“I—”
They all heard the pistol shot, interrupting her words.
Langston saw her whiten. It was especially noticeable with how wide her eyes went as they met his again. He put out his hand and she took it, surprising him almost as much as how much thigh she was showing as she hitched up her skirt and launched herself onto Saladin’s flanks.
“Ride! The bog!” She hissed the words into his ear. At least he thought that was what she hissed. It could have been anything, for the touch of her breath on his neck gave him a feeling he’d rather forgo.
He tightened his knees and Saladin obeyed. If she was impressed, he didn’t note that she showed it.
“You shouldn’t have given him the pistol,” he remarked over his shoulder as they covered the rock-strewn grass, easily outdistancing the troop. It wasn’t entirely due to superior horsemanship or horseflesh. It was because the Highland Rangers wouldn’t move unless, and until, they were ordered to do so. The captain was woefully late in giving the order, Langston thought.
“You’re…him,” she said.
“Oh, I am definitely a him,” he answered.
“No, I mean…you’re him,” she replied, emphasizing the word this time.
Langston chuckled, and the movement made her hands slip from where they were clasped about him. She refastened them and slid closer, pulling herself more securely to him. He was grateful he’d worn the black, woolen jacket atop a like-colored, knitted tunic. It made it easier to feel her. Actually, he amended to himself, it made it easier to imagine he was feeling her.
“Thank you for clearing that up,” he said, tossing the words at her.” Now, hush! We’ve got to find him a-fore they do. It’s not going to be easy, either.”
“But—you’re the Monteith,” she answered him.
He grabbed at her entwined hands before she had a chance to act on her knowledge. “Aye. Now hold to me, I’m putting Saladin through his paces. He’s very impressive. Watch. Feel.”
The Arabian stallion was more than impressive. He was horseflesh with wings. The bog was upon them before another word, and then Langston had to put his attention to speed without breaking one of Saladin’s legs. It wasn’t easy, and she appeared to know it as they dodged and ducked branches and decay and bits of moss hanging from outstretched tree limbs.
Through it all, the woman clinging to his back moved with him, making herself an extension of the horse, just as he was. Langston gave Saladin his head more often than he controlled it. Not because he wanted to, but because the thought of her breasts shoved against his back, the feel of her fingers clinging to his abdomen, and the idea that her bare thighs were pushing against the backs of his, was starting to interfere with his horsemanship. He’d never thought that possible before.
Mud splashed with each step, coating his boots, and flecking the black leather of his trousers, too. Langston ignored it. The stallion’s heaving breaths were transferring to him, making his own chest fill and empty with the expenditure of energy and strength. The woman was doing the same movement at his back, and the thought of that was driving him mildly insane.
“Angus!”
She was pointing, accompanying a voice that he barely heard. Langston shook his head to clear it, and pulled on the reins before they ran over the small, wizened-looking fellow. She was off before he was, and bending over the fellow at Saladin’s hooves. If that was her husband, she’d wed poorly, he decided.
“Forgive me, lass. I dropped it.”
“Where?”
“In the bog. Over yonder.”
“Not that! Where are you hurt?”
“I’m na’ hurt.”
“But we heard a shot.”
“The pistol fell. It discharged. You should na’ run about with a loaded weapon like that, lassie. Think of the consequences.”
“Angus MacHugh, I’m going to take the entire verse of Saint John and screech it into your ear! Do you hear me?”
“I believe everyone can hear you,” Langston replied dryly. “Including the Highland Rangers we just escaped.”
“Sweet Lord! What are you doing with the Monteith? Devil spawn! Get back! And take your devil horse with you!” The old man leapt to his feet and spat toward Langston.
He was spry for his age, whatever that might be, Langston thought.
“You ken what this means to us…to me?” The man called Angus was pointing at the woman, and then at him, and his voice warbled as he asked it.
“I had nae other choice!” she replied, too loudly once again.
“Nae Highlander worthy of the title consorts with a Monteith anymore. Especially this Monteith. He’s black as pitch. Blacker.”
“Your regard warms my heart,” Langston said with an even drier tone.
“He gave me a ride to save you!”
“And as you can see for yourself, I’m right as rain. Or I will be once I’ve a dram or two beneath my belt, and…where is my belt, lass?”
The girl opened her mouth to howl out what sounded like absolute frustration. Langston was on the ground, had his arm looped about her, pulling her up into his chest, and a hand over her mouth before she finished. She twisted. She kicked. She bit him. The pain and stunned reflex was what got her mouth free. It didn’t last.
“Unhand me, you—you—!”
He had her mouth again. “Rangers,” he hissed, the word stopping further struggle. With one arm about her waist, and the other crossing between her breasts, he felt every bit of her anger, fright, and indecision. And every bit of her womanliness. That was disconcerting. He knew what she was debating, too, and his lips twisted into a shaky smile. Her nearness was intoxicating, but she was almost more willing to pay the penalty to the rangers than to continue it.
“Let the lass go. We’ll na’ trouble you further.” The Angus fellow had lost his bravado. He seemed to shrink in the process. Langston frowned.
“I’ll unhand the lass if she’ll keep her voice low. These trees hide many a tale. They’ll hide us, too, but not if you announce where we are. Nod for aye.”
At her nod, he released his hand, then both arms. She flung herself from him and stood, bent forward with her hands on her knees, panting. That was an even more impressive sight. The girl was gifted with every bit of curve and softness that the Lord could have provided. She was also flushed in the face, making the azure of her eyes more vivid and piercing, although it clashed with the orange-red streaks in her hair. It was a true shame she was already wed. Even with what Langston thought of the institution, he’d consider it, if the bride was her. He shook his head to clear it. Marry a Highland lass? he wondered. There wasn’t one outside the Monteith clan that would have him.
“What do you want?” she asked when she had control of her breathing. There wasn’t one emotion on her face as she stood there asking it either. Langston folded his arms and considered her.
“A graceful ‘thank you’ would be appreciated,” he replied, keeping his features as stone-stiff as she was hers.
“I’d rather thank a snake,” she finally said.
“Very well. An ungraceful, begrudged thanks, pulled from the depths of your gut. That will do,” he responded.
She looked like that was what it would take. One side of his lip lifted.
“Perhaps your spouse isn’t so stubborn. What say you, Angus? Will you say a proper thanks to me?”
She snorted at his words, sounding like it cleared her