OUTLAW.

by Susan M. Johnson.

"YOU TANTALIZE ME," he said, very low, only sheer willpower keeping him from gathering her into his arms. "Do I frighten you?"

Unnerved by her exposed feelings, unsettled by the novelty of her sensual vulnerability, Elizabeth didn't answer-and another small silence fell in the candlelit tower room.

"Talk to me," he murmured, afraid of the violence of his feelings.

"You don't frighten me ... I frighten myself," she finally whispered, reaching out for a chair back to steady her trembling. She no longer questioned the extent of his allure, for no man had ever made her tremble merely at the sight of him.

And she should know, after the dozens of candidates her father had paraded before her.

She never trembled. Never.

And her heart never pounded like this.

And the heat warming her face matched another heat, a pulsing ache, deep in the pit of her stomach.

Johnnie Carre was the cause of that heat. Maybe he was the answer to her need.....

CHAPTER 1.

Goldiehouse, Ravensby, Scotland March 1704.

"Are you sleeping?"

"Ummmm ..." Johnnie Carre surfaced from a light doze, the soft sound of the woman's voice secondary to the carnal pleasure he was suddenly feeling. It took a moment more to definitively focus his senses: A warm tongue was leaving a cool path....

He shifted his powerful body slightly, the sensation exquisite. A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth in pleasurable remembrance of the woman's special skills, and a second later his vivid blue eyes opened. Reaching down, his fingers lazily slid through honey-colored silken curls, and he murmured, his deep voice still drowsy, "Don't you ever sleep?"

He'd met Mary Holm two days ago in Kelso at a country inn where her acrobatic troupe was staying. She'd caught his eyes deliberately and then came up to him where he stood watching his men throwing dice.

"I'm Mary," she'd said, looking up at the tall, dark-haired Border Lord with an open invitation in her eyes.

And after a long afternoon of sampling Wat Harden's special reserve French brandy, he let his gaze drift downward briefly to the luscious swell of her bosom before returning to her sweetly smiling face, and he'd simply said, "I'm on my way home. Are you hungry?"

They'd hardly been out of bed since Tuesday.

"Now, if we weren't leaving for Berwick on Friday, darling Johnnie," the pretty young woman replied, lifting her head to smile at the Laird of Ravensby with cheerful impudence, "I might be inclined to sleep. But who knows when I'll have such a bonny stud to entertain me again?"

He was fully awake now, and his own grin matched hers. "In that case I'll try to last till Friday."

"You're doing gracious fine," she purred, and with a wink, resumed her pleasuring.

On the muddy forest road south of Goldiehouse that evening, an exhausted rider whipped his lathered horse to more speed, every minute of delay terrible in its consequences. Like all Borderers, he knew the countryside even at night with the moon behind more threatening rain clouds. Now if his mount would just hold out.... He swore under his breath as the black stallion faltered in the rough going and, taking pity on his Laird's best bloodstock, eased the pace. But even as he drew the horse to a trot, he debated whether his chieftain would rather he ride the black barb to death, so urgent was his message.

"Come sit on me," Johnnie softly said, touching Mary's chin with a finger. "I like the feel of you...."

Rising in a lithe movement, her slender body, supple, feline, she stroked his splendid arousal and answered, "And I adore the feel of you, my darling Laird." She grinned as she moved over him. "How pleasant to discover all the stories are true."

"You're testing my stamina, pet," Johnnie murmured, aware of the stories but disinclined to discuss his reputation as stud to the Middle Marches. "But I'm not complaining," he added with a small smile, gently placing his palms on her hips as she slid down his erection, his eyes closing against the delicious friction. "G.o.d, you're tight...."

Mary's own blue eyes were half-closed, as profligate sensation flooded her mind. "And you're enormous...." she whispered into the firelit room, feeling his hard, rigid length stretch her. Her back arched against the delirium. "You're my lovely rutting stallion," she breathed, the exquisite feel of Johnnie Carre filling her.

The bedchamber was utterly silent for a time, the small sounds of the crackling fire distinct in the hushed, charged atmosphere. She moved down, he arched up. And they both caught their breath for that moment of indelible glory. Then she'd glide upward again with riveting slowness. And they'd both breathe again.

It was a languorous rhythm, not impatient after two wanton days in bed but feverishly acute after forty-eight hours of s.e.xual excess. Extravagant, luxurious feeling reigned. No distractions tempered the irrepressible pa.s.sion.

And then, overzealous once, Johnnie penetrated too deeply, and she cried out. Instantly remorseful, he touched her rosy cheek, his fingers as gentle as his voice. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Am I hurting you?"

It took her a shuddering moment to open her eyes and a moment more to answer. "It's fine," she ambiguously replied, her words uttered with a soft, breathy sigh.

