Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (6 page)

Clenching her teeth she stepped gingerly toward the heap. “Why can’t he make another bed?” she mumbled. “After all, this is his house.” She held one of the furs up and examined it contemptuously. “And his bedding. I don’t see why I—”

The cold draft sent gooseflesh across her skin. She turned to see why he didn’t close the door, a sharp retort on her lips.

But it was the echo of her scream that rang through the cabin.

“Of all the passions, fear weakens judgment most.”

— Cardinal de Retz

Mémoires

It hit her like a bolt of lightning. Why she hadn’t returned to her own life. What she had to do.

She wasn’t sent just to save the man from jumping off the cliff. She was sent to save him from the painted heathen standing in the doorway.

But how?

The revelation left her speechless. All she seemed able to do was stare at the savage. Her heart pounded and she found it difficult to swallow. Especially when he took a step toward her, and then another.

Rachel’s eyes darted about the small cabin looking for something to use against him. He carried a rifle, cradled in one arm, the same way the other man did. There was also a small axe and a knife hanging from his belt. She wouldn’t have a chance against him. But more importantly, Rachel feared the man she was sent to save wouldn’t either.

The savage moved closer and the light from the fire reflected off his coppery skin, the evil darkness of his eyes. His voice was harsh, the words guttural and incomprehensible, and he was almost upon her. He reached out a hand to touch a lock of Rachel’s hair that had escaped from its pins at the same moment her man—the lost soul whose life she was to save—appeared in the doorway.

Rachel hurled herself at the savage, knocking him backward, and yelling to the man at the same time. “Run! Save yourself!” She clawed and kicked with her bare feet, and tried to do all she could to save the man’s life.

The savage was yelling, too. Nothing she could understand, but she didn’t care. She hit and scratched and might have actually drawn blood had not something grabbed her from behind. Without warning she was hauled off the savage by a steel-like arm around her waist.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. She wriggled in the man’s clutches, trying to free herself. Couldn’t he see the danger? Was he sightless as well as stupid?

“’Tis I who should be asking you that question.” His free arm dropped down over hers, pinioning them to her sides. He held her off the floor and when she continued kicking he squeezed, pressing against her breasts. “Behave yourself,” he growled in her ear.

And all the time the savage just stood there, his face looking as if it were cast of bronze, staring at them.

The fight was gone from her. Rachel went limp in the man’s arms. Then he lowered her feet to the floor. She tried to calm her breathing, tried not to notice the way his rough shirt rubbed against the curve of her breast.

Then to Rachel’s surprise the man spoke, but it was nothing she understood, though the painted savage seemed to. He pressed his lips together and folded his arms, regarding her through eyes that glittered like jet.

“This is your woman?” he asked in broken English, each word barely more than a grunt.

“Nay.” Rachel was released from his hold, though he did rest his hands on her shoulders. “She is not my woman, but she is my responsibility.”

“Your responsibility?” Rachel squirmed around till she could see the square, whiskered jaw. “You don’t seem to understand, you are my res—” The tightening of his fingers on her silk-clad shoulders brought her protest to an abrupt end. Rachel listened in silence, slowly turning back to the savage.

“I welcome my friend, Swift Fox, to my home. Please sit and we will make talk.”

The expression on the savage’s face softened, though he still glanced at Rachel with apprehension. Apparently her man noticed this, too, for he turned her toward the corner, giving her a slight push, while whispering in her ear. “Off with you and sit.” He paused before adding, “And for once do as you’re told.”

“I always do,” Rachel began, only to realize he wasn’t listening to her. He and his
friend
were settling down by the fire. A jug was passed from one to the other, as was a pipe. Rachel stood watching as they spoke to each other in that strange, guttural language, finally accepting the fact that the savage was no threat. At least not to the man whose life she was to save.

Finally, tired and sore—the burns on her legs hurt—she huddled down on the pile of skins. They didn’t seem to notice. Actually since they began, neither had so much as glanced her way. They seemed content to take frequent swallows of whatever was in the jug. She felt ignored and cold as drafts crept through the holes between the logs. Even though she thought she should keep watch, Rachel was just as glad when sleep overcame her.

~ ~ ~

What was he to make of her? Logan stood, staring down at her curled-up form. The night was late and Swift Fox had just fallen asleep, or passed out, on Logan’s pallet. His Cherokee friend didn’t hold his liquor too well, unlike himself, Logan thought. He had as much to drink as Swift Fox and the last thing he felt like doing was sleeping. Too great a chance he’d dream.

Logan shook his head. He didn’t want to dwell on the nightmares. The woman was a safer subject to ponder... though on second thought he wouldn’t call her safe at all.

She’d gone at Swift Fox like a bear protecting her cub, all sharp claws and emotion. She shocked the Cherokee for certain. He repeated the story often as the evening progressed and the jug grew lighter.

“She did not come after me until you arrived,” he’d said, after taking a puff off the pipe. “She was not afraid for herself.”

Logan squatted down near the pile of furs. “Who are you?” he whispered. Lady Rachel Elliott she’d said, but that just didn’t make sense. Not that he didn’t think an English Lady could live on the frontier. His half-brother Wolf had married Lady Caroline Simmons and they made their home at Seven Pines. But Caroline hadn’t just appeared one day by Wolf s side insisting she was there to save him.

Leaning forward, Logan studied her with narrowed eyes. He sure never saw Caroline decked out like this either. Logan’s gaze swept over the silvery gown and diamonds twinkling at her neck and ears. There was a beauty patch on her cheek, its edges curled from wear. With his finger he brushed it off, wondering why anyone as lovely as she would paste something false on her face.

But then the same could be said for the powdered wig. Her own hair was a shimmering pale blond. She was no angel, of that he was certain, but she did look like one.

