The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue) Page 4

  “Aye. Tell me how to find this rogue.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay a bit longer?”

  “Are ye that anxious to see my neck stretched?” Keegan sprawled on the high tester bed in Kate’s room where he’d passed the night... alone. After she gave him the name of her smuggler, whom Keegan gathered also shared Kate’s bed and affections, he’d bathed and gone to sleep. But despite the need to be gone, Keegan was sorely tempted to linger. The sheets were sweet-smelling. He was clean. The bed was soft and Kate with her golden hair curled about her naked shoulders looked inviting enough to weaken any man’s resolve, especially a man who’d spent the last few months without a woman’s touch.

  “As you well know, Keegan MacLeod,” Kate said, her voice smooth as honey as she glided toward the bed, “I can think of many things to do to your neck, and not a one includes stretching it.”

  Chuckling, Keegan rolled to his side as Kate climbed the bed steps and inched onto the mattress. Memory was a strong aphrodisiac. She wore a loose-fitting gown of red silk that Keegan knew from experience covered skin as soft and fragrant as a flower petal. When she leaned toward him, her hair brushing his chest, the decision was made.

  Her tinkling laughter rang out as Keegan’s arm enveloped her. She pressed her hand down his body, smiling and licking her painted lips when she found his manhood. “That didn’t take long, did it?”

  “What be that you’re saying about my length,” Keegan countered with a laugh. “ ’Tis always seemed sufficient to satisfy ye, if memory serves.”

  “Oh Keegan, no one can satisfy me like you.” Kate moaned as he brushed the silk down her arms.

  Keegan wasn’t fool enough to believe every word Kate said, but he had been one of the few the courtesan allowed into her bed without payment. Not that he hadn’t given her occasional gifts, but that was because he chose to. As she had chosen him to warm her bed on those rare nights when her patrons were elsewhere.

  She moaned again when he buried his face between her breasts; groaned when the knock came at the door.

  It was testimony to Keegan’s months at New Gaol that he immediately rolled across the bed and reached for his broadsword. Kate simply called for the servant to enter.

  “I’m sorry to be bothering you, mistress.” The girl kept her eyes averted. “But she insists that she needs a bleeder.”

  “What the hell?” Keegan grumbled.

  “Who are you talking about, Macy?”

  Keegan was certain he knew. Rolling from the bed he pulled on the clean breeches Kate had supplied, grimacing as he buttoned the flap over his swollen member. “Is the lass ill?”

  “I can’t say, sir. She seems right enough except that she is a bit pale.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Kate sat up. Her breasts peeked through the veil of tumbled golden hair.

  “Hell and damnation, that girl will be the death of me yet.” Keegan stomped into first one boot, then the other.

  “Ah, your little hostage? You never did tell me exactly why you kidnapped her.”

  “ ’Tis a long story. But I can tell ye a more complainin’ lass you’ll never find.” The fine linen shirt muffled his words as he pulled it over his head. There were more clothes, a waistcoat and jacket of silk, a cravat, but Keegan didn’t bother with them as he headed for the door. Before brushing past the servant girl he looked about to ask Kate to wait where she was, but she’d already left the bed. Her billowy robe now covered her discreetly from head to toe.

  Keegan unlocked the door on the third floor and entered without so much as a polite tapping. His hostage, as Kate called her, was plumped on a pile of pillows. As the servant said, she looked pale. Other than that, and that she was a bit on the bony side, Keegan thought her fit enough.

  “What’s this I hear about yer demandin’ a surgeon?”

  Zoe’s mouth opened but no sound emerged. She was shocked by his manner, of course. No one had ever marched into her room unannounced before. But there was more. She could hardly believe this was the same man who’d kidnapped her last night. But it was. There was no mistaking that Scottish brogue. Yet he looked so different. Oh, the hair was still long and unkempt, perhaps lighter than she’d earlier thought. But he was now garbed in the clothes of a gentleman. And his face... Now that it was clean shaven she could see...

  “Did ye hear me lass?”

  Zoe swallowed, snapped away from her contemplation of his firm mouth by his words. Somehow he seemed more intimidating today. “Yes,” she finally managed.