He understood what she meant; he was an experienced man. But he cautioned himself to more control. She was small and fragile, and it was possible to do damage.

The fatigued horseman spurred the black stallion up the last incline to Goldiehouse, no longer concerned with his mount's failing strength. Only a few hundred yards remained of his breakneck ride. Galloping through the courtyard gate, he shouted to rouse the household, the lantern-lit court empty. Throwing himself off the winded barb, he collapsed on the courtyard flags, damp and puddle-strewn from days of rain, just as the studded door to the old keep burst open. With drawn swords three clansmen bolted through the ma.s.sive doorway, their jackboots like mallets on the cobblestones. Spread-eagle like a dead man on the wet ground, the messenger spoke, breathless, panting.

And they stopped cold when they heard his words.

Johnnie was unaware of the tumult, his private quarters of the last few days distant by his choice from the daily bustle. His attention at the moment was totally absorbed, his climax imminent.

Mary Holm's arms were laced tightly around his neck, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s warm and soft against his chest, her sleek rhythm increasing in intensity. Her body was damp with sweat; his own temperature feverish; he could feel the heat of his arousal as if a tropical sun had invaded the ma.s.sive stone walls and raftered ceiling of the room. Her agitated breathing warmed his neck; his strong fingers possessively captured her narrow waist, exerting a minute pressure at times that caused small, breath-held pauses while they both gathered new air into their lungs.

"I'm dying," she breathed.

He shook his head, a small movement of negation, all he was capable of at the moment. Never, he thought, and if he'd had the capacity, he'd have smiled.

Reaching up suddenly, she twisted her fingers into his unruly black hair, jerked his face downward, and kissed him, devoured him, frantically ate at his mouth, greedy for the feel and taste of him everywhere.

He felt her begin to quiver, his own release racing downward.

Two Carre clansmen raced through the first-floor corridors, took the wide, shallow steps three at a time to the second floor, and ran full out to the narrow staircase at the back of the west wing, taking the corners in flying swoops. They sprinted up the narrow circular stairwell of the original tower1, their hearts beating a frantic tattoo. Johnnie had left orders that he not be disturbed, but neither questioned the need to disobey. In the medieval portion of Goldiehouse the ceilings were low, the hallways narrow, built for defense centuries ago. Only one man could comfortably navigate the corridors. One racing after the other, they dashed toward the small room at the end of the pa.s.sage.

Lord, she was hot ... on fire, Johnnie reflected as he exploded in o.r.g.a.s.m, agonizing bliss convulsing his senses, the world diminished for brief seconds to one small woman in his arms and incredible sensation.

She was amazing.

Which exact thought was pa.s.sing through Mary Holm's mind as she lay overcome, panting, Johnnie Carre living up to his amorous fame. He was truly amazing ... again.

She licked him like a contented cat, her warm tongue tracing a slow path across his muscled shoulder. She felt him tense minutely. His head lifted suddenly, and a second later he shifted her in his arms, unconsciously readying himself.

And then he heard it clearly. The faint pattern of running feet. When he'd made it clear his privacy was sacrosanct.

He lifted her from him in a flash of movement, set her against the pillows with a curious tenderness considering his blurring speed, and gallantly threw the embroidered sheet over her just as the door burst open.

He'd only half turned from her, his peripheral vision searching out the intruders, when the brutal exclamation struck him like a blow.

"They've taken Robbie!"

There was no need to define who "they" were. The same enemy had confronted the Roxburgh Carres for a thousand years.

He leaped from the bed, reaching for his weapons left conveniently on the bedpost. The Borders had been Scotland's battleground since the dim dawn of history; a man's dirk and sword never left his side.

His men swiftly related the facts of his brother's abduction as Johnnie gathered his clothes, the woman forgotten. His questions were harsh staccato queries, his dark brows drawn together in a scowl at the answers. His leather breeches were on in seconds, his boots jerked on next, his shirt thrown over his shoulders followed by his leather jack. Handing his sword belt to a clansman to carry, he strode from the room, closing his shirt, tucking it into his leather breeches with rough thrusts.

Halfway down the second-floor corridor he remembered Mary Holm. "See that the girl is sent back to Kelso with an escort," he curtly said, buckling his jack shut, reaching out for his sword baldric. Taking the belt from his lieutenant, he slipped it over his shoulder. "Give her a purse and my thanks. Are the horses saddled?"

At a nod he adjusted the dirk at his waist, pulled his sword slightly out of its scabbard to test its feel, jammed it back in, and, in a voice harsh with hatred, growled, "d.a.m.ned G.o.dfrey! d.a.m.ned English! They're f.u.c.king vermin."

Descending the broad bal.u.s.traded stairway in long, racing leaps, he broke into a run immediately he reached the main floor. "How long ago was it?" he asked again of the man keeping pace with him.

