Heather and Velvet Page 2

  She leaned even closer, eyes wide with hope. “Are you abducting me?”

  “No.”

  Her face fell in disappointment.

  “Very well then.” He rescued his pistol from the muck and leveled the thick barrel at her chest. “Help me.”

  She helped him. She slipped the kitten into her pocket, where it set up a steady howling until she fished it out, murmuring something about hairpins. She tucked the creature in her other pocket before bracing her shoulder beneath Sebastian’s and half-lifting him to his feet.

  Her strength surprised him. She was a head shorter than he, but her slender frame was imbued with a steely grace that enabled her to keep her footing even when he stumbled. When his ankle struck a jagged stump, he would have crumpled in agony were it not for the bracing arms she slipped around his waist. As they forded a shallow stream, he halted abruptly, knowing he could not take another step. They clung to each other like lovers, her arms tight around his waist, his brow pressed to her cheek. Rain washed over them, melding them together.

  “I can’t go on,” he breathed into her hair. His burr thickened as exhaustion and pain stripped away his cultured tones. “Leave me now and get back to your home, lass, before I kill the both of us.”

  “Nonsense.” The sharp practicality in her voice roused him. “You said the hut was right over that hill and over that hill is where we shall go. What sort of Christian would I be to leave you here to die?”

  “A bonny smart one.”

  The slope was a nightmare of slick leaves. More than once, the girl’s hand closed over his, guiding it to a gnarled root he could use to claw himself upward. He had almost reached the crest of the hill when his bad ankle gave out and he slid halfway back down. He felt his mask tear away, but did not care. He lay with his cheek pressed to the black silt, welcoming the fog of stupor that reached for him.

  The girl caught his sash, rousing him anew. Pain shifted to fury. He lifted his head and roared, “Damn it, girl, leave me be, or as God is my witness, I’ll shoot you.”

  “That might present a problem as I have your pistol.”

  The fog cleared from Sebastian’s eyes as he stared into the gaping muzzle of his own gun. The girl knelt in front of him, looking more like an impish wood nymph than an English lady. Her dress clung to her in tatters and mud streaked every exposed inch of flesh.

  She stretched out a grimy arm. “Give me your hand.”

  His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Are you abducting me, lass?”

  “Aye, laddie, that I am,” she said, mocking his burr. “Haul yer bloody arse up this hill before I’m forced to shoot ye.”

  Sebastian’s head fell. He did not know it could hurt so much to laugh. Without raising his head, he lifted his arm. Their muddy fingers linked. He gave her hand a brief squeeze before resuming his torturous crawl to the top of the hill.

  The crofter’s hut nestled at the end of a lonely hollow. A silvery burn gurgled beside it, overflowing its own twisting banks to lap at the rubbled walls. The hut looked as if it had been dropped from a windy sky, and the roof slapped on as an afterthought. The windows were crooked, the door askew. Prudence resisted the urge to tilt her head to see if the hut would straighten. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of entering a bandit’s lair.

  A sheet of wind and rain buffeted them as she shoved at the door. It did not budge.

  “Kick it,” the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick commanded.

  She looked at him doubtfully, then gave the door a dainty kick.

  “Not like that. Put all your weight into it.”

  Prudence drew back her leg. Not only did she put all of her weight into it, she put all of his weight into it as well. The door burst open and they crashed inside and to the floor. Prudence’s pocket squirmed in protest.

  The bandit groaned. “You’re killing me. I should have let you fetch the sheriff. He might have shot me and put an end to my misery.”

  She sniffed. “Don’t be ungrateful. Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” She wiggled out from beneath his weight. “Rescuing robbers is a relatively new pursuit for me.”

  “They didn’t teach it during your London season?”

  “I never had a London season.”

  Kneeling, Prudence peered into the shadowy corners of the hut. A distant flicker of lightning showed her a rusty lantern and tinderbox hanging on a wooden peg. She crawled to it and waited for the next flash to strike a flint and touch a match to the tattered wick. A halo of golden light illuminated the dusty corner. She stood, waving the lantern in a sweeping arc.