  “Yes, what? Be ye ill?”

  “I’ve rigidity of my vessels,” she finally managed to say.

  “Yer what?” Keegan’s own rigidity was waning, but he’d never heard of a woman suffering from that.

  “My vessels,” Zoe explained. “They are rigid.” He still looked at her as if she were speaking in a foreign tongue. “Thus making it difficult for my blood to flow freely.” Zoe’s lips thinned in exasperation. His expression seemed to say that she was insane rather than himself. She tried again, wishing Miss Phelps were here. She was ever so much better at explaining these things. “My heart is weak and—”

  “How do ye know that?”

  “Well...” No one had ever questioned it before. It was simply understood... and had been for as long as she remembered, “Well, I simply do.” Certainly a good enough explanation for the barbarian. Yet he couldn’t seem to let it go at that.

  “What happens to ye? Do ye get the bloody flux?”

  “No.” Zoe sat bolt upright. Of all her ailments, that was one she’d been spared.

  “Spots? Chills? Do yer limbs go stiff? What?”

  A more cloddish and unsympathetic creature she’d never seen. “Weak,” she said, lifting her chin and staring down her nose at him. “I am very weak.”

  “Weak.” He seemed to ponder the word, finally tilting his head and studying her. “For this ye need to be bled?”

  “That’s what Dr. Owen recommends, yes.”

  “What else does the doctor tell ye t’ do?”

  “Bed rest, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Zoe ignored his sarcastic tone. “And thinned broth to eat.”

  “And...?”

  “And what?”

  Keegan expelled his breath in frustration. “What else do ye eat?”

  “Occasionally some meat, if it’s fine enough, and bread too, at times.” She noted his surprised expression and her tone became defensive. “I’ve very poor digestion.”

  Keegan strode to the bed and looked down at her, his eyes narrowed. She was a bit older than he’d thought last night. Near twenty he’d wager. Thin. Not unattractive, if you cared for the skinny type, which he assuredly did not. But her eyes were large, dark-lashed and an interesting shade of grey, and her features delicate. Certainly not what he’d call robust, but neither did she appear sickly. Of course he was no doctor. Perhaps she was ill.

  Hell and damnation, it would be just his luck to kidnap a damn invalid.

  “Get yerself up and dressed,” he finally said.

  “But—”

  “We haven’t time for a physic now. Perhaps when we get to Scotland...”

  “I’ll he dead by then,” Zoe said, with a bit of satisfaction. How dare the brute not care about her health. If only Miss Phelps were here.

  Her words did seem to take him back a bit. He looked at her, then at the untouched tray beside her bed. “I suggest ye partake of yer breakfast before we leave.”

  “It won’t settle well on my stomach.”

  “Just eat it.”

  “Just eat it,” Zoe mimicked as soon as the door shut behind him. A lot he knew. He wouldn’t be the one to suffer if she ate the clotted cream and berries, the ham and biscuits. If she drank the chocolate. Zoe could almost see Miss Phelps shudder at the thought of such strong foods entering her charge’s delicate system.

  Weak tea is what she needed. And a bit of thin broth.

&n
bsp; But there was none of that about. And she was hungry. With a resigned sigh Zoe plucked a bright red strawberry from the silver bowl. Experimentally she dipped it in the cream, then nibbled.

  A quarter of an hour later, when a maid came to dress her, she’d emptied the platters and drained the chocolate pot.

  Since she rarely felt well enough to go out, and her visitors were confined to Dr. Owen and a few solicitous friends, Zoe usually wore only a loose-fitting morning gown. She wore stays, of course, and occasionally small hoops, but for the most part her dress was informal.

  Today however she was garbed in a borrowed riding habit of dark green camlet. There was a jacket and waistcoat and petticoat slightly shorter than she normally wore. The servant assured Zoe it was the fashion. And since she’d never owned a riding habit; or been riding either for that matter, Zoe had to take her word for it. Of course the clothing was too large for her, hanging loosely at the shoulders and waist, even after the maid stitched it.

