Chapter Four

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The rest of the night crept by at a snail's pace. Rosa lay stiff beside him, her arms crossed over her chest, her breaths coming in short huffs. The longer the silence stretched on, the more her sadness seemed to retreat and the angrier she became.

I had more than one cousin. Rosa's words echoed, unbidden, through his mind.

McWilliam rolled over, once again turning his back to her. He wasn't apologizing, dammit. She probably didn't have any cousins. She was probably the only child of an only child.

Or maybe her cousin had died. And maybe her father had been a drunk.

He pressed his eyes shut. Many people's cousins died. This wasn't any of his damn concern. He was taking her back home to face retribution for her crimes; getting involved in her personal life, truths or lies, had nothing to do with it.

He must have eventually slept for weak sunlight flittered in through the closed shutters, casting strips of muted light across the whitewashed walls. Rosa's breathing had also calmed, and she had slipped back to his side of the bed. Her cheek was pressed against his bare back and one arm was draped, possessively, over his chest.

He scowled down at the hand. Her fingers were loosely curled towards her palm, her nails filed to a perfect oval, her skin unblemished. Right at the point where palm met wrist was another freckle. Unobtrusive, it did nothing to mar the beauty of her hands. What would it feel like to press his lips against the imperfection?

His body twitched in eager response.

Thief's hands, McWilliam reminded himself.

Not that it did any good. This body didn't seem to care one straw that she was a thief. To his body, she was a woman, and a mighty fine one to boot.

He rolled onto his back. Apparently he'd been rather obliging in sleep and had tangled one leg around both of Rosa's. His belted plaid had knotted around his thighs, leaving the rest of his legs exposed. He lifted his arm up and over her head to rest on the pillow. Muttering incoherently, she willingly adjusted her position to accommodate his arm, tucking her head onto the crook of his elbow.

His groin strained.

Rosa's own nightdress had also become dislodged in sleep, its hem pushed up towards her calves. Creamy skin lightly colored with faint freckles met his gaze and the fingers of his free hand itched to brush against her leg. Surely her skin was as soft as it looked.

Hell. What was he doing?

He snatched his blasted arm back, and Rosa's head fell a few inches to land on the pillow. Her eyes jerked open, and she scuttled backwards, dragging the blanket with her.

"I've seen your nightdress before," he snapped, swiftly pulling on his knee-high wooden stockings and shoes. "Hurry up and get dressed. We can't stay here any longer than necessary."

She rose, stifling a yawn with such ferocity she looked a little like she was sucking lemons.

"You can't still be tired."

"I'm a very light sleeper," she huffed. "And I'm certainly not used to sharing a room with a man."

"A light sleeper?" He raised an eyebrow as he returned his dirk to its sheath hanging from his belt. Like hell she was. A light sleeper didn't coil herself around him.

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me a liar, again?"

Evidently, she was still angry about the whole 'cousin' thing. He wanted to scoff. Instead, he said, "Get dressed. We're leaving."

"What about breakfast?" she asked, disappearing behind the screen.

"We'll eat on the move."

* * *

Rosa dressed quickly, her fingers flying with the confidence of a woman long used to dressing herself. Although Rosa couldn't manage to fasten the straps as tight as she would have liked—the previous owner being a woman of rather flat proportions—she couldn't complain. Mistress Thomas's second-hand clothes were simple but neat and clean; they were as good as any clothes gifted to her by Mrs Wright during Rosa's two years as governess to her children.

Despite her speed, Rosa could hear the Scotsman standing on the other side of the screen clicking his tongue with impatience. And rain tapped at the windows and the roof with increasing persistence until the air hung heavy around Rosa.

She ran her hands down her stomach as a sudden rush of panic speared her chest. How could she trust him? All she knew about him was that he'd kidnapped her from custody. He said he was the McWilliam laird, but how could she know he spoke the truth? He could be lying to her.

She froze, her feet refusing to make the three steps around the dressing screen and back into McWilliam's view.

The Scotsman could be planning to harm her. She knew from her father's daily subscription to London's Gazetteer that the paper had never been short for grizzly news.

She could see the headline now: Suspected thief Rosa Alice Blair murdered in vengeance killing by Scottish lunatic.

Oh, sweet heaven, she couldn't go with McWilliam. She couldn't let him take her across the border. She had to get back to Leeds. If she died, her cousin died too.

"Come on," he barked.

Rosa pushed her left foot forward, but her right didn't want to follow.

McWilliam stepped around the screen. Power rolled off him. He stood straight with his shoulders level, but there was an ease about his body that gave the appearance of supreme confidence and self-assurance as though he wasn't used to being disobeyed. His gaze raked her body. "I can see no reason for the delay."

"No." She glanced at the door over his shoulder.

"Then come." He turned, obviously fully expecting her follow. Unlocking the bedchamber door, he strode out onto the landing.

Rosa darted forward, slamming the door shut. Her fingers groped for the key but it wasn't in the lock. McWilliam must still have it.

For an instant, her heart stopped beating. She could hear the Scot turning around on the landing, the heels of his worn shoes scrapping against the wooden floorboards as he stared at the closed door. She could almost feel his anger burning through the wood.

She grabbed the heavy chair by the burnt-out fire, dragging it with panic-fueled strength and jammed it under the door handle.