  The hut was dirty, abandoned long ago to skittering creatures and cobwebs. The only furniture was a rough-hewn table and chair set before a stone hearth. Heaps of ashes and chunks of half-burnt wood littered the grate. A pile of sticks huddled beside the hearth. There was no bed, but a stack of blankets made a rumpled pallet in the far corner. The two windows were covered not with glass, but with heavy black sacking, tattered and worn bare in spots. Prudence shivered. The air felt damp and cool against her wet skin. She hurried back across the hut and shoved the door closed, muffling the rain to a cozy drumbeat on the thatched roof.

  The bandit still lay by the door. He had not spoken for several minutes, and she thought he might be unconscious. Her breath quickened as she knelt beside him, bringing the gentle glow of the lantern toward his face.

  She gasped as the lantern was snatched out of her hand and thrust in her own face. Recoiling, she shielded her eyes from the blinding glare. From behind that awful light came a voice stripped of all humor by violence and desperation.

  “Get back! If you see my face, your life will be worth naught. Neither to me or my men.”

  Prudence blinked, suddenly afraid. She spoke calmly, with great effort. “If you don’t get out of those wet garments, your life will be worth naught. How am I to tend you if I cannot see you?”

  There was a long silence. Then he said, his voice still edgy, but thin with pain, “Put the lantern in the corner. The light should suffice.”

  She obeyed. This time when she approached him, he did not protest. She could see little but the gleam of his eyes and the shadowy outline of his features.

  “I’m not sure I can rise again,” he said.

  While she dragged the blankets nearer, the kitten climbed out of her pocket and jumped to the floor. He teetered around on unsteady paws, exploring the hut. Prudence caught the man under his arms and tugged. He shoved with his good leg until they’d worked him onto the pallet. She propped his ankle on a folded blanket, then knelt beside him again. Even in the dim light, she could sense him studying her face. She hid her discomfort by busying herself with the task of unwrapping his plaid and unhooking the drooping ruffles of his jabot.

  “What do they call you?” he asked.

  “Prudence.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Surely not. Faith, Hope, Charity, or even Rash Impetuosity, but not Prudence.”

  “I’m afraid I lose all rational thought when it comes to cats. I’m normally a very prudent girl.” She reached across him to peel his wet linen shirt from his muscular shoulders.

  His hand cupped her arm. His grip was disarmingly gentle. “A prudent girl wouldn’t be alone in an isolated hut with the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick, would she?”

  His knuckles brushed her arm, and her skin tingled at the brief contact. She could not decide if she had been threatened or warned.

  With a brisk motion to hide her sudden trembling, she spread a blanket over his lap and held out her hand. “Your kilt, please?” She was thankful she could not see his expression.

  To muffle his pained grunts as he unwound the garment, she asked, “Is it romantic being a bandit? Do you rob from the rich and give to the poor like Robin Hood?”

  His voice hardened. “Aye, I give to the poor. Myself. I am the poor.”

  “That’s an uncharitable attitude, don’t you think?”

  “Have you ever been poor?” He held out his arm, the kilt dangling fro
m one finger.

  She took the wet garment and shook it out. “Actually, I’m penniless.”

  “Penniless?” He snorted. “Only the rich say ‘penniless.’ I’d be willing to wager you’ve never gone hungry for it, have you?” Anger thickened his brogue. His r’s began to roll like a storm-pitched sea. “There’s a powerful difference between being poor in velvet and poor with no food in your belly. Have you ever stolen food from a dog for your dinner? Have you ever been beaten senseless because you hunted all day and couldn’t catch more than a stringy squirrel?”

  She laid a soothing hand against his bare chest. “Forgive me. I always manage to say the wrong thing.” The skin beneath her palm was lightly furred. She had never touched a man’s chest before, and its muscular warmth surprised her. “I have no right to judge you.”

  He grunted a response as if embarrassed by his impassioned outburst. Her hand slid downward to gently probe his abdomen.

  He jerked in a breath. His flesh contracted violently.

  Prudence snatched her hand back. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I saw the man hit you there. You’re going to have a terrible bruise tomorrow.”

