Authors: Carmella Jones
“Why should you care to know?”
He shrugged. “It seemed a way to pass the time if you’re going to keep me on my knees forever.”
As she looked at him, it seemed to William she made up her mind about something. She gave a sharp nod and approached him, dagger outstretched, held beneath his chin. “Stand.”
His eyes on hers, he slowly rose to his feet. Her dagger stayed where it had been and ended up pressed against his belly, just enough to remind him how close it was.
“I’m not sure I can mount without the use of my arms,” he said, keeping his tone light and easy.
“You’ll walk,” she said, leading him to the horse and taking a rope from her pack.
“I’ll only slow you down.”
“I can afford the time,” she answered, but she didn’t quite seem sure of that. Her movements were ginger, and he saw that she favored one leg. He must have kicked her harder than he’d thought.
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely as she secured the rope to his bound hands. “About your leg.”
“It’s nothing,” she answered stubbornly. “I’m not the one who’ll be walking.”
“True. I don’t suppose you’ve anything in your bag for my head.”
She took the time to fasten the other end of his rope to a tree before moving back to her pack and pulling out a few items.
“Drink,” she said, holding a cask of what smelled like whisky to his lips. He was grateful for it and took a quick sip. Putting the cask aside, she pulled out a few strips of cloth and proceeded to soak one of them in the whisky before pressing it to his forehead.
He swore loudly, and she grimaced. “You don’t want it festering,” she said in the tone of someone who was used to patching up men who didn’t appreciate the pain of it.
A moment later, she was securing another cloth around his head. “That should do you for now.” There was a softness in her voice as she finished, and it made his answer soft as well.
“Thank you, Miss Darrow.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Davenport,” she answered, and then she took the rope from the tree and mounted her horse, securing William’s lead to the saddle horn. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve a long journey ahead.”
#
She’d told the Englishman--Davenport, if he could be believed--that she could afford the time she’d lose keeping him walking, but the truth was, Isobel was not certain of that. She’d no idea what she’d do with him when they crossed into England. She could hardly let him go. He’d be certain to spoil her mission. She could hardly take him with her for the same reason.
Could she leave him bound in the forest somewhere and continue to Carlisle on her own, hoping no one found him before she finished her work?
It was a possibility, but one that made her nervous to consider.
By nightfall, they were barely twenty miles from camp. Isobel had hoped to be at least three times as far, riding at a good pace, but it was clear Davenport could not keep up, though he tried enough when she pushed him.
He was like her brothers, never wanting to admit something was too physically challenging for them. Stubborn, like any Scotsman.
She’d watched him as he walked. His lean shoulders were held straight and proud, and though he was somewhat slender, he was strong. She could see the play of muscle beneath his clothing, and the sight of it quickened her pulse.
She supposed it would serve him right if he died of exhaustion along the way because she’d pushed him too hard and he’d been too stubborn to say, but the thought of driving him to his death held no appeal for her. Though she fought alongside the men when she could, she’d never done more than fire an arrow into English infantry or would someone badly enough to stop them. Killing a man, up close, where she could see the light fade from his eyes at her hand, that was something she’d never yet done.
Despite their meager progress, Isobel knew they’d have to make camp for the night. Davenport could not go on as he was, and her horse was beginning to tire as well. Pulling from the road, she found a small clearing, well-hidden by dense woods, and reined in to make camp.
“Am I to sleep bound, Miss Darrow?” Davenport asked. He’d kept fairly quiet on the road, for which Isobel had been grateful. She needed the chance to gather her thoughts, attempt to plan her course from here, and she’d seen already how charming the handsome Englishman could be. She didn’t need the distraction.
“Only if you intend on sleeping,” she said, slipping from her horse and moving to secure them both to a tree.
“I had hoped to,” Davenport admitted, settling himself at the base of the tree. His eyes followed Isobel as she moved around the camp, unpacking her saddlebag and scouring the area for firewood and kindling. She felt his gaze like a touch on her skin, and it warmed her all over, making her pulse between her thighs, her thoughts traveling in directions they had no right to go.
Though she’d never lain with a man herself, she had too many older brothers not to know precisely what it was her body ached for. She saw so few men she hadn’t known since childhood that the sight of a strange man was having more of an effect on her than it should. It didn’t help that Davenport stretched himself out at the base of the tree, the long, lean line of him catching the sunlight.
Isobel tried to put the thoughts from her mind as she went about starting the fire, gathering water, and cooking some porridge for supper, but she still felt him watching her, unspeaking, and glanced over in his direction herself far too often.
He had nearly fallen asleep, she saw, when the porridge was ready, and she almost hated to wake him. He’d had a long, difficult day. He must be exhausted. Still, if he didn’t eat, tomorrow would be the worse for him. She nudged his foot with her boot, and held out a wooden bowl, steaming with supper.
He snorted as he woke, and she couldn’t help laughing a bit, attempting to hide it as soon as he looked to her.
