April Moon by Susan King, Merline Lovelace, MIRANDA JARRETT

here. If Miss Colvin must be searched—”
    “Oh, ho, you’ll do it?” Bryson grinned at him. “Not so green at this as I thought.” He grinned at Jenny. “It’s the law, lassie, that you must submit to a search if we think it necessary. Come down, my bonny, and show us what you’ve hidden under your skirts.” He grabbed her around the waist.
    “I said I would take care of this, sir.” Simon clapped his hand hard on Bryson’s shoulder and moved him aside abruptly. Reaching up to take Jenny by the waist, Simon swept her neatly to the ground before she could draw breath to protest. “My girl, if I don’t search you,” Simon murmured, “Mr. Bryson is eager to show me how it’s done. And I would hate to have to pummel a king’s man on my very first night as excise officer,” he added blandly.
    Heart pounding, she nodded, aware that Bryson stood watching, his mouth hanging open, eyes intent. The dragoons sat passively on their horses, but their eyes were alive as well.
    Taking her by the shoulders, Simon turned her so that her back was to the other men. The yardage of her long hooded cloak, tied at the throat, shielded her from the men’s leering glances.
    But nothing would shield her from Simon Lockhart.
    She stood motionless as he slipped his hands around her waist, skimming there, then tracing his fingers over her back, then her upper arms and gathered bodice. His touch was so featherlight that she scarcely felt it, yet tingles rushed through her, threatening to buckle her knees. Blushing, furious, she squeezed her eyes shut and stood in proud, motionless silence.
    Far better that Simon Lockhart do this than Bryson, she thought. Although she had never been searched before, she knew women who had. Few had fared well in the officers’ keeping.
    Simon dropped to one knee and slipped his hands under her skirt. She felt his fingers close around her left ankle, then slide upward over her drawers. His touch was warm, gentle, scarcely there, yet her heart leaped as he neared the top of her thigh. Moving his hands to the other leg, he skimmed downward.
    She kept her eyes closed, wishing he would stop—and remembering the pleasures she had once known under his hands. Feeling a sharp and poignant longing, she fisted her hands, and knew that her cheeks were hot and blazing.
    “Jeannie Simpson was a Highland widow,” Simon said, as he traced his palms over her hips, ruffling the fabric of her chemise, “who carriedwhisky in bladderskins strung under her skirt. She transported the stuff every day, totalling gallons each month, riding past the excise man and greeting him as she went. She made a handsome income and kept her family nicely.”
    “I am not a widow with a family to support,” she replied. “If I was, you can be sure I would have whisky bladders hanging under my skirt and flasks tucked in my bodice, and the de’il take the excise man.”
    “I do not doubt it,” he murmured. His hands rounded over her behind, ran along the backs of her thighs. She took rapid little breaths. His touch still held magic for her, and she hated that fact. She wanted to shove him away as much as she wanted to feel his arms around her again, in another setting, in another mood. But that dream was not possible anymore.
    He withdrew his hands, straightened her skirt hem and stood. She lifted a hand to slap him, but he caught it deftly in his and lowered it, concealing their joined hands in the folds of her cloak. “She’s carrying nothing,” he told Bryson. “She’s free to go.”
    He guided her toward her cart and assisted her into the seat. All the while, her heart slammed, and she fought both her rising temper and the profound befuddlement brought on by his touch.
    Simon looked up at her. “I apologize for the search,” he murmured.
    “Sir, that is the least of your offenses with me,” she said, and snapped the reins.

CHAPTER TWO
    “H EY ,” B RYSON CALLED . “That lass is not headed home!”
    “So I see,”