Free My Seduction by Connie Brockway

she asked.
    “India. Two years ago. He’s mine.”
    “India,” she repeated in surprise.
    “Aye.” He deposited the trunk onto the shelf on the back of the carriage next to a saddle and came round the side. He held out his hand. She hesitated. He waited, his bare hand palm up, moisture beading on his broad shoulders and the cool fog drifting behind him.
    Hesitantly, she placed her gloved hand in his. Heat vibrated through her, charged with awareness. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he gave it a little jerk.
    “I’d rather your scorn than your flinches, Mrs. Blackburn.”
    His words brought the heat rushing to her cheeks and her chin snapping up.
    “Aye. Like that.”
    She snatched her hand free and climbed unaided onto the rough plank. He grinned and left her, heading back into the tavern.
    “Ma’am?” The tavern girl she had noted earlier appeared at the side of the carriage holding up a squat wicker basket and a crockery jug. “He asked me to bring ye some food.” There was no need asking who “he” was. “There’s just a bit of bread and cheese and a jar of ale,” she said apologetically. “The men what come in last night ate every bit of what we had.”
    “Thank you,” Kate said, accepting the goods and stowing it under the seat. She found a coin in her pocket and handed it to her. The girl snatched it up and started off but then hesitated.
    “I know precious little of what goes on in the world beyond.” She nodded to the southern hills. “But men be the same everywhere, I reckon. I seen how you watched the Scot. Yer afraid of him.”
    Kate did not reply. She was afraid of him.
    “The rest of the world, now,” the girl continued, “they might have cause to worrit some if he’s a mind to do a bit of destruction. But not you.”
    Before Kate could reply, she hurried away, passing Kit as he emerged from the inn. Wordlessly, he secured his satchel atop the trunk and then vaulted lightly into the seat beside her. He tossed her a thick wool blanket.
    “You’ll want to wrap this about your legs,” he said. “We’re heading out onto the moors, and the wind is fierce there. ’Twill be cold. Bitterly cold.”
    “Then why are we going that way?” she asked.
    “There were men in that tavern who were watching you with an interest that didn’t stop at your pretty face,” he said, untying the reins. “I’ll wager they watched Dougal haul your trunk up the stairs to your room, too.”
    She understood. “I should think we would want to put a great deal of distance between ourselves and them, then. Wouldn’t that be best done on well-traveled highways?”
    That brokered a short laugh. “There are no ‘well-traveled highways’ in the north of Scotland, Mrs. Blackburn.”
    “Still, it seems to me the best course would be to stay on the most traveled roads.”
    “You’re not in England now. You’ll have to trust me.” He clucked, and the carriage started forward. “We’re going by way of the moors, Mrs. Blackburn, because the Highlands are filled with murderers, thieves, and brigands these days. But not fools. And only a fool would go out onto a Highland moor come November.”
     
    Most of the Nashes’ social acquaintances had been frankly, if not vocally, surprised that the three orphans had been able to carry on as long as they had after their mother’s death. If pushed, they would have ascribed that success to Kate’s frugality and caution. They would have been wrong.
    Kate had quickly learned the necessity of what she privately called “circumspect boldness”—not only the willingness to seize opportunities as they presented themselves but, more importantly, the ability to facilitate those opportunities. If at times she had skirted the conventions of her former life or occasionally deviated from what she might consider “nice” behavior, she had done so to good effect. But this, traveling alone in the company of a very rough, very hard, and very dangerous-looking man, went