Some Like It Wicked (14 page)

Catriona rolled away from him before he could see just how badly she did want him. She was fully prepared to spend a miserable night wrapped in her plaid in one of the straight-backed chairs, listening to Jem and Bess noisily proclaim their undying love for one another. But before she could scramble off the bed, Simon’s arm snaked around her waist. He tugged her against him, molding his chest to her back.

“Good night, Mrs. Wescott,” he whispered into her hair. “I hope all your dreams are of me.”

As she succumbed to the temptation and settled into the warm cup of his body, Catriona discovered that she had been wrong after all. There
was
room for two in the narrow bedstead—as long as they nestled together like two spoons in a cupboard drawer. She could still feel Simon’s rigid arousal pressed to the softness of her rump, could still hear Jem and Bess rutting like livestock in the next room. But being wrapped in Simon’s arms seemed to soothe the tension from her body, making it possible to sleep.

And dream of him.

******************

Simon awoke the next morning with empty arms and an aching head. He was no stranger to the aching head and he was usually relieved to find his arms and bed empty after a night of drunken revelry. It staved off the awkward parting kisses and the pouting demands for pretty promises he had no intention of making or keeping. But on this morning his arms felt emptier than usual—as if he’d been robbed of something precious through no fault of his own.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pried open his eyes, groaning aloud when a bright blaze of sunlight struck them. Gripping his throbbing temples, he slammed his eyes shut and waited several minutes before gingerly trying again. This time the sunlight streaming through the dormer window under the east eave winked off of the open whisky bottle sitting on the table. There was only a thimbleful of liquor left in it, which certainly explained the aching head, if not his empty arms.

He glanced down. His clothes were much the worse for wear, but he was still wearing his shirt, his trousers, even his boots. He examined the bed, half dreading what he might find. The sheets were rumpled, but there was no coppery stain of any kind and no lingering musk of sex in the air.

He dropped his head into his hands as images from the night came flooding back to him.

Usually liquor dulled his memory, making it foggy and unreliable, but these images came to him like the distant echo of a well-loved song—haunting and unforgettable. Catriona in his arms—beside him, on top of him…beneath him.

He also remembered a dark moment of temptation when he had come as close to ravishing a woman as he ever had in his sordid career as a libertine.

And not just any woman, but his wife.

Simon lifted his head, blinking away the glare until the humble bedchamber came clearly into focus. His arms and bed weren’t the only things that were empty.

Catriona and all of her belongings were gone.

T
he clever little baggage had double-crossed him.

Simon took the inn stairs two at a time, jerking a knot in his cravat as he went. He had been so busy plotting his own treachery that it had never occurred to him that his bride might betray him. No wonder she had anticipated his plan. It had been but a dull-witted echo of her own nefarious scheme.

He was at least going to have the decency to leave her with her half of the dowry. She had apparently absconded with the whole of it, abandoning him to the dubious mercy of his creditors. Since he had no money to flee to the Continent, it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him. That is, if the innkeeper didn’t summon the local constable first and have him tossed into jail for failing to settle their account. He wondered if she would weep prettily into her handkerchief when she heard he had been cast into debtor’s prison or marched to the gallows by the same vengeful magistrate whose daughter he had seduced.

The irony of his predicament was not wasted on him. Usually it was the bride who woke in the harsh light of morning to discover her groom had deserted her. Many never even made it as far as Gretna Green, but were abandoned along the way after being robbed of both their pride and their virtue by some rapscallion who had never had any intention of marrying them in the first place.

Simon felt doubly ill-used. Catriona hadn’t even bothered to rob him of his virtue, just his money and his pride. He knew a moment of savage regret that he hadn’t taken her up on her offer to consummate their union. At least then she’d have something to remember him by, even if it was only a thorough—

Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, he ran right into Jem.

Oblivious to his ill temper, the young man staggered backward and gave him a snaggle-toothed grin. “Good morning, sir. I hope you and your lovely bride spent as pleasant a night as me and my Bess.”

