With him pushing from behind and the horse pulling from the front, the sucking mud reluctantly gave way, and Fiona had to admit—to herself—that this man didn’t seem to be a complete idiot. And the way he moved, as if he were completely unaware of the splendid figure he cut, was in itself far more compelling than she wanted to acknowledge. His appearance didn’t mean anything, of course. The Bible said Lucifer had been a handsome angel, after all, and look what he’d become.
The heifer lowed as she swung slowly around and began lunging halfheartedly toward firmer ground. She must have been towing a hundred pounds of mud along with her, but once she felt hard soil beneath her hoofs she lifted her head and surged forward. The Sassenach slapped her on the rump and sent her up the bank.
For a moment Fiona wondered if she’d be the next one to get her arse slapped. He’d already put muddy handprints on her bosom. The soldier—an officer, by his epaulets—though, only plowed back to where she stood knee-deep in the mud. “Now let’s get you out of here,” he said, and offered an arm.
Ha.She’d gaped at him enough already, and she was not going to grab onto him so she could make a bigger fool of herself. Damn all Englishmen, anyway, thinking they could waltz in and do… everything better than anyone else, simply because they’d been born south of Hadrian’s Wall. Gathering her sodden skirts in her hands, Fiona slogged around him and up the bank. “I didnae ask ye fer help,” she stated again, shoving heavy mud from the front of her gown before striding over to pull the rope off the heifer.
“Youneededmy help, whether you asked for it, or not,” he returned, from closer behind her than she expected. “And now that it’s done, I think it’s only fair that you return the favor firstly by giving me your name, and secondly by pointing me in the direction of Lattimer Castle.”
“Lattimer?” she repeated, her voice gulping the word. “What do the likes of ye bright red Sassenach want with old Lattimer?” She forced a grin. If he thought her some dim female who didn’t know better than to go slogging about in mud, then she’d be one. For the moment. “Though ye’re nae so bright red, now. More brownish, with some green algae.”
“You’re wearing the same attire, miss,” the major said coolly, his gaze drifting down the length of her and back up to her face again. “And my business is between Mr. Kieran Blackstock and me.” He swung onto the bay and, despite the mud and water clinging to him, made the motion look both graceful and deadly.
For the briefest of moments she looked up at him, considering her answer. More than likely old Lattimer’s damned solicitors had sent him to chase down the estate’s ledger books, but if they’d resorted to using the military… Well, that wouldn’t do at all. Cooperation, though? With the English army? That went against everything for which she stood, and more so because she liked his looks. She didn’t like any Sassenach. Especially one who’d manhandled her and told her it was for her own good. They treated all of the Scottish Highlands the same way.
Steeling herself, she met his gaze, past that hard mouth and a straight, statue-perfect nose, to his pale gray eyes. The thin, straight scar that ran through his left eyebrow, skipped over the eye, and shallowed and disappeared down his cheek, made him look rakish, the sort of man who’d steal a lass’s heart with nothing but a smile.
Fiona lifted one arm, gesturing northwest beyond the heather-covered hillside. “That way, aboot two miles. Keep the stream on yer right. And now we’re even. Dunnae expect any more help than that.”
“And your name?”
“Ye’d have that if I asked ye fer yer help. I didnae.”
He gave a half salute as he wheeled the bay about. “You’re a stubborn lass. I like that.” His precise mouth curved a little at the corners. “You should take a bath. If you change your mind and want my company, you’ll find me at Lattimer Castle.”
Debating whether she felt more aggravated or more flustered, Fiona lifted her chin. “I intend to take a bath. Nae with the likes of ye aboot, though.”
“We’ll see about that.” With a nod of his chin he and his companion rode off toward the sloping hillside, arrogant man. Fiona bent down to collect a handful of mud and throw it at him. Evidently he had eyes in the back of his head, because at the last possible moment he shifted sharply sideways. The mud ball hurtled past his shoulder and thudded into the lavender-colored heather beyond. As the two men trotted out of sight, she swore she could hear them chuckling.
“Laugh while ye can, Sassenach,” she murmured, “because ye’ll nae be amused fer long.”
She gazed after them for a time, trying to shove her worry aside. Lord knew there would be a plentitude of time for it later, when the pretty Sassenach eventually found his way to his destination. Unless he simply vanished into the bog toward which she’d sent him. That would be a fine conclusion to the day—though not for the muddy officer, of course. Still swiping mud off her skin and clothes and refusing to feel any guilt for sending such a fine-featured man into harm’s way, she collected her shoes and headed off quickly northeast, keeping the stream on her left.
***
“If there ever was a castle here, it sank into the bog long ago,” Adam Kelgrove observed, as they made their way around yet another deceptively shallow-looking pool.
With a noncommittal grunt, Gabriel pulled up Union Jack. Clearly the woman had lied to him; a foul repayment for a rescue. Of course even before he’d waded into the mud he’d known that she hadn’t wanted his assistance, but firstly she’d needed it, and secondly, she’d looked as enchanting as a mud mermaid. Most people, friend or enemy, didn’t attempt to lie to him, and he supposed he’d assumed she would be no different. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. The question then became whether she’d merely attempted to send them away, or whether she’d meant to see them drowned in this damned bog.
He’d been a great many places in his thirty years, and he couldn’t recall one that felt as utterly… desolate as the wide, shallow valley that surrounded them. No trees, no birds, no wildlife of any kind touched his sight. The overcast sky had begun to sink into the mountaintops, blending into the bog and surrounding moor to form an endless, gray nothingness. The hair at the back of his neck pricked, but he couldn’t be certain whether it was the emptiness, or the sensation that it wasn’t as empty as it appeared.
“What do you say, Major? Do we keep following the stream until we reach the sea?”
“No, we do not,” he returned. “We turn around and find the cow’s mud puddle again, and then we head northeast from there.”
The sergeant followed as Gabriel wheeled Jack about. “Why northeast? It could be any direction but due south, since we came up that way.”
“Because she lied. And when she lied, she faced squarely southwest, as if she were protecting whatever lay directly behind her. And I imagine it was close enough that she figured she could get there and warn Kieran Blackstock of our arrival before we discovered her ruse and turned back.”
He felt his aide’s glance. “You’re being circumspect about all this, considering where she sent us.”
“I’m not being circumspect,” Gabriel countered, tightening his dirt-coated fingers around the reins. With most of the mud dry, he felt more like a statue than a man. But not on the inside. On the inside he seethed, both with anger and with something more primal. While he’d been admiring her backside and other attributes, the petite lass had looked him in the eye and lied to him. That required a response. And the one he wanted to give had more to do with sweat and sex than asking for an apology. “I’m being patient,” he said aloud. “Being reckless here would be both useless and unsatisfying, and potentially dangerous.”
“You do mean to get angry, though—when the situation presents itself.”
“As you know, Sergeant, no one makes a habit of lying to me. Nor do I approve of having my time wasted.” Adding to that the matter of not even being thanked for his efforts and having a clump of mud thrown at his head, and perhaps he could admit, just to himself, that he was as angry at himself for being duped as he was at the black-eyed woman for attempting the deed. Successfully managing the deed, actually. If she hadn’t had mud plastering her dress against her skin and showing every curve like some erotic chocolate statue, he likely wouldn’t have been as willing to believe her—and that rankled, too. He didn’t make a habit of thinking with his cock.
“I imagine this would not be a good time, then, to point out that I only just got the last of the bloodstains out of that coat you’re wearing,” Kelgrove said after a moment.
