerked into motion. So this was the man Kaitlin had run from. And no wonder. He was truly horrifying.

  For one thing, he was huge. His head nearly brushed the roof. And his brawny mass filled the seat across from her. For another, his face was frightening. Hard and harsh. A thin scar traced his left cheek, only adding to his menace.

  He could have been a handsome man but for the evil intent latent in his expression. His eyes were gray and sharp, like a wolf’s, and his nose was crooked, as though it had been broken time and time again.

  His thick muscles bunched as he crossed his arms over his chest. He surveyed her with a wicked smile.

  A shard of trepidation slashed her.

  The boys could use some entertainment, he’d said. What on earth could that mean? Not for the first time since this debacle began, she sent up a frantic prayer that Aunt Hortense had been able to rally some help. That Ned and Malcolm were rushing to rescue her.

  But they would go to MacAllister House to beard Callum in his den. They couldn’t know she’d been taken to some ramshackle cottage. They certainly couldn’t know she’d been handed over to Kaitlin’s brigand betrothed and trundled off to God knows where as his prisoner.

  Oh, what a state of affairs.

  Her fingers throbbed and she wriggled them to get some feeling back. Callum’s cravat was still tied tightly around them and they were beginning to throb. He’d shoved a greasy rag in her mouth and secured it with another when she’d started screaming, and now a revolting slime was trickling down her throat.

  To make matters worse, her captor was staring at her with a hungry expression. He leaned forward, boxing her in, and tucked her hair behind her ear. The heat of his touch seared her. She winced.

  Apparently he found this amusing. He grinned. When she glared at him and muffled an imprecation through her gag, he laughed. “Ah,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  And to her horror, he lifted her off her seat and set her on his lap.

  Oh lord. He was hard and hot. The feel of his bunching muscles beneath her weight shocked her. As a lady, she’d certainly danced with a man and been courted by a man, and even been kissed once. But she’d never been plastered against one of them. Never felt his breath waft over her. Never had huge hands on her belly holding her still.

  She refused to be still. She jerked and writhed and tried desperately to wrench free.

  His chuckle unnerved her. “You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?”

  “Mret me mo!” she commanded.

  He ignored her. With ease, he held her in place with one hand while the other roved.

  The scalding heat of pure mortification washed through her as this big brute of a man fondled her. When he cupped her breast, she howled in outrage, but when his thumb drew over her nipple, that outrage melted into something else entirely.

  Delight whipped through her.

  Dear heavens. She’d never felt anything like that.

  She shouldn’t like this. She couldn’t. What was wrong with her?

  He nudged the hair off her neck with his chin; the sharp bristles of his beard scraped her nerves, sending more arousal cascading down her spine. It pooled in her belly.

  And then his mouth found her.

  She froze. An exquisite, illicit thrill consumed her as his lips danced over the sensitive skin at her nape. His grip on her breast firmed. He found the other. His thumbs began a torturous dance, nudging, prodding, plucking at ever swelling nipples.

  He rumbled a groan and thrust something hard into the curves of her bottom. She shuddered as she realized what that rigid length was.

  He went stone still at the movement and then, holding her tight with one arm over her belly, he began fumbling with her skirts, yanking them up over her knees.

  Oh, she fought him, scrabbling, writhing, desperately clenching at her petticoats to keep them down. To no avail. He stroked her bare thigh, skated upward. Hot, panting breath scalded her neck.

  “No! No!” she wailed, but the gag consumed her plea.

  And he found her.

  “Ahh.” The dark satisfaction in his tone terrified her, even as the harsh sensation of his coarse fingers rubbing against her most tender parts sent rivulets of delicious agony trickling up her spine. He dandled deeper and found her font, dragged the dampness up and circled her aching nub in an excruciating caress.

  As he stroked her, he turned his attention back to her neck, her nipples, plying her with pleasure. She couldn’t bear it. It was awful. It was wonderful. It was unlike anything she’d ever known.

  A pressure built in her belly. She tried not to undulate her hips, tried not to moan, but she couldn’t help it. Her nerves screamed for more, though her mind, her heart, denied the bliss. He increased his pace, barraging her with one exquisite sensation after another.

  His lips roved to her earlobe. He nibbled, nipped. His caresses
became harsher, harder. The plucking at her breast firmed to pinches, tugs. A sharp slap to her labia broke her. The storm within her crested. She exploded. Ecstasy flooded her, rode her, took her.

