The Reiver Read online

  At the sound of his voice, she turned to look at him. Her expression was so bleak, Duncan’s heart wrenched as if it were trying to twist its way out of his chest. For a few seconds, he was terrified that she really would go so far as to throw herself to her death just to escape him. Was he really that horrible a beast for doing what any other sensible landowner would do in his position?

  A wry smile flitted across her lips. “I suppose if I did, it would rather severely damage my value as a hostage.”

  Her words cut him to the quick.

  “Do you really believe that is the only reason your death would pain me?”

  She shrugged. “What other reason could there be?”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. He shouldn’t have been insulted. But he was. Umbrage collided with pent-up lust and frustration. With three strides, he devoured the broad expanse of floor separating them, grabbed her upper arms, and yanked her against his chest.

  “What other reason? How about this?” he growled before crushing his mouth to hers in a fierce, hungry kiss.

  To his surprise, she didn't try to pull away or resist, but instead parted her lips to accept the demanding thrust of his tongue. And then she went further, answering his strokes with small feints and parries of her own. He groaned and framed her face with his hands, angling her head to ensure the best possible access to the butter-sweet territory of her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck in response, answering him measure for measure, and he found himself grinding his rising erection against the slight swell of her belly.

  She nestled against him like a tiny, delicate bird. The difference in their size and strength should have alarmed him. He had the power to crush her without even trying, and yet, he didn't for a second fear the possibility, for like the heather she might appear small and lovely and fragile, but she was strong and enduring and utterly suited to this world, a product of its harsh, unforgiving landscape.

  And this kiss—this dark, needful, ardent kiss—felt like the first truly honest interaction they'd ever had. For once, she wasn't ignoring or evading or resisting his questions, but telling him with her lips and her tongue and her ragged breathing exactly what she was thinking and feeling. Things like please and don’t stop and most of all—more. And damned if he wasn’t thinking and feeling the same things. He might well have borne her to the cold, hard stone floor and taken her right then and there had not the flavor of salt interrupted his enjoyment of the moment.

  He paused. It tasted like...tears.

  She was weeping. Silently, even as she continued to kiss him without reservation, tears streamed from her eyes and mingled with the sweet, tangy taste of her mouth.

  He broke the kiss and raised his head. Her eyes were glazed—both with passion and with misery. Christ, what was he doing to her? Perhaps he was capable of crushing her, after all. "Please do not cry. I do not want to hurt you."

  "Then let me go," she whispered.

  "You know I cannot do that." Although now he wasn't sure why he couldn't. Was it because he had to punish the raiders for challenging his authority and stealing his clan's property? Or just because he wanted to keep her for his own selfish and impure reasons? He wasn't even sure which notion he hated the least. But he knew one thing for certain: releasing her was not an option.

  She turned her head and gazed out the window again. "Perhaps I should have jumped."

  Panic gripped his chest. "Do not say that. You would not."

  "Nay, you're right. I would not. I'm far too great a coward." She swiped at her eyes and gave him a watery smile. "And perhaps a wee bit melodramatic. I’m not accustomed to being cooped up indoors for such long periods of time, you see."

  "You’ve spent a great deal of time outside, then?" he asked, hoping not to sound as if he was prying, although of course he was. The more he knew about her, the greater the likelihood he could find out who she really was. His men had canvassed the countryside in search of anyone who might know of a young woman who'd gone missing, but so far, they'd had no luck. Perhaps they’d just been looking in the wrong places.

  And if they look in the right places and find her family, what will you do then? Are you sure you want to know?

  He shook off the unpleasant questions.

  "Oh, nearly all of my life,” she was saying, her face animating with pleasant memories. “We didn't have much of a place to be inside, you ken. Certainly nothing so grand as this."

  So, they'd been poor, living, most likely, in a small, sod-roofed cottage on some godforsaken corner of some wealthy laird’s estate. They’d had the resources for good, strong horses and decent firearms, of course, but those were the tools of the trade, every bit as much a necessity for a reiver as a plough and seed for a farmer.