  The girl was nice enough, though she wasn’t very interested in how tired Zoe was, nor would she agree to do anything about her predicament. Apparently kidnapping wasn’t considered worth mentioning in this place.

  The servant had just placed a cocked hat, tilted at a jaunty angle atop Zoe’s dressed hair, when the wild man reentered the room. As before he didn’t bother to knock. And as before Zoe was taken aback by his appearance.

  The transformation from barbarian to gentleman was complete.

  He wore nankeen breeches and a frock coat of the fashion that Fox preferred when not in uniform. His hair was brushed and Zoe could only stare as he entered. She’d always thought Fox the most handsome man alive. With his black hair and dark eyes she’d considered him the epitome of manhood. But though the Scot little resembled her brother, except for his height, she had to admit he was not difficult to look upon.

  “I see ye’re ready to leave, Lady Zoe.”

  She was not ready to leave for Scotland. “This has progressed long enough. I demand you set me free.” Zoe had practiced her short speech in front of the cheval glass and thought she did an admirable job of sounding incensed.

  However Keegan MacLeod didn’t seem impressed. He threw back his head and laughed. He didn’t even allow her the satisfaction of a response. “Come along with ye,” is all he said.

  At least they weren’t going to walk the entire way to Scotland.

  Zoe followed Keegan MacLeod down a back stairway to the courtyard. He handed her up into a chaise. Before climbing in, the wild man, who didn’t really look like a wild man anymore, kissed the woman he’d called Kate.

  It was a long kiss, like none Zoe had ever seen before. Certainly not the chaste press of lips she exchanged with her brother. Zoe didn’t mean to watch, for it seemed very personal, but she couldn’t help herself. There was a great entangling of arms and straining of bodies. The entire process made her very uncomfortable and Zoe found herself squirming in her seat.

  When he finally pulled away, Kate’s mouth was wet, as were her eyes. “Be careful, Keegan, and God bless.”

  “Aye, and the same to ye. Thank ye for all ye’ve given me. I’ll send the coach back. And I’ll find some way t’ repay the coin.”

  François, noticeably quiet this morning, climbed onto the box, and then the Scot was sitting opposite her as the coach rumbled over the cobblestones. For all she hated the circumstances, Zoe had to admit it was a pleasant enough ride. At least it would have been, had the shades not been rolled down filling the interior with gloom and shadows.

  “Do you suppose we might roll up a blind? I can barely breathe.” True, Miss Phelps thought the London air bad for her health, and so it most likely was. But since she was bound to die anyway from her mistreatment, it would be pleasant to see some of the sights they passed.

  But that was not to be, for the barbarian only shook his head. “Though I doubt ye’d have any more luck with yer tale of woe here than ye did last night, I’d just as soon not be explainin’ myself t’ someone ye might call out t’.” He watched her as the coach slowed. “And I wouldn’t be thinkin’ of jumpin’ either,” he added with a meaningful look toward the pistol that lay on the leather seat beside him.

  Zoe briefly considered leaping from the coach and running for help. But without the steps lowered there was a good chance she’d fall, or break her ankle.

  Which reminded her that she’d twisted it last night. Beneath her skirts Zoe turned her foot one way then the other. It didn’t hurt at all. Which surprised and pleased her. It also made her remember the way she’d felt when the wild man touched her. When he’d lifted her skirts and circled her ankle with his fingers.

  “What be wrong with ye now?”

  Slowly Zoe looked up till their eyes met. Even in the dim light she could tell his were a vivid green. They stared at her intently. Zoe tried not to notice. She tried not to recall the feel of his hands on her. But the more she tried, the more she thought of it. And the warmer she became.

  Pressing a palm to her flushed cheek she leaned back against the leather squab. “I think I’m feverish.”

  Four

  He didn’t care.

  That should hardly come as a shock, Zoe realized. After all, she was only a hostage to him. And he did mean to kill her brother. All and all, not the type of man who considered others’ infirmities?

  Still, Zoe was hard-pressed to accept his lack of response when she declared herself feverish. Just the hint of such always put Miss Phelps into a flurry of activity. She would send one of the servants, usually the footman, to fetch the good doctor, as she called him. Then she’d administer a dose of bark and some diluted tea. By this time Zoe would be nestled in bed, topped by an extra quilt and awaiting the inevitable bleeding.

