Page 52 of Some Like It Wild
Connor’s eyes were as dry and barren as a desert, but Pamela could feel hot tears trickling down her own cheeks.
“When she pulled that trigger, I felt Catriona’s wee body jerk in my arms as if she’d been the one shot. I realized then that I’d been screamin’ the whole time, but without makin’ a single sound. As my mother fell, my father broke free of the redcoats and tried to get to her, but they knocked him over the head with the butt of a pistol. Then they dragged him outside and hanged him. I buried my face in Catriona’s hair and kept it there until all was quiet.”
As quiet as a beautiful spring eve with crickets chirping and a gentle breeze blowing across the surface of a lake. On that night so long ago there would have been nothing but the muffled sound of a little girl’s sniffling, the eerie creaking of a rope and the wind sighing through the branches of the pines in a timeless lament.
“When we came creepin’ out, the cottage was a smolderin’ ruin. My father’s body was still swingin’ from the tree. I pulled Catriona into my arms one last time, tryin’ to shield her from that sight.” He bowed his head. “Then I buried my parents and put my sister on the mail coach to London with a note askin’ my uncle to look after her.”
“You were all alone,” Pamela whispered, swallowing past the knot of anguish in her throat. “How did you bear it?”
She lifted a hand but he caught her wrist in a harsh grip before her fingertips could brush his cheek. “I don’t want your pity, lass. And I sure as hell don’t need your charity.”
A helpless laugh escaped her. “Is that what you think I’m offering you, Connor? Pity? Charity? Because I can promise you that I didn’t feel particularly charitable tonight when I saw the way you were looking at Simon Wescott’s wife.”
He blinked down at her, clearly taken aback by her words. “How did you feel?”
She returned his frown with one of her own. “I felt very cross indeed.”
“Cross?” His grip on her wrist softened, but the ripple of amusement in his voice only made her feel more contrary. “Because you thought she’d given me that locket? Because you believed she was a woman from my past who still had some sort of claim on my heart?”
She tugged her wrist from his grasp. “Among other things.”
Her frosty tone only deepened his dimple. “And now that you know she’s my sister,” he asked gently, “just how do you feel?”
Instead of telling Connor how she felt, Pamela decided to show him. Rising up on her tiptoes, she drove her hands into his hair and tugged his mouth down to hers.
Chapter 20
Connor groaned, accepting her unspoken invitation to ravish her mouth by thrusting deep with a velvety stroke of his tongue. Welcoming the hot, hungry press of his mouth against hers, Pamela threaded her fingers through his hair, raking the silky strands free from their velvet restraint as she had longed to do all night.
He might play the role of gentleman with convincing flair, but she knew in her heart he would always be that same wild boy who had taken to the mountains after his parents were murdered, with a gun in his hand and a dangerous gleam in his eye. She could taste that wildness in his kiss, smell it in the crisp, musky tang of pine and wood smoke that no amount of bayberry soap could ever completely wash away.
She realized in that moment that she didn’t want to tame him. She wanted to drive him even wilder.
Judging by the growl that rumbled up from deep in his throat when she pressed the softness of her breasts to his muscled chest, he was more than eager to let her do just that. She ran the tip of her tongue over his teeth, savoring that chipped edge even more now that she knew what it had cost him. As her tongue grew bolder, tenderly mating with his, he slid his hands down her back to cup the lush curves of her bottom in his palms.
“You’re wet,” he murmured against the corner of her mouth.
“I can’t help it,” she replied, no longer willing to be shamed by her desire for him. “It happens every time you kiss me.”
He lifted his head to give her a bemused look. “No, I mean your skirt. It’s wet.” He held her away from him, dismay replacing his bemusement as his gaze traveled down to the bedraggled hem of her gown. It was as if he was truly seeing her for the first time since they’d left the soiree. “What happened to your bonny gown, lass? And your new shoes?”
Pamela glanced down to discover that her white slippers were no longer white, but caked with mud. One pearl buckle was hanging by a thread and the delicate satin was already pulling apart from the soles. “I don’t really know. I suppose when I was following you down the hill, I must have—”
“And where’s your shawl?” Connor demanded, briskly rubbing the gooseflesh from her naked arms. “What are you trying to do, you wee fool? Catch your death of a chill?”
Before Pamela could remind him that he was the one who had dragged her out of the carriage without giving her time to retrieve her shawl or muff, he swept her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a child and started for the Doric temple.
She twined her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder, the heat radiating from his big, powerful body making her feel as if she would never be cold again. His arms were the same arms that had cradled his little sister’s trembling body, his hands the same hands that had covered her ears to try to shield them from the brutal thud of fists and the sharp crack of the pistol that had ended their mother’s life. He had done everything within his power to spare her the horror of that night, leaving him to carry its terrible burden all alone.
Pamela pressed her lips to the fading rope scars that marred the corded column of his throat. This was one night when he would not be alone.
He carried her up the broad flat steps of the temple. Moonlight filtered through the swaying branches of the surrounding willows, dappling the circular interior with shadows.
He sank down on one of the broad benches that ringed the overblown gazebo, cradling her on his lap. Thankful that he had already rid himself of his cravat, she lavished the strong line of his jaw with feathery kisses.
Uttering a soft groan, he reached down to tug off her sodden slippers and tossed them aside. “I’ll buy you more,” he vowed, the possessive glint in his eye making her shiver with anticipation. “A hundred pairs, each more expensive and bonnier than the last.”
“What kind of thief are you? Why buy them when you could just steal them for me?”