  And if they'd had horses...

  "Would you like to go for a ride?"

  She gave him a shocked look, and he thought perhaps she'd recognized the double entendre, which was perfectly understandable given that he'd been on the verge of riding her good and hard just moments ago. He jerked his head in the direction of the window. "Out there," he clarified. "On horseback."

  Her eyes widened and there was no mistaking the joy that sparkled in their moor-colored depths. "Really? You would give me a horse and allow me to ride? Aren't you afraid I will try to escape?"

  "Aye, that is a problem," he admitted, as much to himself as to her. But if she did try to escape, she wouldn't get far. He would determine which of his horses she rode, and he would choose the sorriest, slowest nag in his stable to ensure she’d not outrun him. Not that he had any horse that could outrun his Curaidh. But still, he would prefer she made him a promise. "Will you give me your word that you will not try to escape? In exchange for a few hours outside these walls."

  Her teeth worried her lower lip for a minute, but then she nodded. "Aye, I give you my word I will not try to escape."

  "Then I am not worried. Be ready tomorrow an hour after breakfast." He started for the stairwell, then checked his step and looked over his shoulder at her. She looked soft and thoroughly kissed and he ached to return and finish what he'd started, but now that he had a plan for ferreting out the truth, he must execute it. "And Reva?"

  "Aye?"

  "You will come down to breakfast tomorrow morning. If you do not eat, I cannot in good conscience allow you to ride."

  She bowed her head, the very picture of meek subservience. "Aye, sir."

  He should have known right then that he was in trouble.

  Duncan had never seen a man, let alone a woman, who appeared more at home on a horse than Reva.

  True to his plan, he had instructed his stablehand to saddle the oldest, tiredest nag in his stable. This didn't mean the roan mare was a poor or useless mount, of course; no one in the West March could afford to keep horses that weren't up to the demands of border life. Still, Ruadh was a bit past her prime and, having foaled several months ago, should have been nowhere near capable of matching Curaidh for speed or stamina.

  And yet, with Reva on her back, Ruadh showed no signs of flagging spirits or energy. If anything, the horse seemed as enthusiastic and joyful at the opportunity to be out on the moors as her rider. Together, they moved effortlessly over the rough, uneven terrain, horse and rider flowing together as one.

  "Race you to that outcropping," Reva challenged, pointing to a rock formation several hundred yards distant.

  Her face was so full of life, so different from the bleak, hopeless expression of yesterday, that Duncan couldn't resist. What harm could come of it? If it made her happy, if it endeared him to her even a little, it could only help his cause. Perhaps he'd even let her win.

  He grinned at her. "You're on!"

  Reva, being Reva, didn't wait for a starter's mark. She kneed Ruadh's flanks and leaned over the mare's neck. The animal surged forward without so much as a half-second's hesitation. By the time Duncan spurred Curaidh into action, Reva held a lead of almost a hundred yards.

  There would be no question of letting he
r win now. He would be fortunate if she didn’t beat him outright, at least over this short distance.

  He bent low and murmured Gaelic encouragements in his mount’s ear. The musket he’d slung over his shoulder in the event of an attack slapped hard against his back with each thundering beat of Curaidh’s hooves.

  They were making up ground, but not quickly enough to overtake her before the finish line. She reached the outcropping just strides before he did, her laughter ringing out like chimes as she pulled the mare to a halt.

  “I win,” she said, her features glowing with triumph.

  “You cheated,” he pointed out, referring to the head start she’d taken. Curaidh’s flanks heaved beneath him. By contrast, her horse barely looked winded.

  “Aye, but you kenned I don’t play fair already.”

  "Fair enough." He shook his head as he gave his horse a soothing pat. "How on earth did my men catch you when you can ride like that? I'm sure the horse you had that night was in much better condition than Ruadh here."

