Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(26)

“Just how long do you intend to keep me bound, then?” Aulay asked before fitting the bite of bread into his mouth.

“Until we are to Aalborg.”

“We’re two days from Aalborg! I canna carry on like this. Leave me shackled if you must, but untie my hands.”

She broke a piece of cheese and handed it to him.

Aulay caught her wrist and locked his fingers around it. She looked up with surprise. “I donna like to see you bound, but if I untied you, I’d have a mutiny. You’re the only leverage we have, you are.”

“You donna seem to me to be a demure wee lass who does as others bid her. If you want to see my wrists freed, then think of how to do it that spares you a mutiny.”

She glanced away, but Aulay yanked her close. His gaze moved to her mouth. “Untie me, Lottie.”

“I thought we had an understanding,” she said.

“Whatever made you think we did?”

She leaned closer still, her face only an inch or so from his. She glanced at his hand, wrapped tightly around her wrist. Long, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks. “There are men just outside that door, aye?” she said softly. She lifted her gaze and locked it with his. “If I scream, they’ll be inside so quickly that you’ll no’ have time to blink.” She leaned even closer, her mouth now beside his temple. “I’ve brought fish stew. Will you eat a wee bit of it? Or would you prefer to feel the butt of a gun crack against the back of your head?”

Aulay turned his head, so that his cheek was against hers. The air around them seemed to crackle. A fire was brewing, and he couldn’t say which of them burned brighter. “I canna be seduced, lass. No’ with you, no’ with food, no’ with threats.”

“More’s the pity,” she whispered into his ear, and sent an arc of fire shimmering down his spine to land squarely in his groin. She slowly leaned back and with her free hand, she picked up the cup from the table and showed it to him. “I’ll need both hands if you’re to drink.”

Diah, but he was weak. Damnably weak. He reluctantly let go her wrist.

She put the cup to his lips, splaying her fingers across his jaw to hold it steady. Aulay was too aware of her touch, of how light it felt against his skin, scarcely more than a whisper, yet hot at the same time. He drank the contents of the cup eagerly, as he was famished. A bit of it rolled down his chin, and she used the sleeve of his shirt she wore to blot it.

“You need a shave,” she observed.

“Do you propose to hold a razor to my throat?”

“No’ as yet,” she said, and a smile flashed across her face.

Her bonny eyes were making it impossible to keep Aulay’s rage billowing. Captivity, he was discovering, was exhausting. He felt himself on the verge of losing this battle of wills, of surrendering. Since he’d been strong enough to control the wheel of a ship, he’d been in command. He’d never not commanded the Reulag Balhaire, had never been at the mercy of another. It left him feeling small. His strength came from his command of a ship, of men. It came from the sea. It came from the smell of salt and the sound of the gulls and the constant roll as they pushed forward, and being denied access to those things weakened him. He felt a child again, pushed to the margin by stronger, more vibrant siblings...only this time, a wee lass had done it.

He needed a drink of something strong. He watched Lottie pull more bread from the stale loaf. “Have you any whisky?” he asked.

She smiled lopsidedly. “Quite amusing.”

“Look there, in the chest next to the bed. There’s a bottle of wine there.”

“Oh?” She perked up. She slid off the desk and padded over to the chest and opened the lid. She retrieved a bottle and came back to the desk, uncorked it, fit it between Aulay’s hands, then shimmied up onto the desktop again.

He took a long swig of the wine, and another, then handed the bottle to her.

She did not hesitate to put the bottle to her lips and drink just as long as he had before setting it aside and tearing off more bread for him.

Lottie Livingstone was a contradiction in many ways—graceful and fragile in appearance, yet obviously fierce and brave. She was the sort of raw beauty that real artists—artists better than him—would spend hours at their canvas perfecting. She ought to be studied and admired...but where were her admirers? What was she doing here instead of being held on a pedestal in some gentleman’s eye, adored, admired and pampered?

He watched her drink more, then put the bottle aside so that she could hand him cheese.

He’d never been the sort to place a woman on a pedestal, had never met one that had sparked that desire in him. Had never been in one place long enough to feel that sort of desperate attraction. There had been nights, in ports far-flung, where perhaps he’d felt it for the space of a few hours, but it had never lasted longer than that.

No, the sea was his love. The world and all her beauty is what called to him. And yet, in a strange way, this woman called to him. The truth, if he could admit it to himself, was that he admired her. He was furious with what she’d done, but he admired her bravery. Her willingness to at least try. He wanted to know how it had all come to this. He wanted to understand her.

He ate the cheese, washed it down with wine, then asked, “How is it that such a bonny lass has come to be in my cabin, in my clothes, in command of my ship? We offered to take you aboard. There was no need to attack us, aye?”