If You Dare(67)

Annalía watched, bewildered, as their hands moved forward and then slammed back once more. The pressure increased.

His breaths were ragged. Low, tortured sounds broke from his throat. “Arch your back,” he ordered and she did. He leaned down to suckle her, only freeing her to grate, “Anna, I’m about tae come—” His mouth returned, but this time his teeth pinched her nipple, and she cried out with pleasure.

The coach skidded to a stop.

He released her hand and nipple, though he rubbed his face over her breast desperately before he hissed a harsh curse and drew back. When he forced his huge, swollen member into his trousers, he looked in more pain than with any of his injuries before. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled in shudders several times as if he was getting himself under control. “We are no’ finished with this,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

She quickly shook her head, but he studied her expression as if he didn’t quite trust that she’d resume what they were doing.

Just after he shuddered again, he somehow remembered to smooth down her skirts for her as she pulled her blouse back in place. He opened the carriage door and bellowed, “Why the bloody hell have we stopped?” He sounded on the verge of violence.

The driver called down, “A tree’s blocking the road. Probably from the storms earlier in the week.”

MacCarrick slammed the door. “God damn it!” He reached for his bag and gave her a warning look. “I want you to stay down.”

“Wh-What is it?”

“Rechazados. With bloody, bloody bad timing.”



The rage Court felt that someone would seek to hurt her was nearly blinding. No, kill her. And he was the only thing preventing it. If he didn’t get cold like he used to be, they’d both be dead.

So busy in her skirts that he wasn’t aware of the danger they were in.

He snared his pistol and a bag of coin, retrieved his shirt with a bitter curse, then donned it and his jacket with more bullets in the pockets. “Down, Anna,” he ordered again, as he snatched his rifle from the overhanging net, then stormed out of the carriage, shirt still unbuttoned. He didn’t bother to duck or cower, but strode to the front. Ducking wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference with them, just would be the last thing you were doing when you got killed.

“Turn the carriage around.”

The driver nodded, obviously shocked at Court’s tone. Court stuffed the pistol into his pocket, then tossed the bag to him. “This is a quarter of what you’ll get if you get her to safety until I return.”

While he hefted the bag and said, “A quarter?” Court worked the lever on his rifle, laying it over his shoulder in readiness. He stalked up to the now skittish horses to snag a bridle, helping the driver work the coach around.

The first shot rang out, whizzing past his head. The horses shrieked but didn’t bolt.

Court took aim at where the shot had originated and fired, then pumped the lever to fire three more times. With a second of time bought, he climbed the block as the driver prepared to flee, then in a low voice gave him new directions.

Court was just climbing down when two shots pitted the coach roof. Anna screamed, “MacCarrick, please come back!”

Now. Now he went cold.

The driver snapped his whip, and Court dropped down to return a shot of his own. He heard Anna scream again before they turned the corner.





Twenty-two




T hat bastard!” What was he thinking, jumping off the coach like that? Who did he think he was? What had she ever done to indicate that this would be in any way acceptable?

She’d called for Coachy, ordered him to stop, but they sped recklessly on, road dust trickling in from the bullet holes.

It wasn’t fair. Just as before—it was worse waiting, worse not knowing. Worse being sped away so fast she couldn’t even jump from the bloody carriage.

Why not stay with her and run? No, MacCarrick had to make some grand, idiotic gesture. He hadn’t even ducked! She crossed her arms in anger, but soon had to uncross them to hold on to the strap inside the rocking coach.

She didn’t care. She’d find her brother and get back home eventually. She didn’t need Courtland MacCarrick.

“Oh, Mare de Déu,” she said with a gasp. She didn’t need him.

But she wanted him. Even though he was stubborn and aggressive and Scottish, she wanted him. And he would deny her to be some cursed hero?

Dismal hours passed before the coach finally slowed. She smelled the oddest scent and wrestled the working coach window down to find water stretching before her. The sea. They must have finally reached Calais, just across the channel from England.

She’d never seen the coast and had always longed to. For some reason kept mysterious to her, everyone who ever came back from the sea was happy.