  She shrugged. "They were supposed to catch me," she said.

  "What do you mean, they were supposed to catch you?” His mind raced with possibilities. Was she a spy? An assassin? Neither seemed remotely likely, and yet…

  "If we were ever interrupted during a raid, it was my job to create a distraction and allow the rest to escape, even if it meant my capture. The assumption was that since I was female, no one would actually execute me for the raid and I'd soon be set free." She smiled winningly at him, as if to give him the opportunity to remedy his failure to behave according to expectation.

  "You mean you'd done this before?" He was horrified. Damn it, she could have been killed any number of times before she'd crossed his path. He might even have hanged her himself without realizing... His stomach turned.

  "Ride with my family on raids? Oh aye, all the time."

  "Christ, Reva..." He closed his eyes. "But then...why didn't you tell me straightaway that night that you were a woman?"

  Her mouth drew into a straight, tight line. "I wanted you to execute me."

  "What! In the name of God, why?"

  "You're a Maxwell. I knew you wouldn't let me go. I knew you'd try to get me to betray my family. I thought death would be easier to bear than that." She drew a ragged breath. "Than this."

  "Than what?"

  She looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears. "Falling in love with you."

  He couldn't think of a single thing she could have said in that moment that would have surprised—or thrilled—him more. His heart threatened to burst through his rib cage.

  She loved him. As God was his witness, nothing mattered but that. He didn't care who she was, where she had come from, or what she had done. As long as she loved him, everything could be made right.

  "Loving me is not so terrible as all that, is it?"

  She shook her head. "Perhaps not. But I did not want to. And now that I do...I do not know what to do."

  Duncan smiled gently. "Then you’ve no choice but to follow my lead."

  She nodded, her smile watery in return. "Aye."

  "Come with me," he said, turning Curaidh away from the outcropping. “I know exactly what to do.”

  He led her to one of the many small cottages that dotted Lochmorton's landscape. Most would be occupied come planting time, but now it was after the harvest and most of his people had moved inside the castle walls in preparation for winter.

  After helping her dismount, he brought her inside. She looked uncertainly around the small, sparsely furnished room. There was a fireplace, a few wooden chairs, and a bed.

  "Why did you bring me here?"

  Duncan caressed her cheek with one thumb. "To make you my wife."

  "Surely you cannot mean to marry me," she gasped.

  "I can and I do. I love you in return, Reva, and I shall settle for nothing less than making an honest woman of you.”

  “’Tis a little late now,” she teased. She eyed the room even more dubiously than before. "But surely you should have brought me to a priest if that was your intent."

  He chuckled. "And so I shall...but I have been more priestly myself than I would like these past months. With your permission, I would like to remedy that now."

  "You mean…?" She glanced to the bed and back to him.

  "Aye," he said, drawing her into his embrace, "I wish to make love to you. If you will permit me, of course." His voice was rougher—and more pleading—than he would have liked.

  "That doesna sound like the proper way to make either an honest woman or a wife of me," she observed, but the barest hint of a smile teased the corners of her lips as she said it.

  He pressed his lips against her forehead. "No, but it is the only way to make a sane man of me. Knowing you love me, I cannot bear another minute of this torture."

  "Torture?"

  "Aye, lass, you've had me tied in knots since that moment in my dungeon that I realized you were no lad. If you will not have me now, I do not know if I will make it whole to the wedding." He moved his mouth to her temple and was pleased by her shiver of response.

  She pulled away slightly and tilted her head to one side, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "My brothers always told me not to listen to a man when he claimed he'd sustain an injury if he did not have me in his bed. They say 'twas a ploy, that no harm ever came of waiting."

  He laughed and slid his hands from where they rested at the small of her back to cup her buttocks. She had worn breeches for their ride, and being treated to the sight of the rounded curve of her backside had been tempting him all day. "I never said my harm would be physical. 'Twill be entirely mental."