Which made absolutely no difference, Logan assured himself as he pushed to his feet. She was a problem he didn’t need. But one he didn’t quite know how to rid himself of.

For now she looked damned uncomfortable. Cursing under his breath, Logan spread several layers of skins on the floor. Then nudging Dog aside he scooped his unwelcome guest into his arms. She nestled closer, her breath fanning his neck. Logan allowed himself to savor the feel of her only a moment before stretching her out on the pallet.

When he lay the bearskin over her she rolled her head from side to side. She was mumbling, something unintelligible at first, but when he leaned closer he could make out what she said. “I have to save him. I have to.”

Logan backed up. This whole thing was insane.
She
was insane. And he was just as insane for listening to her for one second.

He strode to the door, grabbing his coat off the peg as he reached for the latch. He felt restless. There was no reason to attempt sleep. Perhaps a bit of night air would help. After he opened the door he gave a low whistle. The dog always enjoyed these night forays.

But obviously that was before the woman arrived. For he was already cuddled up close, his canine head wedged against her side.

“The hell with you both,” Logan said under his breath before stomping into the clear, cold night.

~ ~ ~

The cabin was empty when Rachel woke the next morning, but someone had built up the fire and a delicious scent wafted up from the pot. She stretched, lifting her arms high above her head and wondered how she’d come to be lying flat on a bed of furs. Oh, what did it matter? She slept well, was rested, and despite the reddened areas on her legs felt better than she had since... since her death.

Though she told herself there was nothing humorous about her situation, Rachel couldn’t help laughing. Which was what she was doing when the man pushed through the door. He was wet again, clad only in some sort of short apron that covered him from waist to mid thigh, front and back. But despite his near nakedness, it was his expression that held Rachel’s attention. He looked as if he’d eaten a lemon. Rachel’s countenance sobered.

He stomped to the hearth, his back to the flames and stared at her a moment. “’Tis glad I am that you find time for levity... and sleeping. Though most would think the time of day for being about was long past.”

Rachel elbowed her way to sitting. Her pleasant mood was a thing of the past. “Are you saying I slept too late?” Why, she could swear it was still morning. What did the man want?

He only grunted in that way Rachel found very annoying.

She brushed a tangle of curls from her face, wondering what had become of the pins that held it up. “I’ll have you know I’ve been called an early riser, by some. Even if I attend an especially late entertainment I ring for my chocolate by half past ten.”

He lifted a brow before turning to warm his front side. “That early?”

His sarcasm was no more appreciated than his monosyllable grunts, Rachel decided, and told him so. This elicited no response at all.

“Who are you?” Rachel folded her arms when he glanced around. “You do have a name, don’t you?”

“Logan MacQuaid.”

“Ah, I thought I detected a Scottish brogue.” He said nothing to that but then she supposed she should be growing use to his reticence. “From where in Scotland do you hail?”

“Alloway near Ayr.”

Rachel folded her hands, resting them on the fur blanket covering her lap. “And how long have you been in the colonies?”

“Since forty-seven.” Logan reached for the shirt he’d taken off earlier and pulled it over his head.

Rachel found it a bit easier to concentrate with his chest covered. She sighed. “What of your friend?” She glanced around. “Where is he?”

“Swift Fox left early for his village. Now, if there be no more questions for me Your Highness, I suggest you rise from your royal bed.”

Royal bed indeed. He was so annoying. Rachel lifted her chin. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why.”

He wasn’t going to ask, Logan assured himself as he dished out his portion of stew. He didn’t care what she was talking about. He didn’t care anything about her. But he found himself glancing back as she pushed aside the heavy bearskin. “Why what?” It was more command than request and Logan noticed the sharp lift of her head when he spoke.

She stood, smoothing down the torn and ragged skirt as best she could before facing him, her shoulders back, her stare haughty. “Why anyone should care what becomes of you.”

Logan’s hand paused, the spoon carrying a bite of stew forgotten. “For once we are in complete agreement, Your Highness. ’Tis not a soul who does... myself included.” He stared at her, his green eyes hard, before adding, “And ’tis the way I like it.” He lowered the spoon and the bowl without eating. Not bothering to retrieve his jacket he stomped out of the cabin, and was immediately sorry.

The weather had turned cold with a northern wind that tore through his homespun shirt. He looked back at the cabin door and imagined himself opening it. Imagined her haughty expression. If only he hadn’t made such a dramatic exit.

But then this wasn’t the first time.

There was the time he stormed out on his half-brother Wolf, vowing to kill every Cherokee he could find. It was a stupid thing to do. Even if he’d just discovered his wife and daughter were dead... massacred by Cherokee.

Logan turned away from the cabin and stalked to the edge of the cliff that looked down over the valley below. Damn it all, Mary died years ago. He should be at least able to think about it without this terrible feeling of... Logan squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed.

God, what he wouldn’t give for it to be grief that consumed him. That’s what it should be. Grief for his wife. Grief for the child, the infant, that he’d never seen. And oh, Lord, he was sorry, sorrier than he could ever say, that they were gone.

But it was guilt that overpowered him. Guilt that kept him on this mountain and forced him to stand on the edge when fear of the heights made him dizzy.

For it was his fault they were dead.

His fault.

~ ~ ~

She managed to fix herself some of the stew without catching herself on fire. Logan noticed the dirty bowl on the table beside the chair when he finally returned to the cabin. Actually two dirty bowls. The second—the one he’d abandoned when he left—was on the floor. The dog in his usual spot on Logan’s bed appeared satiated.

He supposed he had that coming after feeding
her
meal to the dog the day before. Except that this was
his
cabin and
his
food and as far as he could tell Her Highness hadn’t lifted one of her delicate little fingers since she arrived uninvited on his doorstep.