Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Blood surged through Grant, along with dangerous ideas and wicked instincts. For he could think of too many things to ask of this too-lovely Sassenach . Too many uses for that pretty mouth, for the curves under the tight material of the dress, and not nearly enough time for them all.

It would be too easy to pull her closer, to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze it, hear her shocked exhale before he bent his head to capture her lips?—

Grant snapped himself back to the present and shook himself. No, he could not let his mind wander, not when the Queen’s Edict hung over them both. He wondered if her objection was because she knew that only the most troublesome and dangerous lairds had been promised to certain English brides—not that the noble families knew that.

Yet, he needed to return home first. Then, he would determine what to do with her.

“Well?”

Aye, Grant ruminated, we can find a mutually agreeable solution. I kenned from the moment I saw ye that ye could be of great help, one way or another.

“Sir—Laird Ronson?” Emma asked in a subdued tone. “Will you not—oh.”

Whatever the solution was, Grant did not have the time to figure it out here. He had caught her wrist and pulled her toward Balfire. At first, the lass trotted along, but then she balked upon reaching his horse.

“Oh no, oh no. No, I cannot ride, Laird Ronson. Not any horse and surely not that large beast. I will fall. I will perish?—”

She squeaked as he turned around, but she held her ground, save for the imploring look she gave him. “I can prove to you that I’m a rotten rider—I still have the scars on my head and shoulder from my last attempt.”

While part of Grant was curious, he patted his chest and gave her a soft smile.

Dinnae fash, lass. I willnae let ye fall.

He gave her a look, and she stopped pulling away. Then, before she could protest or try to flee, he lifted her and placed her on Balfire’s saddle.

She gasped and swayed, but Grant had already mounted in front of her. He made to reach back, but she’d thrown her arms around him and pressed her cheek to the center of his back, her curvy form soft against him.

With a low laugh, Grant gave Balfire his head, and then he laughed louder as the Sassenach shrieked over the thunder of the warhorse’s hooves.

They flew across the fields, crossing into Scotland.

Emma could not be sure, but she suspected the Laird’s warhorse was faster and stronger than most. They seemed to be flying across the land, soaring over hill and dell, the miles falling away like scattered petals in a late summer wind. The horse’s surefootedness helped Emma relax a bit as time went on, but she did not let go of the Laird.

Still, as her fear ebbed, she became more and more aware of the man. His hard, muscular back was pressed against her front, and she could the rise and fall of his chest—the power in his body. Heat rose to her face.

How did I end up here?

However Emma thought it might end, it was not like this. Not a hard and fast horseback ride through the countryside with the coast on their left. Not with Helena and her hopes falling further and further behind.

Around midday, they stopped and supped, and the Laird watered his horse and gave him snacks.

The horse seemed restless and eager to move on, but the Laird kept stroking his neck and flank, insisting that he rest. Meanwhile, Emma tried to catch her breath and not stare at the wild landscape around them.

Next to them, a forest rose—dark, twisted, and ancient. Every hue of green and every type of shadow seemed to lurk there, and a shiver raced down her spine. For as much as she felt a thrill of fear, there was something about that forest that seemed to call to her.

After she’d rested and eaten, and with the Laird off at a small creek, she edged closer to the forest. She rested her hand on a tree and gazed around, watching shafts of sunlight pierce through the canopy. Birds flew by, and she realized she’d never been so far from… everything. Everything she’d ever known.

She made to turn around when something on the tree bole caught her eye. A child’s clumsy carving of a name. Running her fingers over it, she whispered softly, “Agnes.”

Emma looked back into the forest, a frisson running up her spine, and she swore the light grew brighter, a path appearing. She made to step in that direction when a hand caught her upper arm and pulled her back.

Startled, she looked up at Ronson, who stared into the forest, radiating a wariness she had not seen from him. His eyes darted around and up, then to her.

He shook his head and pulled her back, but not before producing an apple and placing it on the forest floor. She watched him bob his head and glance around again, and then he all but carried her back to the horse.

“What?” Emma whispered. “What is it? Bandits?”

Ronson shook his head, his face solemn, and gestured up toward the trees, then pressed a finger to his lips.

Emma shook her head, not understanding, and he sighed, giving her a look that plainly said, Wee English fool.

Laughter bubbled up her throat, and she playfully kicked at him as he lowered her into the saddle. “Tell me you are not a superstitious Scotsman, afraid of the?—”

Ronson clamped a hand over her lips and stared her down, his gaze intense and his nostrils flared. The green of his eyes burned into hers, and her laughter died down.

It was a look that plainly said, Dinnae mock what ye dinnae understand.

He slowly let her go and made to swing himself up on the horse, but Emma stopped him with a gentle hand. “I’m sorry.”

Laird Ronson huffed out a breath and mounted his horse, not looking back at her.

At first, Balfire’s pace was slow, skirting the woods, and then it quickened. Emma, who’d been holding onto her skirts, tried to continue to do so, but soon she had grabbed the back of the Laird’s shirt. He reached back at that point, and at first, Emma thought he meant to free himself from her grip.

But instead, he wound her arm around him, then reached for the other and patted her hands. Now, Emma was somehow pressed even closer to him than during the first ride. Pressure burned in her throat and between her legs—a pressure that sizzled with heat and tingles. Molten embarrassment filled her belly.

Still, she managed to convince herself that all was well—at least until the evening. She thought the Laird would stop again, perhaps find a tavern, but he did not.

Soon, the light was nearly gone. Without the light and landscape to distract her, all she could focus on was the Laird.

Emma thought she might know the contours of his back better than him. The lines of strong muscles, the strength of his spine, the breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of his sides, and the delicious, smoky scent of him, mixed with leather and horse.

An urge welled up inside her, to bury her face in his back, to sink her teeth into the spot where his shoulders met his neck, or to press a kiss behind his ear…

I am losing my mind.

Her face burned further. Could he feel it through his clothes? Heaven help her. She now could not stop noticing the feel of his body against her thighs and?—

“It is too dark, my Laird,” Emma blurted out. “Is it not? We should stop for the night. Another bandit might be after me. Or you. Are you not worried?”

The Laird did not react, and she felt the urge to bite him for another reason entirely.

“Sir—please, I fear that you do not realize the danger…” She trailed off as he twisted to look at her over his shoulder.

A dark and smoldering look flashed in his eyes, paired with gleaming white teeth that seemed to hover between a smile and a snarl.

I am the only thing that should be feared in these woods.