  She made thoughtful, scrunched-up faces as though considering this claim while he kneaded the firm muscles with his hands. Perhaps he wasn't as fond of large breasts as he'd once believed. A generous set of hindquarters more than made up for any lack.

  "Ah, well,” she sighed at last, “I suppose a mad Maxwell will do me no good as a husband. Very well, Duncan Maxwell of Lochmorton. You may make love to me."

  With a groan of relief, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. It was unmade and a bit lumpy, but he hoped she wouldn't notice either discomfort. He knew he wouldn’t.

  He first removed his plaid, which he had worn over shirt and breeches in deference to the autumn chill, and spread it out atop the bare mattress. When he was finished, he set about undressing her. She blushed when he removed her shirt and covered her breasts with her hands, but he pushed them away with a gentle shake of his head.

  “Do not be ashamed, runag. They are just as I imagined. Small and firm and the perfect size to fit in my mouth.”

  “In your mouth?” she asked, her eyes wide with puzzlement.

  Her innocence was adorable. After such a difficult life, that she should come to him so obviously untouched seemed something of a miracle. That she had come to him at all was miracle enough.

  He bent his head and encompassed the entire, lovely rosebud of one breast in his mouth. The salty tang of her skin was in perfect harmony with the lemony scent that clung to her.

  “Oh,” she sighed in wonderment as he flicked his tongue across the hardening nipple.

  “You see. Perfect, just as I said.”

  The remainder of her garb came off with greater ease and less resistance. As each inch of her was revealed, he found more beauty to explore with his hands and mouth—the velvet-skinned expanse of her belly, the swirl of dark red-tinged curls at the apex of her thighs, the unexpected length of her slender yet muscular thighs and calves.

  His own clothes he removed with even greater alacrity, nearly frantic in his need to lie with her, naked skin to naked skin. When he knelt between her thighs and eased his way inside her, he shook with the effort to maintain his control, fearful both of hurting her and of reaching his pleasure before he found hers.

  He needn’t have worried. She wrapped her arms and legs around him the way she’d wrapped herself around his heart and urge
d him on. They rocked together as though they had made love like this hundreds of times before, each attuned to the other’s rhythms and sensations as both climbed toward the precipice and then tipped over it, in unison, into rapture.

  The only thing that marred his pleasure was that, when she cried out his name, he could not call out hers in return.

  “You shall have to give your name for the wedding ceremony, you know,” he observed some time later.

  She lifted her head from its cradle in his shoulder and looked down at him, her expression guarded and a little sad. “You know I cannot,” she whispered.

  “What if I promised not to seek revenge upon your family for the raid?”

  Her eyebrows flew up her forehead. “You would do that? For me?”

  He stroked her hair. “Aye, lass, I would. In fact, perhaps I should be thanking them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if they had not tried to reive my cattle that night, I would never have met you.”

  He pulled her head down toward his and gave her what he meant to be a sweet and reassuring kiss, but the instant their mouths touched, his intent was entirely forgotten. Her lips parted, ardent and inviting, and her tongue darted daringly into his mouth. He groaned as a fresh wave of desire spiraled downward through his loins. With no small effort, he broke the kiss and forced his raging need back under control. While he could make love to her a half dozen more times without consequence, the same could not be said for her. She’d be sore enough on the ride back to Lochmorton Castle as it was.

  As he drew away, she reached up and traced her thumb across the scar that marred his left cheek. “Did it hurt terribly?” she asked.

  He recognized that she was changing the subject, but decided to go along with it. “Aye. Like fire.”

  The memory of that day was as crisp as if it had happened yesterday, and yet as confused and chaotic as the events themselves. His father had insisted that they join their cousin, John, Lord Maxwell, in his campaign against Sir James Johnstone. With decades of enmity between the Maxwells and the Johnstones, there’d been no doubt that the battle would be bloody and ugly.