Simon snatched the lad up by the collar, bringing them eye to eye. “You’d have to be stone deaf not to know what a pleasant night you and your precious Bess spent. They probably heard the two of you moaning and screaming all the way to Edinburgh.”

Jem’s grin only deepened. “Do you really think so, sir?”

Shaking his head in disgust, Simon let him go. As Simon went striding toward the door, Jem continued up the stairs, a jaunty whistle on his lips and an extra strut in his step.

The encounter hardly improved Simon’s temper. He was betrayed and abandoned, while Jem was returning to his adoring bride’s bed for another earsplitting round of the blanket hornpipe.

How dare Catriona!
he thought. Women didn’t leave him. Women
never
left him. It simply wasn’t done. If there was any leaving to be done, then
he
was the one who would do it. She was the one who was supposed to spend the rest of her days pining for his touch and mooning over the one grand passion of her life. Yet here he was, stranded at some ramshackle inn in some grubby little Scottish village while she and her ridiculously obese cat made a mad dash for the Highlands with
his
half of her dowry.

He threw open the front door of the inn, nearly knocking over another hapless bridegroom. She was a fool to believe she could escape him that easily. Why, he would steal a horse and risk hanging to go after her if he had to! He would find her and make her pay back every last halfpenny of what she owed him. He would hunt her to the very gates of hell itself and make her sorry she had ever dared to double-cross…

Simon halted in midstride, his heart turning over in his chest. His bride stood in the middle of the courtyard next to a rickety farm cart. As if divining his presence with some miraculous sense beyond hearing or sight, she turned and spotted him. Reaching up to secure her wide-brimmed hat from the brisk breeze dancing through the courtyard, she gave him a smile every bit as radiant as the one Bess was probably giving Jem right now.

Relief and rage coursed through him in equal measure. He didn’t know whether to sweep her into his arms or strangle her with his cravat.

Oblivious to the tumult of unfamiliar emotions making his heart feel heavy and his head light, she strode toward him, the sprigged muslin of her bottle-green skirts foaming around her trim ankles.

She opened her mouth, but before she could greet him, he blurted out, “Where in the bloody hell have you been?”

She looked taken aback, but only briefly. “Oh, I met young Jem in the stables for an assignation,” she informed him cheerfully. “After last night, I was curious to see what all the screaming was about.”

Simon narrowed his eyes at her, his earlier inclinations rapidly being replaced by an even more unacceptable urge—to snatch her up into his arms and kiss her insensible.

He folded his arms over his chest to help him resist the temptation. “And was he able to
satisfy
your curiosity?”

She lifted her shoulders in an airy shrug. “I’ve had better.”

“Not yet,” he replied smoothly. “But you will.” He continued to glower at her, secretly admiring the fresh bloom of roses in her cheeks. “You can hardly fault me for being alarmed when I rolled over to bid my bride a good morning, only to discover she’d vanished without a trace.”

Catriona snorted. “A good afternoon, you mean.”

Simon squinted through bleary eyes at the cobalt-blue sky, only to discover that she was right. The sun had passed its peak and was already inching toward the horizon.

“I tried to rouse you earlier, with no success,” she said. “When I realized you were going to languish in bed for half the day, I took it upon myself to prepare for our departure.”

He glanced around the courtyard, but the only vehicle in evidence was the farm cart. It was so loaded down with goods that the splintery bed sagged. “So where is our carriage?”

She slapped a hand on her head as another gust of wind threatened to dislodge her hat and gave him a nervous smile. “On its way back to London, I fear.”

“Pardon?” he asked, hoping the aftereffects of the liquor had dulled his hearing as well as his sight.

“Well, when I told John we would be proceeding to the Highlands today, he insisted that he was only ordered to convey us as far as Gretna Green. He said he knew my uncle wouldn’t approve of such a venture and would probably sack him as soon as he returned to London—that is, if he didn’t get his throat cut by some highwayman or Highland savage first.”

