He pulled back, lowering his face to her shoulder and catching his breath. No, no, no, was all she could manage in the way of forming a thought. She needed his mouth; she needed his body, so hard and heavy, against hers.
“We should go,” he said.
“What?” Moving away from this place, from his heat, was the last thing on her mind. But gradually, when he didn’t kiss her again, she noticed it wasn’t just his body keeping the rain from falling on her. The rain had slackened and now there was only a drizzle. Emmeline began to wonder if there was ever a time in Scotland when it didn’t drizzle.
“We should walk to the cottage,” he said. “Before the rain starts again.”
“It’s never stopped,” she said, irritably. She did not want to walk to the cottage. She wanted to stay right here, and she wanted him to kiss her again.
“Then before it starts to rain buckets again,” he said.
Emmeline wanted to pull him back when he moved away from her. She immediately missed the warmth of his body and his touch. She almost wished it was still pouring rain. But without the feel of him close to her, she was cold and damp and wishing for a fire and somewhere soft to lie down. She almost wished she were home again, except then she remembered how her mother slapped her hand when she reached for a biscuit and how she had to share a bed with Marjorie, who made a show of crying herself to sleep because Emmeline would not be reasonable and marry some oaf so Marjorie could marry her one true love.
Emmeline would take Scottish rain and pine needles in her hair over that any day. And she would take Stratford’s kisses over pretty much anything else. The warmth of him still infused her, and she could almost forget that she was wet and cold.
He was already gathering his things, and she resigned herself to doing the same. Without speaking, she bundled her few belongings and followed Stratford and Loftus to the cottage. Loftus seemed to know the way and frequently trotted ahead or lingered behind, sniffing something only he could smell before racing to catch up with them. For her part, Emmeline stumbled over her skirts for most of the way and was relieved to see the light in the darkness and smell the smoke of a fire. Her senses detected these signs of civilization long before they reached the cottage. She couldn’t tell the condition of the place, but the promise of a fire drew her closer, and gave her strength to stumble along. The first chance she had she would tie up these skirts. The hem had come loose, and she wouldn’t be able to stop tripping over them until she found a needle and thread.
When they finally neared the cottage, the door opened, and Duncan Murray stood in the frame. “I’d begun tae wonder if it would ever stop,” he said. Giving Emmeline a concerned look, he moved aside. “Come warm yerself by the fire, lass.”
She moved inside the cottage, her eyes stinging at the smoke lingering near the ceiling—what there was of it—and her nose wrinkling at the dirt and general ruin of the place. But it was mostly dry and warm, and she could appreciate that. She went to the fire, where Ines was curled up under Murray’s coat. The woman was sleeping, her face resting on one cheek. She looked peaceful and unhurt, and Emmeline sat next to her and put a hand on her back. Behind them, the men spoke in low tones, something about horses and lace. Emmeline would normally have wanted to be involved in the conversation, but she was too tired. Her eyelids were too heavy.
The next thing she knew, her back hurt. Her bed was hard and unyielding, and her body ached. She was warm, though, and something heavy was draped over her, keeping her from rolling to her side. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked into Stratford’s face. He was smiling at her, eyes already open.
She started, and the arm he’d draped over her kept her from bolting to her feet.
“Shh,” he said. “Miss Neves is still sleeping.”
Emmeline looked on the other side of the room, where a small form under a heap of cloth must have been Ines. She looked back at Stratford. “Where is Mr. Murray?”
“He went to surveil the surroundings,” he said, sounding very military-esque.
“Why didn’t you go?” she whispered.
“I stayed back to protect the women.”
She raised a brow. “By lying here and staring at me.”
“There have to be some benefits to staying behind.” He pushed a strand of her hair off her face, and Emmeline tried not to imagine how absolutely wild she must look—her hair unkempt and frizzy, her clothing rumpled, and her face probably smeared with mud or soot.
“You looked too beautiful for me to look away,” Stratford said.
Emmeline stared at him.
“I know it’s wildly inappropriate for me to lie here with you, but you smell a great deal better than Duncan.”
“I’m sure I smell rank and look just as bad,” she said, turning her head away from him. Her cheeks felt hot, and she wished he would move his arm so she could sit up and avoid his gaze. Except she didn’t want him to move away so much that she would actually ask him to do so or lift his arm.
“You look a bit...”
She glanced at him, and his brow was furrowed in thought.
“Be careful of your words, Fortescue,” she said.
He grinned, and it was such a boyish grin that she was taken back to those summers at Odham Abbey and all the many times she had wished he would invite her to play with him and the older children. “Mussed,” he finally said, and she nodded her approval.
“Good choice.”
“Thank you.”
She looked down at his arm and regretfully motioned at it. “Could you?”
Of course. He lifted it, and she wriggled away, giving her tight muscles some relief. She sat and stretched her back. “I do wish we could find an inn or a bucket of hot water somewhere.” She glanced at him when he didn’t reply and found him staring at her. He blinked.
“Pardon?”
“Hot water, I said. I would kill for some.”
“So would I, but we need horses even more desperately.”
Emmeline thought that statement debatable.
“I would like food,” said a small voice from the pile of clothing.
Emmeline laughed. “So would I. Are you well?”
Two brown eyes poked out. Emmeline sighed when she saw how pretty Ines still looked. The other woman might have bathed and brushed her hair the night before for all she looked neat enough. “I am very well.” She touched her throat, and Emmeline spotted the red triangle-shaped wound the reiver had made with his blade. It was not bleeding, but it looked angry and raw.
Stratford rose to his feet. “Duncan said the men didn’t hurt you?”
“They only wanted money,” Ines said. She sat slowly. “Where is Duncan?”
Stratford indicated the window. “He went to scout the area. We’ll need to find someone with horses to loan.”
“And a farmer’s wife who likes my lace,” Ines said.
Stratford nodded. “It’s lucky you have it with you.”
“How will lace help us?” Emmeline asked, and the two of them explained the plan to her. A half hour later, the three of them had brushed the dust from their clothes and hair and were pacing impatiently about the cottage. Emmeline was pleased to note the rain had stopped, though the day was gray and overcast. She looked up when Loftus let out a low warning bark and spotted Duncan through the window. He was returning, a smile on his face. He raised a hand to her, and she went to the door and opened it for him.