All his years of warring, of scouting and killing in the shadows, could they actually be put to some good? Might he actually be able to find the boy, to help Marjorie?
Would it redeem him if he did?
He helped her down from the carriage, letting his hands rest overlong on her waist.
Marjorie looked up at him, a sort of distressed bewilderment replacing the ire wrinkling her brow. “I'd thought Davie's kidnap was mere chance. Bad luck.”
“I told you to take your mind from it, Ree.” He guided her inside. “We will find him.”
“No, but Cormac, listen to me. If there is someone actually preying on the boys… “ She shivered. “And if it's Archie, I swear, I will stop him. I won't let this happen again.”
“First we focus on Davie,” he said, ushering her up the inn stairs.
“But what of the other lads in the meantime? How can I keep them safe?” He gave a comforting squeeze to her shoulders, then quickly unlocked their door. “There's naught we can accomplish tonight.”
“Archie will still come round to Saint Machar. He was supposed to be helping.” Renewed indignation flushed her cheeks red. She tugged at her gown for breath. “The damned blackguard. I trusted him.” She was growing riled again, and Cormac blamed it on that accursed foreign liquor. It had intoxicated her, rousing her with this wildly careening alarm.
By the time he settled them in their room, she was all swirling skirts and fisting hands. Her body quivered with fury, and she wriggled and plucked at her bodice. “But how in the world-?”
“You don't help Davie when your head is going in other directions.” He needed to take her mind from it all.
“It's the drink, Ree. You must calm yourself.”
“I can't calm myself. And it's not the drink.” Reaching awkwardly behind her, she struggled with the ties of her gown, trying to loosen them. “Cormac, I can't seem to—”
“Hush, lass.” He turned her away from him and slowly began to pick at the laces running up the back of her dress. “Catch your breath.”
“Catch my breath,” she grumbled. “I'll tell you what I'll catch. I'm going to catch that Archie and… and I'll shove him up a chimney.”
Cormac worked at her laces, letting her rant. He understood her state of mind all too well. She was right — it wasn't the drink that was the cause. It was hard not to get swept away by a tide of outrage and dread. Only through years of hardening his heart had he learned to master the tumult of feelings. A baptism of blood and gunfire had taught him how to focus his mind utterly, how to numb himself to the chaos and despair all around.
He knew, though, if he were only to let go, if he let his own mind drift for but a moment, he'd invariably end up in a dark place. A guilty, anxious place filled with morbid imaginings. Aidan kidnapped, Aidan beaten, Aidan killed.
“I'll find the smugglers, too, Cormac. If I have to go down to the docks myself, I swear I will find every last one of those pirates, and I will chain them up and send them away to a tropical isle.” Concentrating only on the woman before him, he tucked his grim thoughts into the farthest corners of his mind and continued to pick at her laces. “I know you will, Ree.”
She jiggled her torso and shuddered in a breath as her bodice began to loosen. “Those women, too. For the boys'
own good. Can you imagine? I'll send those horrible women away to live on an island for their own good, and I'll send the smugglers, too, and see what those nice wives think about Highland stock then.”
“So many ties,” he muttered. It was no wonder she couldn't breathe; women's clothing was preposterous. Just when he thought he was finished, another knot or another layer would appear. “How do you women manage it?” Finally, her bodice sagged, and she took a huge and shuddering gulp of air. His muscles relaxed, his body easing when hers did.
Cormac's eyes grazed up her spine, and his body quickened at once. He'd been so busy practicing his damned focus, paying mind only to the endless series of ties, he hadn't realized her sleeves had slipped low and her gown gaped open at her back.
“You've got that big, long sword, Cormac.”
He coughed. Sword indeed.
“Aye,” he managed. Her back was laid bare before him. His eyes devoured the creamy length of naked skin, the elegant stretch of neck. He longed to sweep his hands down her, finding each bone and muscle with his thumbs and rubbing her cares away.
“You'll fight them for me, right?”
“Of course, Ree,” he rasped. Even though there were no ties left to undo, he placed his hand at the small of her back. He longed to feel her naked flesh just where spine curved into bottom.
“What will you do when you get your hands on them?”
He couldn't think about his hands anywhere but right where they were at that very moment. “I… I'll… “ Her beautiful shoulders slumped. “Oh Cormac, tell me I didn't make a hash of things yet again.” A few long strands had spilled free from her knotted hair, and their light brown waves against the ivory of her skin mesmerized him. “Whatever can you mean, Ree?”
