The Highlander's Thief

Chapter Five

 "No!" Rosa kicked out with her feet, twisting back around towards the disappearing coaching inn. Dark rain clouds still hid the sun from view so that everything lay under a blanket of water and shadows. "I'm an escaped criminal!"

"Shut it," he said but without much force. The men Mistress Thomas had managed to gather together hadn't bothered to pursue them, most likely because they didn't have horses of their own. Their escape had gone better than expected.

"I've been kidnapped!" Rosa dove to the side, attempting to throw herself from Mist.

McWilliam hauled her upright, her lithe body easily manipulated. Her fear had apparently evaporated in the face of a possible rescue.

She hissed in the most unladylike fashion, digging an elbow into his stomach.

He grunted but didn't relent. Her elbows were boney, but the jab had little strength behind it. To him, she was tiny. A will o' the wisp; almost insubstantial. And yet, her back pressed against this chest certainly wasn't an apparition, nor was the smooth curve from waist to hip. Traitorous heat rippled through him.

Rain drops splattered her face, darkening her bronze hair almost black.

"Let go of me." She flashed a scowl over her shoulder. "I've had enough of this. You cannot take me across the border."

Strands had fallen loose from her simple braid and stuck to her forehead and cheeks in wet clumps, framing her face. Her half-moon birthmark was clear to his sight, even partially covered by the folds of her mantle.

Clenching his teeth, McWilliam trained his eyes on the side of her face. "That's funny," he said, barely moving his mouth, "because we should be crossing the border late this evening."

"No. No, no!" Again she tried to throw herself from Mist. Her efforts made little progress; his arm locked around her waist meant she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. "You're..."

Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to find the sourest epithet. She was play-acting of course. A thief of her caliber surely knew a few choice words for a situation like this. Even if she had been brought up in her uncle's household, with a drunk for a father and fellow criminals as associates, Rosa couldn't possibly be as innocent as she pretended.

"Bastard?" he suggested.

She sucked in a quiet breath.

For a second he thought she wouldn't take the bait, but then she flicked her braid over her shoulder, slapping him in the face with its wet tail. "Bastard."

"Now that's the first true thing you've ever said to me." The corner of his mouth twitched up. Rosa might have thought a simple promise to always tell him the truth would be enough to make him believe in her innocence, but she'd chosen the wrong man to mess with. Scots were notoriously stubborn and his family even more so than usual. She wouldn't be able to wear him down.

He brought his mouth to her ear, "You don't fool me, Thistle," he murmured.

The smell of lavender bathwater brushed his senses and something else. It was a scent he couldn't quite put his finger one, something he'd never smelt before. Something entirely Rosa Blair.

"You made me a promise, now I'm making you one. You'll admit you stole that money from me. And you'll admit to your theft before Whitsunday." Twelve days hence.

Aye, he'd make Rosa confess to her crime, and, when that moment happened, he'd pounce. She wasn't the ordinary governess she claimed to be. She had her secrets. Last night's nightmare had shown him a glimpse of her dark past.