  “I’ll worry about that tomorrow,” he said brusquely.

  He closed his eyes and turned his face away. She watched him for a few minutes, and when he didn’t move, she thought he must be sleeping. She pulled a dusty blanket over him and tucked it tenderly around his shoulders.

  Prudence was wrong. Sebastian wasn’t sleeping. As soon as she slipped away from him, he opened his eyes, following her every move with avid curiosity. She stood before the fireplace, peering around the hut. He wished she would stop squinting. He had an absurd desire to see the color of her eyes.

  Equally absurd was the way he’d felt when she’d touched him. Pain had not prompted his stomach to leap at her light caress, but the startling tenderness of her fingertips. He could not remember the last time a woman’s touch had elicited such a wrenching response.

  She knelt before the hearth and built a small fire with the sticks that had been left there. Her movements were economical, but graceful. He wondered at her age. She seemed nearer to being a woman than a girl. She had demonstrated no maidenly shrinking while helping him undress. Her hands had been soothing and practical. She had done what needed to be done without blushing or stammering. The girl was an enigma, and Sebastian intended to figure her out.

  Prudence soon had a cheerful fire crackling on the hearth. She stood and stretched with the lazy grace of a woman who believes she is alone and un watched. Sebastian’s breath quickened as she lifted her arms and began struggling with the tiny row of buttons down the front of her bodice. Her garments were soaked. It was only natural that she would want to get out of them. What was not natural was the mischievous stirring of Sebastian’s body as she eased the gown over her head. In other circumstances, he might have understood it, but not while lying beaten, broken, and half-dead on a chilly dirt floor.

  He saw her shiver in her thin petticoat and chemise. As she bent to pry off her muddy shoes, the wet fabric clung to her body in all the wrong places. The firelight shining behind her illuminated the supple curves of her long legs and the soft swell of her breasts. Sebastian groaned.

  She whirled to look at him, her hands flying up to cover her breasts. He slammed his eyes shut and thrashed a bit as if in pain. He was in pain, but not as she thought.

  As soon as he judged it safe, he snuck one eye open. The girl was sitting on the edge of the hearth, combing the tangles from her hair with her fingers. Her hair was a deep velvety brown and hung almost to her waist.

  Warmth from the fire billowed toward Sebastian’s pallet. His eyelids grew heavy. He nestled deeper into the blankets, caught in the hypnotic allure of Prudence’s fingers stroking through the rich cascade of her hair. He wished it were his own fingers.

  As if by magic, he felt the feathery warmth of hair beneath his fingertips. Prudence’s kitten butted its head against his palm, demanding attention. Sebastian stroked beneath its furry chin with one thumb, feeling the deep vibration of a purr that would have been more deserving of a lion. The kitten curled contentedly into the crook of his elbow.

  “Sebastian,” he whispered. “A silly name.”

  Like Prudence.

  He was already drifting into sleep when he remembered the girl still had his pistol.

  Prudence waited for as long as she could bear. Her petticoat and chemise were warm and dry, her hair only damp. She had chewed off three of her fingernails. As she hooked the lantern on her finger and crept toward the pallet, she remembered her aunt’s chiding refrain. Curiosity is most unbecoming in a lady. Prudence’s papa had not called it curiosity, though. He had called it a sharp mind for deduction. What Papa had failed to tell her was that a deductive mind was not an asset suitors desired. Prudence seriously doubted if a desperate criminal would be any more appreciative of it.

  She knelt beside the pallet, her petticoat cushioning her knees as she held the lantern aloft.

  The highwayman had shrugged aside most of the covers. Only a single blanket rode dangerously low on his hips. One serious sigh might dislodge it. Downy hair the color of honey covered his chest. Prudence’s wide-eyed gaze traced it to where it tapered to a thin line, then disappeared beneath the blanket. Moving the lantern, she shifted her gaze back up his body. He was of average height, but the wide breadth of his shoulders made him look bigger than he was.

  A smile touched her lips when she saw the ball of gray fluff tucked into his elbow. The sleepy kitten lifted his head and gave her a disgruntled look. Prudence touched her finger to her lips in a plea for silence. With a faint squeak, the kitten stretched and rested his chin on his paws.