“Did you manage to arrange a meeting with Forbes, before I… “ She visibly deflated.
“Hush.” How smooth those curls would be if stroked between his fingers, how delicate if they were to brush against his chest. “I've made the connection, and that's enough. I've good reason to go meet Forbes at his office now.”
“I suppose he will want to know how your ailing wife is.” She straightened her back, sighing deeply. “We'll find Davie, won't we? We're close to finding him?”
He traced the slope of her bare shoulders with his fingertip. “Aye, Ree.” He drew in a sharp breath. His heart, his body — both knew.
There was only one thing in this world that could banish the darkness, all the rage and the fear, from both their minds.
Chapter 21
Cormac laced his fingers through a wayward lock of hair, and Marjorie's breath caught.
Oh dear Lord. She was half naked. While she'd ranted, Cormac had nearly undressed her.
There was a curious moment of stillness at her back, and then his hand swept over her shoulders. Breath whooshed into her lungs. And like that, anger transformed into desire, raging like a storm-swollen river.
“Cormac, I… “ She turned to face him. Her gown sagged, and she braced the heavy fabric against herself with a hand at her breast. “I seem to be undressed.”
“Not quite yet,” he murmured, and the sound of his low, rasping voice set something to quivering deep inside.
His eyes flicked to her bare shoulders, and awareness burned through her.
She returned his rapt stare, and something in her shifted. It was as though Marjorie were watching the actions of another woman. She became desperately curious to know what would happen next to that woman, what that woman might dare. Perhaps traces of the rumbullion still buzzed through her veins, perhaps that's what was to blame, but she let her gown slide ever so slighdy from her grasp. “Better?” Cormac exhaled sharply, and she felt its echoes in the heat pooling between her legs. “Not yet,” he said hoarsely.
She let her dress creep lower still, and cool air kissed the top of her bosom. Her breasts tightened until they ached, and the feeling was wicked and sensual. “How's that?”
His eyes swept down, and he lingered this time, leisurely dragging his gaze along the front of her. “More,” he told her.
The ache she felt in her most private of places spread, until she felt the intensity of it lance deep into her soul.
Marjorie realized then, she wanted to forget.
Marjorie Ellen Keith, self-avowed spinster at twenty-three. Hounded by tragedy, plagued by poor luck and poorer choices.
Just this once, she wanted to feel.
She let go of her gown.
Cormac moaned, and the raw sound of it slammed Marjorie back into herself. No longer did she watch her actions as if from afar. She was completely in her body now, and it clamored for him.
His eyes flew to hers, his look almost angry, vehement with want. He seized her waist and pulled her close. This was the moment. She parted her lips, waiting for his kiss.
He swung her onto the bed instead. The breath left her lungs with a startled gasp as she bounced on the thin mattress. He stared down at her hungrily. “We shouldn't do this.” She spread her legs to feel the cool between her thighs, but her flesh there was thick with a damp heat only Cormac could ease. “Lie down,” she told him in a sultry voice that surely wasn't her own.
He landed on her, tugging down her gown and kissing her hard. The wash of chill air made her heated skin pebble, and the sensation was delicious.
He pulled away to look at her and then he succumbed again, plunging his mouth to hers to take her in a fierce kiss. Blanketing her upper body with kisses, he murmured, “I can't stop, Ree. I should stop, but I can't.”
“Don't stop,” she said, knowing she'd never been more certain of anything in her life. “I need to forget. Make me forget.”
“Aye, I will. I will.” He rolled to his side to fumble with his waistcoat, his boots.
“Cormac,” she said breathlessly. She reached to undo his trews, and he froze, watching her with hooded eyes.
“Can I… ?”
Speechless, he gave her a slight nod. Marjorie fumbled with the buttons and, feeling uncertain, stopped for a moment, looking at him with a question in her eyes.
“Yes.” He sat up to tear off his shirt, then lay back, angling toward her, offering his hips at a better angle.
“You do it.”
It was an order, and it made her feel sinful and naughty, his gruff words heightening her arousal to a maddening pitch. She hitched her gown down and kicked it off from where it had tangled at her feet, and then scooted down on the bed to get closer to her goal. He wedged a leg between hers, and the chafe of rough wool on her bare skin shot a fresh wave of aching between her thighs.