  All thoughts of this man, this carriage, this indignity, fled as absolute bliss descended.

  He continued caressing her as her crisis waned, drawing it out, tormenting her. Reminding her that though she had not wanted his touch, it had delighted her.

  She fully expected him to ravish her then. To yank off his braes and force himself into her wet and ready body. But he did not.

  He rearranged her skirts back over her legs and settled her on the opposite banquette and stared at her with a hungry, feral light in his eyes. He lifted his fingers and sniffed. Then slowly, one by one, drew them into his mouth and sucked them dry.

  And offered her a mocking smirk.

  He was a beast. A horrible, awful, hideous beast. And she hated him.

  Ach.

  He shouldn’t have done that.

  But Ewan couldn’t dredge up a shred of regret.

  He hadn’t intended to go so far, only to pull her onto his lap and frighten her a little, let her experience a fraction of the terror he’d felt on account of her betrayal. But then she’d been in his arms, so soft and prickly, wriggling against his cock, an armful of fragrant woman. And he’d lost the reins.

  And holy fuck. How responsive she had been.

  Oh, certainly, she’d fought him. What lady of Quality would not? But her body had responded. Her nipples had firmed after a single pass. And swelled exquisitely as he continued to torment them. And hell. Her cunt had been dripping wet. Dripping. Wet.

  And how she’d come. Moaning and weeping and heaving in his lap.

  God. She’d come so beautifully.

  No. He shouldn’t have done that.

  Because now his cock was aching. He wouldn’t be able to expunge the memory from his mind.

  And fucking Violet Wyeth was not part of the plan.

  He was going to marry Kaitlin MacAllister. He needed to. He was desperate to finally attach some semblance of respectability to his name. Without it, his sister Sophia would never make a decent match. Ewan had been working toward that end for years and now he was very close. He would not alter the plan. Could not.

  So he probably shouldn’t have done that.

  Because now he only wanted more.

  * * * * *

  It was dark when the carriage finally rolled to a halt. Violet had been dozing, propped awkwardly against the side of the cab, not allowing herself to drift off completely, but now she jerked to full awareness. The carriage rocked as her captor descended. A rumble of voices drifted toward her as he conversed with the driver but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She peered out the window but saw little but the shadows of trees. The lap of waves and the salty tang of sea air sent a skirl of dread through her. They were on the coast. Surely he wasn’t taking her on a ship.

  She shivered. She hated the water. Always had.

  The door flew open and her captor—the Beast, as she had named him—peered in. His features were limned in the muted light of the moon, softening him, making him appear almost civilized. Violet knew better.

  “Come along, darling.” He lifted her out as though she weighed no more than a church mouse. “It’s time to go.” She tried to fight him but only succeeded in knocking her head against the doorjamb. “Stop that,” he grunted. And when she didn’t stop struggling, he hefted her over his shoulder and smacked her behind. She squealed in outrage.

  He chortled evilly and headed for the shore. Violet stilled.

  “Are ya sure you do not want me to come with you?” The driver, an enormous hulk of a man, followed behind. From her ignominious position, Violet peered up at him—and her breath stalled. If ever a man should look like a heinous criminal, he would look like this. His face was a mangled mess of scars and rumpled skin. His brows were crooked and bushy and his nose was a bulbous knob that seemed about to fall off. A thick, unkempt beard covered his face.

  No. Please. Please don’t come with us, she thought.

  “Tomorrow will do. We’ll move operations to the keep.” McCloud dropped her onto a hard wooden plank—that moved. It rocked alarmingly from side to side with the whisper of the waves. In dismay, Violet realized it was a boat. And not a very big one. She sat up and glanced out over the water and saw the rising shadow of an island.

  Terror clutched her heart.

  No. Surely they weren’t going there. In this rickety contraption.

  But they were. The McCloud stepped into the boat, then the driver unlashed the moorings and pushed them off, watching, hands to his sides, as they floated out into the water.

  The water.

  Panic flared. Despite the thrashing it caused, Violet stood, braced herself and leapt into the water. It was only ankle deep but it was cold. Frigid tongues seeped into her boots but Violet didn’t hesitate. She slogged through the water and made a dash for the tree line.

  Both men hollered. One because her flight had caused the stupid little punt to sway wildly and the other in an attempt to halt her escape. When yelling for her to stop didn’t work, the enormous driver lumbered after her.