His muttered curse at the unpalatable reply reflected everyone's unease.

CHAPTER 2.

Five hours later, shaking his wet head to check the water dripping into his eyes, Johnnie Carre walked into his weapons room. Weary and frustrated, he unslung his sword belt, hung it on the wall rack, and began pacing.

His rain-soaked lieutenants followed him in, disposed of their weapons, and sank exhausted onto the heavy wooden benches and chairs. No one spoke, their chieftain's exasperation echoing in their own minds. Five hours in the saddle, riding hard in despicable weather, and they'd been too late to overtake the English who'd abducted the Laird of Ravensby's young brother. Riding two hours behind, they knew their chances had been slim at best-only the bad weather was in their favor. But the English troop had reached Harbottle ahead of them, and in all likelihood Robbie Carre was prisoner now in Harbottle Castle.

"If G.o.dfrey harms a hair on Robbie's head, I'll see him on his way to h.e.l.l," Johnnie Carre muttered, the low sound of his voice clear and distinct in the utter silence of the castle a.r.s.enal room, the small metallic jingle of his spurs counterpoint to his threat.

Reaching the limits of the large room, the tall, powerful warlord of striking presence swung around to retrace his stalking pa.s.sage across the flagstone floor, a shimmering trajectory of water droplets from his drenched leather jack and plaid spraying out behind him. "b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.ned English!" Rage and disgust pervaded his tone. "They're looking for an excuse to take a Scotsman!" Last year's Scottish Parliament had been rabidly anti-English, and with the war on the Continent and the controversy over Succession, for the first time in a century Scotland's demand for independence had the hope of success.2 Tempers were flaring on both sides of the border.

The flames of the candles in the heavy silver branches on the tables trembled before his swift movement. The light danced fitfully, illuminating in flickering chiaroscuro the harsh modeling of his face, the arresting beauty of his stark features.

"Can we get Robbie out?" Underlaid with weariness, the voice of one of his young clansmen uttered everyone's concern. Harbottle Castle, England's defensive fort on the Middle Marches, was heavily garrisoned; recently England had scrambled to defend her northern border against Scotland's volatile bid for independence.

His mind on the frustration of a pursuit begun too late ... on the worrisome plight of his young brother, John Carre didn't answer. And for a moment it seemed as though he hadn't heard. But when the clansman resting his head against the carved chair back bearing the coat of arms of the Earls of Graden began to repeat his question, the Laird of Ravensby softly said, "No, not if he's in Harbottle."

And then, as if the unpalatable thought had reined him in, the young Laird stopped before one of the neo-cla.s.sic windows his father had added to the fortified castle when he'd returned from Ferrara with the Douglas in '79.

A sudden hush descended on the room at his response. The weapons hung on the wall racks, the targes, basket-hilted swords, the muskets and pistols, seemed to gleam in contradiction, as if mocking his a.s.sertion.

Slashing rain beat at the windows, pelted by violent winds driving down from the north, the wail and howl like Valkyrie cries. Outside the night was pitch-black, wet as Neptune's kingdom, cold, stormy, fog-shrouded, impossible for accurate tracking.

Just as Harbottle Castle was impossible to infiltrate, the Laird of Ravensby pragmatically acknowledged. With the hostilities over and the Act of Security threatening to bring England and Scotland to war, the English had recently increased the castle garrison by an extra company of dragoons. Which meant the means to Robbie's freedom would have to take some form other than a frontal a.s.sault.

John Carre, Laird of Ravensby, chief of the Roxburgh Carres, Eleventh Earl of Graden, slowly turned to face his friends and kinsmen, his movement restrained like his voice once again, his temper held in check, his mind already sorting through the available options.

"How many horses did we lose?" At word of Robbie's abduction they'd immediately set out in pursuit, despite a week of rain, despite the late hour, despite the burns in flood-tide.

"Eight."

"Permanently?"

"Red Rowan should know by morning. The Neapolitan barb may be one of the badly crippled ones."

"In that case we'll have to get something more, then ... in addition to Robbie in exchange," the Earl said, his tone businesslike, direct. "a.s.sess the damage in the morning and give me an accounting." The word "exchange" set him thinking, and a series of speculative possibilities began to unfold in his mind.

"And what, Johnnie, would you be thinking to exchange of sufficient interest to bring Lord G.o.dfrey to the bargaining table?" The trooper asking the question had one brow lifted in whimsical inquiry.

"It may not come to that," the young chieftain of the Roxburgh Carres answered with the smallest hint of drollery in his voice. The age-old border-raiding was part game, part business, part drama-at least for the Scots Borderers; the English regarded everything in life with more seriousness-but always stimulating. "First we'll send the Queen's ill.u.s.trious Warden a polite request for Robbie's release." He was antic.i.p.ating the necessary steps already, a new a.s.surance in his mood.