  Prudence’s mouth went as dry as cotton as the lantern flame shed a halo of light over the highwayman’s face. His tawny hair was badly in need of a trim. She reached to brush it back from his brow before she realized what she was doing. Snatching her hand back, she inadvertently touched the hot tin of the lantern. She stifled a gasp of pain, telling herself one burn was better than another.

  Lifting the lantern higher, she hungrily studied his features. The sun had burnished his skin to a warm, sandy color that nearly matched his hair. His low-set brows were a shade darker. A thick fringe of charcoal lashes rested on his cheeks. Aunt Tricia would do murder for such lashes, Prudence thought. Not even copious amounts of lamp black could duplicate them. His nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken once, but its menace was softened by the faintest smattering of freckles across its bridge. A pale crescent of a scar marred the underside of his chin. Shallow lines bracketed his mouth and creased his forehead. Prudence suspected they had been cut not by time, but by wind and weather. She judged his age to be near thirty.

  The lamplight played over his mouth like a lover, and Prudence felt her chest tighten. It was a wonderful mouth, firm and well formed, the bottom lip fuller than the top. Even in sleep, the slant of his jaw tightened it to a sulky pout that would have challenged any woman. Prudence wanted to touch it, to make it curve in laughter or soften in tenderness.

  She leaned forward as if hypnotized.

  “Amethyst.”

  The word came from nowhere. Her gaze leaped guiltily from the bandit’s lips to his wide-open eyes.

  Two

  Prudence was caught in a trap of her own making, paralyzed not by the accusing circle of light, but by the stranger’s eyes, which were the misty gray color of summer rain. She felt like a dowdy moth beating its wings against a star.

  “Amethyst?” she repeated weakly. Perhaps the bandit was dreaming of gems he had stolen.

  “Your eyes,” he said. “They’re amethyst.”

  She blinked. Prudence had no difficulty seeing things close to her, so there was no need to squint now. If she closed her eyes, she suspected she would still see his face, etched indelibly on the slate of her mind. He did not touch her, but she could not move. Poised there in the light, she waited for him to reproach her or yell
at her or shoot her. She bit her bottom lip, then loosed it quickly, remembering how her aunt said the childish habit emphasized her buckteeth.

  Sebastian studied her frankly, his earlier suspicions confirmed. The girl was utterly lovely. The delicate alabaster of her skin gave her even features a surprising fragility. A nearly imperceptible cleft crowned the tip of her slender nose, and the primness of that nose was belied by a faint overbite that hinted at an alluring pout. Stubby dark lashes framed her violet eyes. The lamplight sought out burgundy highlights in the velvety tumble of her hair.

  Sebastian caught a coil of that hair between his fingertips. It was as soft and heavy as it looked. He had forgotten the pleasure of touching a woman’s hair without getting powder on his hands. The steady throb of his ankle waned as a new throb shoved blood though his veins in a primal beat.

  His eyes narrowed in a lazy sensuality Prudence mistook for drowsiness. “Put out the lamp,” he said.

  She obeyed, relieved that she had escaped being scolded or shot. Darkness drew in around them. The firelight cast flickering shadows on the far wall.

  “Lie down beside me.”

  Her relief dissolved at the husky warmth of his voice. The darkness shrouded his features, reminding her he was a stranger, with all the dangerous edges of any unknown man met in the seductive solitude of night.

  She twisted her petticoat between both hands. “I’m not very tired, thank you.”

  “You’re not a very good liar either.” His hand circled her slender wrist. “If I offend you, you may kick me in the ankle. I’m relatively harmless right now.”

  Prudence doubted he’d be harmless with both legs broken. No man with a mouth like that was harmless.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “Please.”

  It was the “please” that did it. How could she resist such good manners in a highwayman? After a moment of hesitation, she stretched out beside him, her arms and legs as rigid as boards. He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders in a casual embrace, and her head settled in the crook of his shoulder more easily than she would have hoped. Rain pattered a soothing beat on the thatched roof.