Kiss Me, Annabel

“She’s very pretty,” the shorter Crogan said to his brother, staring at Annabel’s breasts.

She stepped backward again.

“Now, brother,” the other Crogan said genially. “Iffen our little monk has decided to have himself a taste o’ the best, we can’t begrudge him that. But we can’t forget the old ways either.”

Before Annabel knew what was happening, a strong arm curled around her and she was pulled sharply to the left down the steps. The last she saw was the rest of the clan genially throwing Ewan’s footmen to the ground, while she was literally carried away over the shoulder of the larger Crogan.

“What are you doing!” she shrieked at him, beating his meaty shoulder.

The man ran surprisingly fast for someone barely able to keep his balance the moment before. In a second they were into the trees and Crogan was thrashing along, his brother chugging behind him as if he knew precisely where he was heading.

“What are you doing?” Annabel shrieked again, and this time she got hold of some of his red hair and pulled it as hard as she could.

“Ouch!” he cried, and put her down, careful not to let go of her arm. “I thought you were a Scots. They said you were!”

“I am!” Annabel said, glaring at him.

“Well, stap my vitals, if you aren’t a pretty thing!” he said, his eyes falling to her bosom again.

“Lord Ardmore will kill you if you lay a hand on me,” Annabel said.

“We’d never do that,” said the fat one. “But you’re Scots, aren’t you?”

“What has that got to do with it?” she screamed. “Let me go!”

“Our brothers have gone for Ardmore,” the thin one said. “And we’ve you. Take out the feathers, Crogan.”

“What?”

“You’ve to be blackened,” he said, grinning like a fool. “You know what that is, surely, or aren’t you from hereabouts?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she said. The fat one was taking what looked like a bag of feathers from his rucksack.

“You must be blackened,” he repeated. “ ’Tis a pity that you have such a pretty dress on.” He reached out to touch the lace around her bosom. “But we have our instructions. Perhaps—”

But Annabel saw his dirty hand coming out to her breast and her scream was instinctive.

The Crogan holding her arm jumped. “Hush, now!” he said. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

But Annabel was just getting into her stride. He tried to get a beefy hand over her mouth, and she bit him and screamed again.

“Damnation, Crogan,” he grunted. “Would you get over here with that treacle, then? I’m thinking this one’s a tartar as will rival Ardmore’s grandmother. I’m thinking—”

Annabel kicked him with her jeweled shoes as hard as she could.

“Ouch!” he said, and: “Ouch! I’m thinking we should put in some Hail Marys for poor Ardmore—”

The shorter Crogan had finished mixing up something that was unmistakably a pot of black treacle. Annabel twisted as best she could, screaming at the top of her lungs.

There wasn’t a sound in the woods other than her own screams and the panting complaints of the Crogan who was holding on to her. But suddenly she heard a clear, sharp voice cry, “Stop that!”

“Help me!” she screamed. She was about to steel herself to bite the Crogan again when there was an oof! and he dropped her arm and flew away to the side.

Since she was in the midst of trying to kick him, Annabel fell smack on the ground and it took her a moment to pull herself from the tangled roots and leaves. Her hair was all over her eyes, and she couldn’t see a thing.

She could hear, though. She heard a smack and a cry, a howl of pain and another crack that sounded like a head. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and looked up.

Rosy was standing over the shorter Crogan with a big rock in her hand. He was out cold, his cheek nestled in a little puddle of black treacle. Rosy looked extremely pleased, and not in the least befuddled. “I hit him,” she said cheerfully.

“So you did,” Annabel said, blinking at her.

Then she heard another thunk, and spun about.

It was Ewan. He had the bigger Crogan on the ground, the one who had been holding her. He was beating him mercilessly. “If you ever dare to touch her again,” he said—thunk!—“I’ll kill you.” Crack! The man’s head snapped back. “I’ll kill you as easily as I’d feed slop to a hog!” Ewan said. His voice was so savage that Annabel’s mouth fell open.

“Do you hear me, Crogan?” he shouted.

“Yesth,” the man said. “I wathn’t—”

“You were touching her,” Ewan said, lifting him up into the air like a sack of meal and letting him fall again.

“I wasthn’t!” Crogan wailed. “Ah, God, I won’t ever come near her again. ’Twasn’t me!” he wailed. “ ’Twas your gran—”

Ewan drew back his fist again and walloped Crogan on the chin. The man gave a groan and his eyes rolled back into his head. He was out cold.

“Ewan!” Annabel breathed, putting a hand on his arm as he started to pick up Crogan and shake him back into consciousness.

“I’ll find Father Armailhac,” Rosy said, her voice as clear as a bell. She ran away, and Annabel snapped her head back to Ewan.

Ewan had dropped Crogan back on the leaves.

He was breathing as if he’d run ten leagues, so he concentrated on rolling down his sleeves. He, Ewan Poley, Earl of Ardmore, had just lost control for the first time in his life. Well, perhaps not exactly for the first time.

He took a sideways glance and saw that she was all right. His Annabel. They’d frightened her, but they hadn’t really touched her. The feathers lay spilled on the ground, and a pot of treacle was soaking into other Crogan’s hair.

So that first horrible glance he’d had, that first stark terror when he heard her screams, was incorrect. They weren’t ravishing her: the Crogans were merely up to their stupid, drunken pranks again.

Finally he had to meet her eyes, because she had her hand on his arm. He knew she would have that little pucker between her brows, so he looked.

And almost closed his eyes against the beauty of her, all rumpled hair the color of gold coins falling over his arm, and her eyes, with their seductive tilt, and the intelligence of her face, and the courage there too.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“He didn’t touch me, the drunken fool,” Ewan said.

“Drunken or not,” Annabel shuddered, “I’m so grateful that you saved me, Ewan.”

“I was going to kill him,” he said slowly. “Kill him.”

Annabel looked at him.

“Do you remember when I was foolish enough to say that I couldn’t see myself losing my soul?” Ewan asked.

She nodded.

“There’ll be nothing difficult about it at all. When I saw him touch you—”

He stopped.

“I would kill him again and again,” and there was a savagery in his tone that went through Annabel like a piercing wind. “God, Annabel, it’s not a question of how or whether I could damn my soul. How many times would I damn myself for you? Ask me that.”