"And when that doesn't bring your brother his freedom ..." one of his lieutenants sardonically drawled.

"Then," the dark-haired Laird of Ravensby softly answered, looking tranquil, untroubled, his abstract suppositions having crystallized into a plan, "we'll offer him something he prizes."

"Which is?" Adam Carre spoke for all of them. Every man's eyes were trained on their tall, rangy Laird dressed like a freebooter: the shoulder armor on his leather jack gleaming in the candlelight; two pistols still shoved under his wide leather belt; an ivory-handled dirk swinging from a scabbard at his hip; his long black hair wet because he refused to wear headgear; his green-and-brown hunting plaid-the color of concealment-draped over one shoulder; his leather breeches and spurred riding boots dull earth brown like the landscape.

Bred up to combat on the Borders, where one didn't travel abroad without an escort, where protection money-forbearance money-had been a tradition in the past, where the powerful clans could still muster two thousand horse in a matter of hours, where a glorious, rash, and hazardous young man could do anything ... Johnnie Carre pleasantly said, "I hear the English Warden holds his daughter in high regard now that she's nabob wealthy. With old Hotchane Graham dead and G.o.dfrey's daughter a widow, a very rich young widow ... gossip has it Lord G.o.dfrey's planning on making another fine match for her." A faint smile spread across Johnnie Carre's finely sculpted mouth.

"She's heavily guarded," several of his men instantly replied, their shock and astonishment vivid, like the striking platinum of Elizabeth G.o.dfrey's hair. Everyone on the Borders knew how rough Harbottle was when the Redesdale men came to town, how Harold G.o.dfrey, the Earl of Brusisson, protected his marketable daughter. No longer young at twenty-four, she would still bring a spectacular dowry as prize to a second marriage. And even if she were barren, which possibility existed, since her marriage of eight years had resulted in no children, her lavish fortune would serve to mitigate that serious failing.

"Guarded she may be, but not flung into a dungeon in Harbottle Castle, garrisoned with two companies of dragoons," the young Laird replied, beginning to strip off his sodden green leather gloves, his mood lightened now that a reasonable means for his brother's release had come to him. "So I think," he said with a dazzling smile, "we can begin to plan Robbie's coming-home party."

"Send the letter first," his practical cousin Kinmont said, understanding that flaring light of excitement in Johnnie's eyes. "Time enough for your notions of fun later."

"Of course." The young Earl's expression took on an angelic cast; his voice purred like velvet. "We'll write something charming and nice to the faithless rogue ... with not a mention Robbie was unlawfully taken."

Over the decades since England and Scotland had been joined in 1603, the semblance of peace in the Borders had been accomplished in the early years by ma.s.s deportations of renegade clans and septs, by wholesale slaughter and ma.s.sacre by superior English forces. Later more civilized methods had maintained the peace; English peerages and government pensions were popular methods of control, or, those failing, the occasional stay in the Tower of London or the Tolbooth in Edinburgh was effective. Or banishment, exile, or beheading for those most recalcitrant. But certainly in Robbie's case, regardless of the war fever, there were no legitimate grounds for his capture.

"Considering the nature of the man serving the English Queen," John Carre softly went on, "and the particular style of G.o.dfrey's sense of honor, and old Hotchane's fondness for his wife, estimated to be in the neighborhood of sixty thousand English pounds"-the Laird of Ravensby's mouth twitched into a grin-"I personally feel having Elizabeth G.o.dfrey Graham for a short visit would not only be a fair quid pro quo in terms of Robbie's abduction, but perhaps a financially sound proposition as well. Any questions?"

"When do we leave?" a hotspur young clansman cheerfully inquired.

"First Kinmont will send a courteous request for Robbie's release. G.o.dfrey should have that by tomorrow afternoon. A day or two for his reply-three days at the outside for delaying procedures ... which I antic.i.p.ate." The Earl slapped his gloves against his palm with a smile, as if he were recounting nothing more untoward than a list of kitchen victuals. "Then two or three more days to reconnoiter the Dowager"-he emphasized the unsuitable word-"Lady Graham's daily schedule." Throwing the beautifully embroidered green gloves on a nearby table, he reached for the pistols at his waist. Pulling them free, he balanced them for a moment in his hands, as if gauging the perfect timing of the Lady's coming abduction, then carefully set them down next to his gloves. "In the meantime," he cheerfully said, "I'll have the East Tower room fit up for the darling Elizabeth...."

His lieutenants were smiling now, too, even Kinmont, who was Johnnie's voice of reason. "You'll make a shekel or two on Lord G.o.dfrey's arrogance," said Kinmont Carre, a businessman at heart, like so many of the Borderers. Raiding was an enterprise for profit, although its danger and daring offered excitement along with the gains.