The Highlander's Thief

Chapter Six

McWilliam could practically feel Rosa bristling with indignation. She stood before him, her back perfectly straight, her shoulders stiff and her head tilted up so she could stare directly into his eyes.

Around them, everything was still—the countryside deserted except for the occasional grazing sheep. For now, the rain had relented.

He stood his ground. He'd stared down a damn battalion of English soldiers, armed with nothing more than his dirk. Miss Rosa Blair didn't frighten him.

He stepped into her personal space. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, but she didn't back down. Not Thistle, not his feisty vixen.

His hand was on her waist, the other behind her neck before he could draw breath or form a coherent thought. And then he was kissing her.

She stiffened, resisting him for a few seconds, then, with a small sigh, her mouth softened beneath his. She parted her lips for him as his blood surged with possessive need, and he deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth with his own.

A shudder ran through her, and she pressed herself against him, her own hands grasping at the front of his shirt. With a pop, his top button dropped to the ground, and the collar of his shirt opened, cool fingers of air stroking his burning skin.

His blood was on fire with need even as his mind tried to stop him, telling him that he shouldn't be doing this, that she was off limits.

Dammit. He pulled back, dropping his arms back down to his sides.

He really absolutely shouldn't have done that. He hadn't been thinking.

"Never again," he promised her, as Rosa's hands moved to cover her swollen lips.

He grasped her around the waist with both hands, and lifted her onto Mist. She flinched at his touch, and he snatched his hands back.

The horse shuffled a few steps to the side, as if sensing the tension between them.

McWilliam didn't mount up behind Rosa. Instead, he pressed a hand to Mist's neck and started forward once more.

* * *

McWilliam set a grueling pace. Mist trotted, and he jogged along beside her. They didn't stop for lunch, not that they had any food to eat anyway.

Rosa sat stiff in the saddle, but as the hours wore on her shoulders began to droop. He spared her little sympathy—it wasn't like she was the one jogging.

As the sun crested the sky and began its descent, McWilliam knew they were approaching the border. He could feel it in his very bones. It was like the Lowlands called to him. Soon, the smooth undulating hills of the English countryside were replaced with the ragged mountains so reminiscent of his homeland; the soft, springy grass replaced by spiky thistles; and the light, gentle rain with thunder clouds that threatened a night of storms not to be reckoned with.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he closed his eyes for a second, breathing in the almost-Scottish air. Soon.

And if he had any say in the matter, he'd never step foot onto English soil again. This land spawned liars and thieves and killers. And redcoats.

He slowed, surveying the landscape. Farms were few and far between—few farmers choose to live this close to the border, not after more than fifty years of unrest and war between the two nations. Rather, brambles, nettles and gorse covered the foothills and rocks jutted out of the ground at peculiar angles, moss and lichen turning them grey, yellow and green.

This close to the border there were bound to be patrols of English soldiers. While McWilliam had continued traveling along minor roads, used only by country folk moving from farm to farm, he decided now was the time for even more caution. It was unlikely Mistress Thomas had sent word ahead of a Scotsman traveling with his reluctant—possibly kidnapped—bride, but that wasn't all he was afraid of. If Rosa caught sight of a redcoat, she'd very possibly turn him in. Just one shout from her and they'd have half a garrison on their tail.