“And you let him go?” Simon asked incredulously, rethinking his decision not to strangle her.

“I hardly had a choice. He outweighs me by at least eight stone.” She beamed at him.

“But you needn’t worry about our journey. I’ve taken care of everything.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.

She swept a hand toward the cart as if it were one of the king’s crested coaches hitched to a team of prancing white stallions. “I had hoped to purchase a more
hospitable
conveyance, but I’m rather pleased to have found this one on such short notice.”

Simon circled the monstrosity, studying it with a jaundiced eye. A pair of swaybacked nags had been hitched to the rig. Judging from its piteous condition, a pair of goats would have done just as well and probably would have been hardier. “Did they throw in the horses for free or pay you to take them? If the cart breaks down, at least we’ll have something to eat.”

Catriona tenderly patted the mangy withers on one of the beasts. “The blacksmith assured me they were sturdier than they looked.”

“I certainly hope so. If not, they won’t make it out of the courtyard.” He circled around to the back of the cart, where several mysterious lumps, bumps and bulges lurked beneath a waterproof oilskin. “And what’s all this? More hats?”

Catriona bit her lower lip, looking decidedly guilty, which set off warning bells in his brain.

“While you were sleeping I took the liberty of purchasing a few gifts for my brother.”

When he cocked a brow at her, she rolled her eyes. “You needn’t worry. I spent
my
money, not yours.”

He lifted a corner of the oilskin to steal a look beneath it, but she danced in front of him, breaking the contact. “I have everything packed exactly the way I want it. I’d rather you not fiddle with anything.”

He sighed. “And just where exactly are we supposed to be meeting this dear, sainted brother of yours?”

She turned to tuck the corner of the oilskin beneath its confining ropes, avoiding his eyes. “Near Balquhidder. I also purchased a map and enough food to last for nearly a week.”

“Then as I see it, all we require is a driver. Did the blacksmith provide one of those as well?”

“No, I did. I thought you could do the honors.”

“Me?”

“Well, you can drive, can’t you? Isn’t that one of the skills prized by libertines, rakes and hellborn babes?”

“Racing a prize gelding at Newmarket or tooling a phaeton down Rotten Row on a Sunday afternoon so you can flirt with the belles and their mamas is a bit different from coaxing a pair of broken-down nags up a steep mountainside with a cliff on one side and a sheer drop on the other.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” She batted her silky eyelashes at him. “After all, you’ve had ample experience using your charms to coax nags into doing your bidding.”

“It’s a pity they never work on you.” Simon gazed woefully at the sagging driver’s bench, imagining how his bum was going to feel after only a few hours of being bounced around on it. A good third of the seat was already occupied by a cage constructed of narrow wooden slats.

He frowned. “And just what is that contraption?”

“A chicken crate.”

He leaned closer to peer inside. The cage’s occupant let out a low-pitched growl. “I hate to be the one to point this out, but that’s not a chicken.”

“Of course it’s not a chicken! I couldn’t very well let Robert the Bruce roam free as he did in the carriage. If he decided to go dashing off into the woods after a pine marten or a grouse, we might never find him.”

Simon muttered something beneath his breath that earned him a reproachful look from Catriona. He straightened. “I suppose there’s only one more thing I need to know.”

“Yes?”

“When do we leave?”

After three endless, grueling days on the road, Simon was beginning to wish he
was
the sort of villain who could strangle a woman with his cravat, leave her body moldering in the forest, and waltz merrily away with all of her money. The looks he shot Catriona were growing increasingly murderous with each jolting, grinding turn of the cart’s wheels over the stony roads.

To add to his torture, it seemed that every dip and jerk of the wagon brought some part of his body into tantalizing contact with hers. Their knees and thighs collided with every bump, and with each flick of the reins his elbow would brush the beguiling softness of her breast.