One moment she could be warm and inviting and in the next, with a haughty lift of her chin or a cold stare, she could say clearer than words she thought him beneath her notice—even if she had finally condescended to calling him by his name.
Meanwhile, he’d been noticing her more than he should.
Of course, what man wouldn’t? Those firm, round breasts of hers begged to be touched. He’d not been so busy saving both their hides from the fire he hadn’t noticed them.
Her waist, in that ridiculous cinch belt, appeared so tiny he thought he could span it with his hands. And she was long-legged, too. He couldn’t help but notice that fact when he’d boldly untied her garters. Nor was he immune to her tousled mop of hair, as red as a ripe apple and smelling just as sweet…or those green-flecked eyes that revealed a startling intelligence—and a wealth of naïvety.
God save him from bloody supercilious self-important virgins.
Of course, it was far wiser for him to carry a grudge against her, especially since they had to be practically joined at the hip until he saw her home safeanduntouched. Pirate Harrell would not take kindly to having his precious daughter shagged by an Irish bounder. He’d probably draw and quarteranyman for the offense, and Ian was not about to make such a powerful enemy.
“Ready to go?” he asked, deliberately brusque.
“Of course.” She stood, regal as a queen in her tartan, and flipped her shining tangle of curls over her shoulder practically whacking him in the face as if he wasn’t there.
Ah, yes, he could use the anger.
“Then let’s go,” he said. As they set off, he made sure to keep his eye on her first steps. He was pleased she moved better now that her shoes weren’t rubbing her feet raw.
For the next few hours, they traveled without speaking. The overcast day offered them no encouragement. Ian knew she was tired, and yet, she didn’t even complain once. He was exhausted himself. He knew they needed some good luck. They couldn’t keep on this way.
His prayers were answered when, coming to a crossroads, they met a farmer with an oxcart loaded with grain bags heading in the direction they were walking.
Without hesitation, Ian asked for a ride for his “wife.”
“An Irishman, are you?” the farmer asked in a heavy Scots’ brogue. “I knew an Irishman once.”
“Didya now?” Ian countered, drawing out his own accent.
“A good laddie he was and always one with a joke. What are you and the missus doing up here?”
Ian had his tale ready. “She’s Scottish and I’m taking her home to see her family.” Then, in a lower voice, he added, “She’s in a delicate condition,” as a bit of sport and was repaid with a horrified glare from Miss Harrell.
The Scotsman caught the look and had surprising sympathy for Ian. “A mother-to-be? Come up in my wagon and make yourself comfortable. I’ve got seven wee ones at home and know this isn’t easy. Is this your first?”
He’d asked the question of Miss Harrell but Ian answered smoothly and with just the right touch of pride, “Yes, it is. Here, Sweetie, let me help you up.” He offered his hand to help her up into the wagon.
She appeared ready to slap it away with more vigor than she’d shown when he’d removed her garters. She leaned close and with a smile over clenched teeth said for his ears alone, “What sort of game are you playing? We are not married!”
“Would you rather I tell him the truth?” he mused. “I wonder what would happen if Fielder found out there was a man and a red-haired woman traveling singly around the countryside?”
“Fielder is watching the border. You heard him say so yourself.”
“I don’t take my enemy’s movements for granted. Besides,” he said soothingly, “what if someone were to find out you were in my company for days on end? It’s a simple ruse but necessary. We pretend who we are not and no one’s the wiser.”
He’d caught her there. Reluctantly, she agreed. “But I can walk faster than that animal can pull this cart.”
“True,” he answered, “but you need to stay off your feet.” He raised his voice on the last so the Scotsman would think she was having a bit of pregnancy pique. “You have the opportunity to ride, don’t be foolish.” He held out his hand again.
This time, she took it.
The farmer’s name was William Rae and he was a good sort, solid and honest. “My wife calls me a laggard and I refer to her as an anvil. Ah, to be young again!” He shook his head as if remembering and then enjoyed offering Ian advice on rearing children and the handling of pregnant women. “Not to say they are easy to manage when they aren’t in the family way,” the farmer said. He dropped his voice. “And you’ve a redhead. I hear they are difficult.”
“If only you knew the truth,” Ian said fervently, and could almost feel the burn of Miss Harrell’s temper.
In the back of his mind, he had assumed she would sleep. They both needed some.
She didn’t. She wouldn’t.