  He caught her. He caught her before she made it five steps down the beach. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her back to the boat. He tried to angle her back in but she kicked and flailed. Finally, her captor grasped one ankle and then the other. Between the two of them, they forced her into that death trap.

  Mercilessly the McCloud wound a coil of rope around her feet. “Stupid girl.”

  To her horror, he set her on the damp bottom of the boat and lashed her to the seat for good measure. She struggled against these bonds but it was hopeless. She was well and truly tied.

  To a boat. A tiny, flimsy, rocking boat.

  Blinding horror whipped through her.

  Again, the driver pushed the boat into the water. It wobbled and bobbed alarmingly.

  Violet screamed into the gag. Tears tracked her cheeks. She couldn’t catch her breath. This was her worst nightmare—worse than the worst. To be in a boat—on the water—was bad enough. But to be tied, helpless, unable to try to save herself should the vessel capsize, was appalling.

  A clammy fist clenched her heart. She was going to die. In a frenzy, she fought against her bonds.

  “Hold still.”

  She barely heard the gruff voice at the end of the boat. Barely felt the smooth, rhythmic glide as he began to row to the far shore. She was tangled in a memory, one she never let herself remember. And now it overcame her. Strangled her.

  A girl—a stupid girl—walking on the ice.

  A boy calls from the shore. She turns. Smiles. Waves.

  A sharp crack echoes.

  Shock washes over his features, even as the ice gives way beneath her.

  And darkness. A wet, cold, airless eternity of hell. Of panic. Of horror.

  A certainty of death.

  With a whimper, Violet closed her eyes and let the darkness take her again.

  Chapter Three

  Aw, hell. She’d fainted.

  Ewan glared at the girl, a limp mass, her head lolling to one side. For a moment he hated himself. He should have known the water would still terrify her. Perhaps in his heart of hearts, he had. Maybe that was why he’d decided to bring her to the Cloud. To assure she wouldn’t escape his clutches, certainly, but he had wanted to torment her as well.

  And torment her, he had.

  So much, she’d fainted. The short ride from the shore to the island had frightened her to the extent that she’d succumbed to the vapors.

  He felt like a worm.

  But at least she was no longer rocking the boat.

  He reached the dock and tied up as quickly as he could, hoping to get her to the keep and start a fire before she roused. Balancing against the sway of the boat, he lifted her into his arms. Then, splashing through the lapping waves, he carried her along the shore and
up the stone stairs to his castle.

  She looked so frail in his arms. So pale and wan.

  He hardened his heart.

  This was Violet.

  The girl who’d had his mother dismissed without references. The girl who had, on a whim, unhinged his life. They had very nearly starved to death that first winter. And if Ewan hadn’t turned to the streets to make a living, they would have. Still, his mother hadn’t survived their desperation long. She’d succumbed to the ague within a year, leaving Ewan without a farthing to his name, and a sickly babe to raise.

  He’d been thirteen.

  Oh, how he had plotted and dreamed of revenge.

  For years, he’d dreamed of something like this.

  That he now held Violet prisoner here in the Cloud—the keep that had been his very first victory—was sublime.

  Though if she expired on him, that would probably ruin the delicious irony. And she was terribly cold. And shivering. And her lips were blue. He hurried his pace.

  He used the brass key around his neck to open the door to the castle, carried Violet inside and laid her on a divan in the great room. Because her arms were bound behind her back she couldn’t lie flat, so he untied them. And then he removed her gag. He was annoyed to discover another rag jammed into her mouth. Damn Callum. Had Ewan known, he would have removed it sooner.

  Her cheeks were still pale, and cool. He allowed his caress to drift over them, reveling in the velvet softness. And then her lips…

  He curled his fingers into a fist and stormed to the hearth. The fire was laid but the tinder was damp. He realized, even if he could start the fire, it would take hours to warm the cavernous room.

  So he carried Violet, still terribly still, up the curling stairs to the tower, to the lord’s solar, and set her gently on the bed. He lit the fire and threw on a few more logs for good measure. Then he went back down to the kitchen and raided the pantry, collecting a small cask of ale, a wheel of cheese and some crackers. They would likely be stale but they would do for the night. He grabbed a couple apples and a knife as well.

  By the time he got back to his room, the sharp chill had waned. He set their dinner on the table and went back to the bed. Violet lay in the same position, not having moved at all. Concern niggled him.