The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (short books for teens .txt) 📕

“You never answered my first question, though I’ve answered yours. Why did you decide to come here, of all places?” Duncan demanded.

He was close, within a hair’s breadth of breaking his promise. As for her, if she so much as lifted a finger, she would graze the expanse of his bare skin. For a brief instant she was tempted to tell him everything, to rely on the strength that seemed to radiate from him. But with so much at risk, Kate could ill afford to gamble on the integrity of a rogue. “Ah, but you have already given the answer, milord.” Her mouth curved in a poorly attempted smile. “Fate.”

“And if I demand a more precise explanation?” Only strength of will kept him from closing what remained of the gap between them. She seemed so vulnerable; her fear palpable despite her brave front. Although there had been many women in his past, he could not ever recall feeling this urge to comfort, to hold and protect. Never had a sworn oath seemed so fragile a barrier.

“Do you wish us to remain here?” she countered, wondering what the answer would be. He could not like it, for MacLean seemed the sort to dictate terms, not accept them. Yet, she could see the hesitation in that singular core of grey and she began to hope. But there was something else in his gaze that was oddly unsettling, something undefinable but undeniably dangerous.

“Stay . . .”

The word seemed torn from his throat.

“Please... stay . . .”

There was a sound from the brush and Cur came loping towards her, the coney she had shot cradled in his mouth. She bent and took it from him, glad of the excuse to turn away from that raw force that beckoned to her, drew her like iron to a lodestone. “Good boy,” she murmured, stroking the dog in approval. No, it was not lust in Duncan MacLean’s expression, for Kate had already seen him wearing his rakehell’s mask of desire. The emotion in that glimpse was far more disconcerting. It was solitude that spoke . . . the raw, desperate need of a man who has suddenly discovered himself to be entirely alone. “Cur is a most excellent gilly, is he not?”

“Your hunting companion?”

“Yes,” she said, avoiding the scrutiny of that lone eye as she reassessed her position. Every instinct cried danger, told her to cut her losses and retreat. She had already said too much. Daisy’s warnings echoed in her head, but as long as the threat was to Kate alone, it was tolerable. He had given an oath, she told herself, if the game got too deep, they could always pull up stakes and go. It was still the best of bad choices. “Since you will still allow it, we shall stay. Now, milord, if you will forgive me, my partner and I will flush some more game before the storm hits.”

Clearly he was not invited. “Aye, Fred will be needing my help unloading.” Reluctantly, he turned back, pausing at the promontory that overlooked the loch. There she was, directly below him, still as a marble sculpture as the hound moved into the brush. As the birds rose into the air, she drew, sighted and shot so swiftly that the arrow was in the air before he could blink. He had been fairly good with a bow once, but even before his eye was lost, he could never have laid claim to such skill. Now give him a pistol or a rifle . . . doubt assailed him. He had not fired a shot since just before the loss of his eye and those recollections were numbing. He was no longer the man who could be three sheets to the wind and shoot the cork from a wine-bottle.

There was a bark from below as Cur plunged forward to retrieve another bird, the woman moving behind him with the feline grace of a stalking predator. Duncan closed his eyes and envisioned whirling Kate around a ballroom, imagined her seeing him as he had been, dressed in regimentals, his face whole and handsome. If she had seen him then, when he had been able to make a female smolder with a mere look . . . but he was no longer an incendiary man and he could not blame her for avoiding the sight of him, looking anywhere but directly at him. After all, he could barely stand his own reflection.

Yet for a moment, for an all too brief snatch of time, he could swear that she had forgotten his disfigurement. She had looked at him directly, even smiled at him and, he reminded himself, she had decided to stay of her own free will. Perhaps she was not as terrorized as he supposed.

Or, his inner voice gibed, she fears what is out there more than she dreads you, MacLean.

Once more, he knew full well that he was fooling himself. With a stifled sigh, he started slowly for the castle. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raised voices. Duncan groaned as the yard came into view.

“Put that biscuit back, or I swear, I’ll pop you one, I will,” Kate’s woman declared waving a cast iron skillet threateningly. “You’ll eat with the rest of us!”

“Can’t.” Fred got the single word out of his full mouth then swallowed, but his cheeky grin disappeared as the angry female advanced. “Ain’t never ‘it a mort,” he declared as he backed away. “But I’ll defend myself, I will. Now let me be about my business, woman.” The little man gave a resounding sneeze, punctuated by a rattling cough.

“Bad enough, you stealin’ the food out of our mouths. You’ll be the death of us too!” she declared. “Just listen to you, sounds like it’s gone to the lungs already, it has. Don’t think I’ll be nursin’ the likes of you, you thievin’ jackanapes.”

“Rather be dead,” Fred called, shaking his fist. “All this fussin’ about a wee bitty biscuit and a