Chapter 15

F ia awakened to find Thomas studying her. She struggled upright and he immediately shifted her onto the hard bench beside him. One of the sailors said something and Thomas replied by swinging his legs over the side of the boat and dropping down into chest-deep water.

"?Es mucho frío, sí?" one of the Spanish sailors asked.

"Not nearly cold enough," Thomas replied in Spanish. The crewman laughed, casting her surreptitious glances.

"What did you say?" Fia demanded.

"I said the water was very cold."

He was lying. She could tell by the aggressive way he met her gaze. However, there was nothing she could do to force him to tell her the truth, and from the way the men were smiling at her, she did not know if she wanted to hear it. She was well used to the vulgar banter that followed her, and while she accepted that in London such banter was only what she could expect, given her provocative behavior, here she'd done nothing to deserve it.

Another sailor joined Thomas in the water. Together they grabbed hold of long ropes attached to either side of the boat and began swimming toward shore. When they were halfway to the beach they stood up, planted their feet, and hauled the boat toward the shore as those men remaining in the boat strained at the oars, rowing against the surf. Once past the breakline, the rest of the men jumped out and pulled the heavy boat up on the beach.

"Hail to ye!" a booming Scottish voice called out as a giant of a man strode from between a pair of boulders. He led a shaggy horse drawing an ancient cart. An outlawed tartan was belted about his thick waist and draped over a loose, rough-looking shirt of dubious color.

Fia looked about. They were on a thin crescent of sand at the base of sheer cliffs. The giant boulders strewn at the water's edge had kept the beach from being visible from the sea. A perfect smuggler's landing, and the man leading the horse fit the role perfectly. He also looked vaguely familiar.

"Jamie!" Thomas shouted, pleasure in his voice and the wide grin that carved deep dimples beneath his cheekbones.

The giant approached and dropped to one knee before Thomas. A scraggly tail of reddish hair flecked with gray fell across his sunburned neck. He grabbed hold of one of Thomas's hands and brought it to his forehead. Even from a distance of some ten paces she could smell him. Her nose wrinkled.

"M'lord," he murmured, "ye've been gone too long. Welcome home to ye."

Thomas laughed, the sound rich and infectious. "Ach! If my absence teaches a heathen brute like you humility, I'll be chartin' a course round the Cape to finish yer domestication."

Fia watched Thomas in surprise. The burr was strong and musical and easy on his tongue. She'd known Thomas was part Scot but had never heard him speak with the Highland accent. It sounded natural, as natural as the smile still gracing his face.

"Yer the sorriest excuse fer a lord I've ever known, ye young rakehell," Jamie said, "but if ye've no regard fer yer proper station, I have. Ye'll not stop me from payin' me respects to me la—"

Whatever he'd been about to say was cut off as Thomas placed his boot on the huge man's shoulder and pushed him back. With an "uff" of surprise Jamie landed on his bum and then with a roar surged upright, overshadowing even Thomas's tall figure. "Tommy, yer not so big tha' I can't be teachin' ye to respect yer elders!"

A great grin cleaved Thomas's face. "Try me, ye great unwashed goat."

The sailors, alert to the promise of a fight, gathered in a loose circle. The anger in the giant's ruddy face abruptly vanished, leaving a delighted anticipation matched only by Thomas's own. Thoughtfully he rubbed his chin.

"Two falls out of three? Both shoulders to the ground?"

Fia stared at this Jamie's huge, beefy hands and thick, meaty calves. He'd kill Thomas.

"Sounds fine to me."

"Well, it doesn't sound fine to me." Dear Lord, had that been her speaking?

Both men turned to her wearing identical expressions of amazement, as though the boat had expressed an opinion.

"Who's the lassie?" Jamie's eyes grew round. "Mother of Mercy, dinna say ye've taken a bride! Lord love ye, son, we've waited fer this day—"

"No," Thomas snapped. "She's not my bride. She's—"

"His prisoner," Fia supplied matter-of-factly. She ran through her mind how she could use this situation to her advantage—and Thomas's disadvantage. Apparently this mountain of unclean manhood held Thomas in some regard.

The mountain narrowed his eyes on her for a long moment before turning to Thomas. "Just tell me this," he said stonily, "be she an Englishwoman?"

Thomas nodded, his face expressionless. "Aye."

Jamie let out a huge sigh of relief. "Ach. Snatched yerself a haughty bitch from the English dogs' own kennel, did ye? Good fer ye, Tommy. Have ye raped her yet?"

"No!"

Fia barely heard Thomas's roared denial, she was too busy staring at Jamie.

"Mayhap just as well," he said. "She looks the high-flown sort of fancy that carries the pox, if ye ask me."

"I never!" Fia exclaimed indignantly.

"Be quiet, Jamie!" Thomas thundered, coming to the side of the boat. "This is … Lady MacFarlane."

"MacFarlane? Tha's no English name.…"

Fia lifted her chin. "Before my marriage I was—"

"No one cares who you were before yer marriage," Thomas interrupted, his eyes dark with warning.

"I do," Jamie disagreed. "If she's a Scottish husband lookin' fer her, I'd best be warned."

