If You Dare - Cole Kresley - Страница 40

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She quickly shook her head, but he studied her expression as if he didn't quite trust that she'd resume what they were doing.

Just after he shuddered again, he somehow remembered to smooth down her skirts for her as she pulled her blouse back in place. He opened the carriage door and bellowed, "Why the bloody hell have we stopped?" He sounded on the verge of violence.

The driver called down, "A tree's blocking the road. Probably from the storms earlier in the week."

MacCarrick slammed the door. "God damn it!" He reached for his bag and gave her a warning look. "I want you to stay down."

"Wh-What is it?"

"Rechazados. With bloody, bloody bad timing."

The rage Court felt that someone would seek to hurt her was nearly blinding. No, kill her. And he was the only thing preventing it. If he didn't get cold like he used to be, they'd both be dead.

So busy in her skirts that he wasn't aware of the danger they were in.

He snared his pistol and a bag of coin, retrieved his shirt with a bitter curse, then donned it and his jacket with more bullets in the pockets. "Down, Anna," he ordered again, as he snatched his rifle from the overhanging net, then stormed out of the carriage, shirt still unbuttoned. He didn't bother to duck or cower, but strode to the front. Ducking wouldn't make a damn bit of difference with them, just would be the last thing you were doing when you got killed.

"Turn the carriage around."

The driver nodded, obviously shocked at Court's tone. Court stuffed the pistol into his pocket, then tossed the bag to him. "This is a quarter of what you'll get if you get her to safety until I return."

While he hefted the bag and said, "A quarter?" Court worked the lever on his rifle, laying it over his shoulder in readiness. He stalked up to the now skittish horses to snag a bridle, helping the driver work the coach around.

The first shot rang out, whizzing past his head. The horses shrieked but didn't bolt.

Court took aim at where the shot had originated and fired, then pumped the lever to fire three more times. With a second of time bought, he climbed the block as the driver prepared to flee, then in a low voice gave him new directions.

Court was just climbing down when two shots pitted the coach roof. Anna screamed, "MacCarrick, please come back!"

Now. Now he went cold.

The driver snapped his whip, and Court dropped down to return a shot of his own. He heard Anna scream again before they turned the corner.

"That bastard!" What was he thinking, jumping off the coach like that? Who did he think he was? What had she ever done to indicate that this would be in any way acceptable?

She'd called for Coachy, ordered him to stop, but they sped recklessly on, road dust trickling in from the bullet holes.

It wasn't fair. Just as before—it was worse waiting, worse not knowing. Worse being sped away so fast she couldn't even jump from the bloody carriage.

Why not stay with her and run? No, MacCarrick had to make some grand, idiotic gesture. He hadn't even ducked! She crossed her arms in anger, but soon had to uncross them to hold on to the strap inside the rocking coach.

She didn't care. She'd find her brother and get back home eventually. She didn't need Courtland MacCarrick.

"Oh, Mare de Deu," she said with a gasp. She didn't need him.

But she wanted him. Even though he was stubborn and aggressive and Scottish, she wanted him. And he would deny her to be some cursed hero?

Dismal hours passed before the coach finally slowed. She smelled the oddest scent and wrestled the working coach window down to find water stretching before her. The sea. They must have finally reached Calais, just across the channel from England.

She'd never seen the coast and had always longed to. For some reason kept mysterious to her, everyone who ever came back from the sea was happy.

Out of the corner of her eye, the sun was setting brilliantly, the waves meeting it ablaze with color.

And she felt none of the excitement she'd thought she would when she'd envisioned this day again and again.

The driver, inexplicably protective of her when he should be running away from a passenger who'd been ambushed and then abandoned, secured a room at a well-appointed inn directly on a cliff overlooking the sea. He even had a fine meal of fish brought up to her, but she could never eat when nervous. Instead, she stood on her balcony watching the lighthouse in England bandy with the French one on the next cliff up, their lights over the water like chalk on slate.

But where was he? She turned from the scene and paced until she thought she might drop. Why hadn't he arrived yet? She knew the most probable answer and refused it. Refused the deadening in her heart, realizing she'd never be the same if he died.

Annalia had hated her mother most of her life for her adultery, for throwing everything away for passion. Before MacCarrick, she hadn't understood how anyone could give up so much, but now she knew the feelings that could drive a person to risk it all. She'd give up everything she had to have him back, safe.

Her brows drew together in anguish. Though the night was slow to pass, the sun was rising. And he still was missing. What if he was hurt on the road somewhere? Oh God, what if he was lying in a ditch?

She'd go right back the way they came and retrace their steps. She'd browbeat Coachy if she had to, but she was going back.

Resolved, she yanked open the door. A dark figure stood just outside, and she nearly screamed in fright. "MacCarrick!" He looked more exhausted than she'd ever seen him.

He shoved her in, then slammed the door behind them. Without a word, he ran his hands forcefully over her, looking her up and down for injuries, then stumbled away. She knew he hadn't slept since he'd left her, and her heart constricted when she realized he'd returned to her as quickly as he was able.

Still… "You Highland bastard! Don't you ever, ever do that again. Don't you dare leave me!"

He stood his rifle against the wall. Before it had been shining and new. Now it was scratched all over, coated in mud, the handle dented. What had he gone through out there?

He sarcastically mumbled, "I'm alive and well." He lifted a ponderous chair like it was weightless, then wedged it against the door. "Doona worry yourself."

She watched in dismay as he lurched to the pitcher to guzzle water.

"I've been worried. I didn't know if you'd return."

Running his sleeve over his mouth, he turned. His expression revealed obvious irritation. "Have a feelin' you'd be fine without me."

"Likely! But that doesn't mean I don't want to be with you!"

He frowned as if her words had just stunned him, confused him. He stumbled again as he drew his pistol from his trouser waist and placed it on the table beside the bed. "Canna talk. Need tae sleep, woman. Doona leave this room or I'll make you regret it."

He fell to the bed, flat on his face, and passed out at once.

Her eyes widened, and she leapt forward to turn his head so he could breathe. Clearly he needed someone to care for him now. She discarded her shoes and sat, knees to her chest, beside him. The simple act of watching him sleep made the new feelings she'd experienced earlier return multiplied.

She reached toward him and smoothed his hair from his forehead. With a pang, she watched his brows draw together as if he was unused to the touch. Was he?

Of all the women he'd admitted to seducing, did none of them touch him tenderly afterward? She would when she made love to him.

Well! She hadn't realized part of her had had this discussion, much less that she'd decided. Even so, she believed it was a good decision, especially considering the three attacks on her life that would surely be followed by more. She refused to die with regrets. Now that she had a hint, a taste of what it would be like to make love to Courtland MacCarrick, she wanted it all.

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