“Here,” she said, pressing the bowl into his hands. “You’ll want the strength of it tomorrow.”
He glanced to the bowl and then up to her. “And how do you suggest I go about eating it?” he asked, and Izzy felt her face flush. She’d been so focused on not thinking about the strength he held in his shoulders that she hadn’t stopped to think he wouldn’t be able to eat without his hands.
She huffed out a frustrated breath and moved to take a spoon from her pack, returning to him and settling herself on the ground next to him to feed him.
It worked well enough. Davenport held the bowl, and she spooned the porridge into his mouth.
At least, it would have worked well enough except that his eyes stayed trained to her face, occasionally flicking down to her lips as she fed him. He was leaning too close, and the heat of his body warmed hers in the cool of the evening.
He must have noticed this as well because he said softly, “We should rest close together for warmth,” and Isobel’s cheeks flushed again. He was right, of course, but she wasn’t sure how she would handle spending the night curled against his warm, firm body.
After a deliberate swallow, she nodded. “It would be wise,” she agreed, fighting with her body not to show how affected she was by the idea.
Davenport smirked just a bit. “I suppose you want me bound for that as well.”
Isobel rolled her eyes and gave him a particularly large bite to finish off the porridge, hoping to fill his mouth enough to stop him talking.
She turned from him quickly to fill her own bowl, sitting across the fire from him in silence while she ate. He never once looked away.
After she finished, Isobel went to the small, nearby creek to wash their dishes and set them out near the fire to dry. Once again, she went about her work, trying to ignore the Englishman, though his gaze stayed stubbornly upon her, and she felt her nipples tighten at the knowledge, hoping he could not see them through the thin fabric of her blouse.
When she could no longer delay their night’s rest, she laid a blanket on the ground a ways from the fire and settled herself onto it. “Well?” she muttered after a moment. “Sleep if you’re going to.”
Davenport didn’t say anything, but Isobel heard his shuffling movements, and a moment later felt the warmth of his back against hers.
“Goodnight, Miss Darrow,” he said quietly, amusement in his voice.
“Goodnight, Mr. Davenport,” she answered, feeling a touch of the same amusement creeping into her tone as well.
This was likely to be a long night.
#
Though Will had purposefully slept with his back to Miss Darrow, by the time he woke, they both had shifted so her head was on Will’s chest, and their legs had become intertwined. He had the fleeting wish that his hands were unbound only so he could he could have his arms around the sweet warmth of her body. Her thigh was curled over his hip such that he felt the weight of it against his hardening cock, and he gave a low moan, still more than half asleep.
The sound must have been just enough to wake the girl. She stirred and curled momentarily closer to him. He nuzzled into her wild, red hair without thought, and she stiffened, then pushed away.
“Mr. Davenport,” she said sharply. “You overstep yourself.”
He held up his hands as much in surrender as he could manage. “Forgive me. I was lost in a dream,” he said by way of an excuse, though its truth could be questioned.
She gave a quiet harumph, and then her gaze moved to his hands.
“God’s teeth,” she muttered. “Your fingers.”
He looked down to see that his hands were beginning to turn purple from being tied too long. They felt a bit cold as well. She dropped to her knees in front of him and moved to untie his hands, then paused, clearly concerned as to what the right choice was. Will pitied her the decision and said, “I don’t suppose it would make a difference if I were to swear I’d not run?”
“I know too well what the word of an Englishman is worth,” she said, her voice dropping low. Will wondered what had been done to give her such a response.
“I can’t speak of the oaths of Englishmen,” he admitted. “I can only offer my oath as a man.” She still hesitated, her fingers holding the rope at his wrists. “It’s all I have to offer, Miss Darrow,” he pointed out gently.
After another moment, she nodded, and her fingers made quick work of her knots. Will watched her face as he had the night before. He couldn’t make heads or tails of her. She seemed so gentle, had so much capacity for kindness. She was nothing like the hellions he’d been told made up the women in Scotland’s ranks.
He wondered what an Englishman had done to her to make her hate them so.
A hiss slid through his teeth when she unwound the rope from around his wrists. His fingers prickled as the blood resumed its flow, and he rubbed his hands together to help the process.
“Is it bad?” she asked, concern in her face that overwhelmed the fierceness of it.
“I’ll keep both, I reckon,” he assured her, and then added, more sincerely, “Thank you.”
She nodded and began to gather their things, pausing to toss him a chunk of bread. “We’ll need to hunt or fish tonight. My rations are running short.”
“I daresay you didn’t intend to share them.”
“That I didn’t,” she agreed and gave him a faint smile, the closest to civility he’d gotten from her yet.
“I’ll help with the fishing,” he offered. “If you’ll allow it.”
She eyed him warily, looking him over as though seeking out any signs of deception. “Why?”
“I’ll eat as much as you,” he answered with a shrug. “More, if there’s more to be had.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Why are you staying? I’ve untied you. Your hands must be fine by now. You could easily overpower me.”