"There'll be no one looking for her," Thomas said.

He hadn't meant to do it, but his words pierced like a little needle.

"Her husband's dead. A lowland Scot." He turned to Fia and plucked her from where she stood on the plank seating.

"We'll be staying at the house." The accent he put on the word "house" struck her as odd, so odd the protest she'd been about to make died on her lips. He bounced her once, redistributing her weight. She flung her arms about his neck, sure he would drop her.

"The house," Jamie repeated, his gaze traveling back and forth between Thomas and her.

"Aye. And see if Mrs. MacNab can help her doin' whatever it is she needs done."

"I don't need your aid or that of one of your servants."

Thomas snorted. "Oh, aye. You're a font of self-reliance, you are. And 'twas only to keep me near that you heaved up yer dinner each day."

"I didn't!" she clipped out as the blood boiled to her skin's surface and Jamie burst out laughing. She struggled to gain the upper hand in the only way she knew. "But"—her voice slid an octave lower, became a throaty purr—"mayhap I did want you near me." She walked her fingers up his chest before delivering the coup de grace. "Fat lot of good it did me."

Jamie hooted with laughter and an unwilling twitch tugged at the corner of Thomas's mouth.

"She's a brave mouth on her, yer English lady," Jamie said.

Not all English, Fia thought. Part Scot, born and bred here. The part that wanted to refute Jamie's assertion, though why this should be was a mystery. She'd never aligned herself either in thought or deed or word with any people. She'd always been Carr's daughter. But here, now … Her eyes traveled along the black face of the cliffs, toward where she imagined Wanton's Blush would be. She wanted to see where it had stood.

"Aye. Brave but never before foolish. If she's wise she'll use caution when wielding that tongue of hers, lest she cuts herself with her own clever wordplay," Thomas said.

She knew what he meant. It seemed that here, too, what she was and who she was could be summed up in the words "Carr's daughter," for clearly Thomas was warning her not to reveal her relationship with the hated "Demon Earl."

And hated with good cause in these Scottish hinterlands. Any Scot within twenty miles of McClairen's Isle had had something taken, stolen, or extorted from him by her father. Many had paid for their defiance of him with their lives.

"I'm not stupid," she assured him under her breath.

"Good." He raised his voice. "Jamie, throw that trunk and bag into the back of the cart. I'll drive our guest to the manor."

"The manor?" Jamie's bushy brows rose. "But you've yet to see—"

"It will wait," Thomas said.

The giant did not argue. Something within recognized the authority in the younger man and answered with unquestioning obedience. Jamie gathered the luggage the sailors had dumped and tossed it into the back of the cart while Thomas held her, seemingly oblivious to that fact.

It pricked her pride. Men who held Fia Merrick in their arms were never oblivious to it.

"I can stand."

"The sand is soft and your shoes are thin, added to which you're about as weak as a kitten."

"I assure you"—she looked up at him through the thicket of her lashes—"I have enough strength for whatever you … require."

"Quit it," he said in the tone of one chastising an inappropriately precocious child.

She blinked.

He plopped her unceremoniously down on the narrow seat before squishing in next to her. "Jamie?"

The redheaded behemoth shook his head. "Nay. I've work to do here. I'll see ye here on the morrow." With that, he slapped the pony on the rump and stood back, his hand raised in farewell, a quizzical look on his blocky face.

Thomas guided the sturdy animal up a twining trail to the top of the headland and immediately turned from the sea, riding inland. Fia craned her head around but try as she might she was unable to see beyond the thick mantle of fog that closed in behind them. If McClairen's Isle was out there, it was hidden from Fia's sight. Soon only the scent of brine and the sound of the surf gave evidence of the sea's nearness, and with each passing moment both grew fainter.

Inland the heavy mantle of fog had lifted, though the sky still hunkered above. Fia breathed deeply of the clean, moisture-laden air. She turned her head often, the sights and sounds both familiar and surprising, like a child's favored music box lost and then found long after the child had grown.

Sweet, painful, each turn in the road brought with it the possibility of recognition. Near here she'd chanced upon her brother Raine and his lovely Favor, who'd escaped the company of a long-ago picnic. Favor had been mortified and red-cheeked, Raine angry and protective.

In that little copse of trees ten years ago she'd found a wee rabbit caught in a poacher's snare. She'd known that in releasing the creature some Scottish family might well have gone hungry that night, but it was so tiny a thing and its cries so pitiful. Gunna had helped her nurse it back to health. She released it … over there!

Too soon the memories vanished as the road they took moved beyond where she'd dared wander as a child. They entered territory dangerous for anyone related to Carr, especially his "favored daughter."

But unfamiliarity had its own charms, and Fia studied the changing landscape with interest, so taken with the unfolding vista that she decided to postpone the next step in her seduction of Thomas Donne. Besides, she was for once uncertain exactly what her next step would be. Touching him certainly hadn't brought him to his knees.

They traveled in silence for an hour before Thomas finally spoke. The sun had given up trying to penetrate the dark clouds overhead and quit the sky, and dusk began to wrap its dark mantle across the landscape.