  It was not an all together pleasant regimen, true. However, without Miss Phelps’s diligent care Zoe would not have lived to her present age of one and twenty. For according to the beloved nurse, no one expected frail Zoe to pass her third birthday.

  Certainly her mother and father had given up on her recovery from the dreaded scarlet fever. They had bundled off their two sons and headed for their country estate in Devon. They returned, of course, after Zoe recovered from the fever. But her health was never good after that.

  Which was why her treatment from this barbarian was certain to lead to her demise.

  “Ye look well enough to me.”

  Zoe glanced up, surprised he’d spoken. They’d ridden for what seemed miles without him so much as glancing her way. Now he studied her from beneath hooded lids.

  So he thought she was in the bloom of health, did he? It simply showed how little the Scot knew. But when she opened her mouth to enlighten him, his attention was already turned toward raising the blinds. Zoe was so pleased by the sunlight and breeze that entered the coach that she forgot about her complaints.

  “We’re across the bridge and out of the city,” he said by way of explanation.

  So he no longer feared detection. Zoe found the knowledge somehow depressing. Not that she’d held out any hope of rescue. But she couldn’t remember the last time she left London. “Did you say we’ve crossed London Bridge?”

  “Aye.”

  “But I thought we were going to Scotland. ’Tis to the north, I believe.” A passable knowledge of geography was one thing Zoe prided herself on. Knowledge gleaned from books, of course, but knowledge all the same.

  “It is.”

  “Then why...?” Had he somehow guessed that Fox might be at the family estate in Devon? A cold sweat beaded Zoe’s upper lip.

  “I’ve a mind to take a packet north.”

  “A packet?” Her relief was short-lived. “Do you mean a sailing vessel?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh, but that won’t do at all.”

  “Why might that be?” Keegan shifted in his seat. He had a strong notion he knew.

  “My weak stomach, of course.”

  He was right. Keegan shut his eyes and counted to ten, slowly. “I ima
gine you’ll be all right. A bit of seasickness never killed anyone.”

  Zoe’s eyes widened. “Not normal people perhaps. But Miss Phelps says—”

  “Do ye never grow tired of quoting the venerable Miss Phelps?” Keegan meant the question in the most rhetorical sense, yet his captive seemed to ponder his query, finally shaking her head slowly.

  “You simply don’t understand. I’m not—”

  “A normal person,” Keegan finished for her. “Actually, I’m beginnin’ t’ grasp that concept.”

  Zoe settled back against the cushion with a satisfied smile. “Good, then you accept that I can’t travel to Scotland by boat.”

  “What I understand is that you’ll be spendin’ more than a wee bit of time, green around the gills emptyin’ yer weak stomach into a pail.”

  He didn’t give her any time to respond. While her mouth was still open in shock he tapped his walking stick on the coach roof. When the driver stopped, the Scot climbed onto the box beside him, leaving Zoe alone in the coach—which was just as well for she was tired of his odious company.

  And this way she could look out the window to her heart’s content, surveying the bucolic countryside. And despite the circumstances, enjoying herself. The last time she was in Kent she was three years old. Hardly an age when she could remember the green pastures and quaint villages. Yet they all seemed familiar. Her imagination was quite lively, and, coupled with the descriptions Fox gave her, the countryside of her mind’s eye held a strong resemblance to the real thing.

  Even though she would never see him again, it was comforting to know that Fox might be nearby. That is, as long as the Scot didn’t realize it. When Fox returned from Scotland he’d wanted Zoe to accompany him to Ashford Hall for a visit before he returned to his regiment. The wound he’d received at Culloden, a mere scratch, he’d assured her, was healing nicely, and he thought some country air would do them both good.

  “And I have it on good authority that the earl is not in residence,” Fox had said with a grin. The earl was their older brother Dalton, whom Zoe remembered as a prig. Of course she hadn’t seen him since her parents’ death some twelve years ago. But she knew he wasn’t one of Fox’s favorite people, which was good enough for her.