The handle rattled and the door shook as McWilliam swore loudly in Gaelic. She stepped back, biting her bottom lip. This might not have been the best idea. It seemed, when it came to McWilliam, she had trouble thinking her plans through.

She couldn't stay in this room forever. Eventually, the chair would break under the sheer pressure of his assault and she'd be back under McWilliam's command.

"Open the door, Thistle."

"I'm not going with you."

Bang.

"I said, open the door." More swearing.

"What is going on?" came Mistress's Thomas's voice.

Rosa's eyes widened. She'd completely forgotten the buffer.

"Goodwoman," she called through the closed door. "You cannot let him near me. You cannot let him take me!"

"This is none of ye business," replied McWilliam.

"Really! This is my establishment."

Rosa opened her mouth, but McWilliam spoke over the top of her, "My wife isn't feeling too well and has accidentally locked me out of the room."

"I should have known something like this would happen," Mistress Thomas scoffed. "I should never have let a Scot in."

"I beg your pardon." McWilliam said calmly, but he sounded anything but sorry. His voice had again taken on the dark edge that sent shivers down Rosa's spine.

There was a moment of silence, then Mistress Thomas cleared her throat. She, too, had clearly not missed the undercurrents in McWilliam's words. "I...I have a spare key, if that would help," she said eventually.

"Nay, thank you."

Rosa didn't think she'd ever heard such a polite comment spoken with such cynicism.

"Right." The buffer's voice faded into silence, and, a second later, her footsteps retreated.

"No!" Rosa's heart sunk. "Mistress Thomas!"

"You won't get any help from that quarter," McWilliam said. "Now open the door, wee lass."

She clutched her hands behind her back.

"There's nowhere for you to go."

She shook her head.

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you: open the door."

If she opened the door, she'd have no choice but to go with him to Scotland. Her breath hitched.

Bang!

She jumped.

"Fine." He drew out a deep sigh, as if bracing himself. "At least tell me why you're doing this. A moment ago you were acting perfectly rationally."

Rationally! She would have snorted in disgust if she wasn't already finding it so hard to breath. Agreeing to travel unescorted with a complete stranger—a man—was not rational. If she hadn't already been in such trouble with the law, she would have thought herself insane to have come this far. Her escape plan to lull him into a false sense of security before escaping back to Leeds was laughably simplistic in the dawn of a new day; a child's plan, one likely to fail before it had begun. "You kidnapped me."

"You stole money from my business, from my clan and my family. Nobody steals from the McWilliams."

"You kidnapped me," she repeated. Her words seemed to echo around the room. Until that moment, it hadn't seemed real. None of it. Not the midnight hustle out the window or the long ride through the country or the night spent sleeping beside a Scotsman.

Trembles took a hold of her body as if a sudden fever had struck. She couldn't think. She couldn't move. She couldn't possibly survive the Scotsman with fire in his eyes.

"Thistle. Thistle!" A man's strong hands grasped her shoulder, shaking her. She blinked, clearing her vision. McWilliam towered over her.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

Creases marred his forehead. Over his shoulder, the wooden chair lay haphazard on the floor, two legs broken right off and one of the arms twisted out of shape.

"What?" he said, more demand than question.

"How can I be sure you really are the Laird McWilliam?"

"I do not lie."

Through the panic and the fear, she felt a stab of anger. "Neither do I."

"Bull."

She crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands beneath her elbows to hide the shaking. "I didn't—"

But he held up a hand, his eyes trained on the closed window. Voices sounded outside as though several people approached the coaching inn. He cursed under his breath. "Looks like Mistress Thomas sent for help."

"Runners." Rosa straightened. They were still on English soil even if they weren't in London. Was it possible that Smith, the hatless wonder, had followed them this far?

Her eyes darted between McWilliam and the door. There was a fist-sized hole in the wood as though he'd punched his way through to reach the chair.

She shifted her weight onto her dominant leg, preparing to make a run for it, but he wrapped an hand around her upper arm.

"I'm not letting you go so easily." And he strode across the room, pulling Rosa with him. She stumbled behind, taking several steps for each of his.

* * *

McWilliam took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to slow even when Rosa stumbled.

Mistress Thomas scowled at him through the crack between kitchen door and wall before snapping the door shut. The bolt clicked into place as she locked herself out of his sight.

He swore again. They couldn't leave by the front. They'd be stopped before they made it two steps. He turned towards the back door. If they could reach the stables without being seen, they might have a chance to escape.

He ducked out the back right as a man stepped around the corner of the building. He wasn't a Bow Street Runner, but he was holding a pitchfork as though Mistress Thomas had called him over as he'd passed the coaching inn on his way to tending the fields.

Rosa wrenched open her mouth, but McWilliam pulled her against his chest, covering her mouth with his free hand.

"Hey!" the farmer called.

McWilliam ignored him, pulling Rosa into the stables.

Mist raised her head, blinking docilely at him. Abandoning his saddle and saddlebags, McWilliam threw on a blanket before wrenching open the stall door, lifting Rosa onto Mist's back and mounting up behind her.

"Keep your mouth shut," he hissed into her ear and nudged Mist forward.

The horse needed no reins. She headed straight for the open door, moving effortlessly from trot to gallop.

McWilliam let his body rock with the steady movement of the gallop, an arm wrapped tightly against Rosa's waist, his other hand tangled in Mist's mane.

He would not let the English take back his thief. He would not fail his clan a second time.

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