"The name ‘Merrick' is anathema on this coast," Thomas said in cautionary tones.

"You don't say."

"And there are those at the manor who'll remember the Earl of Carr's daughter's name, so don't even whisper ‘Fia.' "

"I don't generally refer to myself in the third person," she said politely, winning a chagrined glance from him.

"Of course not. Foolish of me."

She seized the minor opening. "Not so foolish as deluding yourself."

He frowned and snapped the lead reins. "How so?"

"This noble rescue of your friend Barton—your reasons for it are self-deluding."

"You are entitled to that opinion," he said stiffly.

"Besides"—she allowed the sway of the cart to bounce her lightly against his hip and thigh—"did you ever consider that James might not want to be rescued?"

"I'm sure he doesn't," he admitted ruefully.

Her pulse quickened with this small success. "But that doesn't matter."

"No."

She laid her hand lightly on his thigh. The muscle beneath her palm jumped into iron hardness. "I think you do James a grave injustice. He is quite able to withstand temptation." She waited a minute, but he only stared straight ahead at the rutted road. "Are you?"

His gaze slew slowly sideways, his mouth curved. "Lady Fia, would you kindly stop? It's growing a bit embarrassing. For both of us, I should think."

She snatched her hand away as though burned and stared at him with round eyes.

His gaze returned to the road before he continued, "I appreciate that you consider my poor self a challenge to your womanly wiles. And that you are bent on teaching me a lesson in order to extract some sort of recompense for the indignity you consider yourself to have suffered at my hands. I even acknowledge that were I in your position I would likely do the same, but not by the same means. Simply put, m'dear, you are simply going to have to find another means to punish me."

She blinked, completely nonplussed.

"One of the hallmarks of maturity," he lectured comfortably, "is the ability to accept certain immutable facts and adjust one's expectations and goals accordingly. No matter how beautiful you are, how lovely your face or desirable your body, I will not be seduced by you."

"I wouldn't bet on that," she burst out.

He went on as though he hadn't heard her. "However, you might consider a knife in the rib cage. Though"—he inclined his head modestly—"I doubt you'll have any more success there. Besides, were I to die there'd be nothing standing between you and the local lads and they do so hate the English. No, best not kill me."

"I wouldn't dirty my hands."

"No? Since when have the Merricks been so fastidious?"

There it was again. The intimation that Thomas had knowledge of some terrible wrong committed by Carr. Well, of course Carr had committed terrible wrongs. Many, in fact. But Fia had the distinct impression Thomas spoke of a personal experience. Which was odd. She could not remember the name "Donne" amongst the secret hoard of blackmail papers she'd gone through in her father's library at Wanton's Blush. Still, she'd only had her hands on that packet of papers once, and she'd been looking for other information then.

"I suggest you ponder the question a while. Besides, 'twill give you something to do whilst I'm away."

"Away?" Such a scenario had never suggested itself to her, and she scowled heavily. "You're going to just leave me at this house of yours?"

"Only during the day. Come night I'll return. There's a project I've begun on my land. I'd like to complete as much of it as possible before I … before we return to London."

"And when will that be?"

"A few weeks," Thomas replied, making silent notes that he should return to the house only in the dead of night, when Fia would be tight in Morpheus's embrace. Better Morpheus's than his. Aye, let the poor god of dreams be the one to try to resist Fia when she was determined to be irresistible.

Thomas kept his eyes firmly ahead. That and distracting Fia by pretending disgust with her proposed seduction had been all that he'd had to counter his potent attraction to her. And pitiful weapons they were, too.

It wouldn't take her one full day to discover that all she'd need to do is persevere a bit and his defenses would collapse like the house of cards he knew them to be. For all his brave words and disregard for her charms, the last hours had played pure hell with his body and his mind.

The solution was simply not to spend a full day in her company.

Or he could just give in—and would that be so terrible? If she wished to invoke a penalty for his crime and it was one he was not only willing but near panting to pay, why not? He ground down on his teeth. Because what if once was not enough? Already she seemed to him like some exotic opiate, deadly, fascinating, addictive.

And she was Carr's daughter.

The realization ambushed him. He'd forgotten for a short time. How could that be?

"Whose house is that?" she asked, breaking his reverie.

They'd climbed a steep grade through a stand of pines and as they emerged Fia caught sight of a square manor house. The hard lines of its gray stone were softened by a tangle of creeping ivy overlaying narrow, mullioned windows. Lights glowed from the bottom level. As they approached, the front door swung open and a figure stood poised in the rectangle of yellow light.

"Who be there?" a young man demanded loudly.

" 'Tis I, Thomas!"

"Thomas who?" the young man answered, bringing a long, narrow shape to his shoulder and pointing it in their direction. The fool was pointing a rifle at them. Damn the boy!

Thomas glanced at Fia. He hadn't wanted to tell her. Not yet. Mayhap not at all. But what did it matter? Her father would be reporting his identity to the authorities as soon as he realized that Thomas hadn't upheld his end of their "bargain." He stood up in the cart.

" 'Tis Thomas McClairen. Yer laird."