Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (10 page)

“She wouldn’t want you to carry on like this. To drink yourself into oblivion.” Rachel took a step forward, inwardly cringing when he recoiled. It was the slightest of movements and he quickly caught himself, straightening his shoulders and pushing to his feet. His step was surprisingly steady as he moved toward the door. He grabbed up his musket, glancing back only once to call for the dog to follow. The spaniel sat by Rachel, having awakened and meandered into the cabin when she did. He was hunched down, licking his paw almost as a cat would, and he ignored his master’s grumbled, “Come on with you, Dog.” It wasn’t until Rachel urged him on with a “Go with him, Henry,” that the animal stood and loped along.

Rachel sighed as they disappeared behind a screen of holly and pines. How could she protect him if he rushed off into the woods without her? And how could he keep from rushing away from her when she spoke of a mysterious woman and forgiveness?

She shut the door, crossing to the chair and settling in, her chin resting in the cup of her palm. Who was this woman and what did Logan do that needed her forgiveness? Rachel tried to concentrate, hoping the answer would come to her, but it didn’t. She was only left with a headache and the decision that he must have loved her very much to act as he did.

For some reason she couldn’t begin to fathom, Rachel wasn’t pleased by her conclusion.

~ ~ ~

He’d made a fool of himself.

Logan stood outside, steeling himself to enter the cabin. His own cabin for God’s sake. As if he should have to worry about what he said or did in his own home.

God, what demon had sent her to plague him?

If he wasn’t lusting after her she was reminding him of things he’d worked hard to forget.

Mary forgives you, indeed.

Where had she come up with that? Logan took a deep breath and shut his eyes. For a moment, when she first said it, he could have sworn it was Mary forgiving him. Which was ridiculous. It had to be ridiculous.

Any further attempt to delay going inside was sabotaged by the dog’s insistent scratching on the door. “Can’t bear to be away from her, can you, you lazy mongrel?” Neither his tone nor the sad shake of his head matched his words as Logan lifted the latch.

It was dark inside with only the glowing coals of a long untended fire to battle the gathering night. “Damnation,” Logan mumbled under his breath. The woman truly was worthless. He didn’t know what made him expect to be greeted by the aroma of dinner cooking, or the pleasant flicker of a lit candle. But there was none. And he should have known better.

Anger welled up, only to sputter and die when he caught sight of her. She was asleep, her golden hair a halo about her head, her chin tucked down in the fur blanket. She’d been ill, he reminded himself. And she was weak still from the fever. For tonight he would let her sleep. But starting tomorrow he would instruct her in some basic rules of frontier living. If she intended to reside with him until the festival of
Ah,tawg,hung,nah
, she would start earning her keep.

~ ~ ~

“I’m not at all certain what it is you wish me to do.”

Rachel stood on the shore of the swiftly churning river. Logan MacQuaid was a rod over from her, squatting on a flat, moss-covered rock, holding out his hand toward her.

“I told you, ’twas easier to reach the water from here.”

“Yes, I know that’s what you said.” She pretended not to see his beckoning fingers. “I just don’t think I’ve any desire to reach the water.”

“How else do you intend to do the laundry?”

Which was the crux of the dilemma. She had no desire to do the laundry. However, he seemed to think it an excellent idea.

“I don’t do laundry. Servants do laundry.”

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly.” Logan stood, hands on hips, tired of waiting to help her across the trickle of water that splashed around the rock.

“And I really don’t think it necessary that I learn. When I return to England the washerwoman will take care of my dirty linens.”

“Well Your Highness isn’t in England. And from where I stand you’re the closest thing to a washerwoman we have. Now give me your hand.”

She didn’t seem to have a choice. Rachel took a deep breath and reached out her hand. It was immediately grabbed by his and she was yanked toward the flat rock. Water swirled around her, splashing her beautiful blue-and-silver shoes, which weren’t really beautiful anymore.

It surprised Rachel that the creek didn’t scare her—after all, she had drowned. But it didn’t seem to affect her at all.

“Now I’ll show you how ’tis done,” he said, taking one of the shirts from the pile by his side. “You dip it in the water, like so.” He dredged it through the current a few times till it was dripping wet. “Then you work some of this soap into the fabric.” He matched action to words, scooping several fingers full of soft soap from a crock and squeezing it into the rough material till gray bubbles formed. “Rinse it and drape it over a branch to dry,” he said, handing the sodden shirt to her before leaping back into the long grass on the shore.

“That doesn’t look too hard for you, does it?”

“Of course not.” She wasn’t an imbecile. Perhaps she never did anything like this before, but that certainly didn’t mean she couldn’t. She’d always been a quick learner. Master Howard, the dancing instructor commented that she mastered the quadrille before any other young lady. She even enjoyed her lessons... sometimes. And her needlework was neat and precise if not inspired.

Of course she could perform this simple task. Yet looking down at the pile of soiled laundry, then the icy water, did not exactly make one long to begin. “Why am I washing your clothes, again?”

He grinned at her, which took Rachel completely by surprise. She was accustomed to growls from him, and scowls and even the occasional guffaw of laughter, but never a grin. His teeth looked very white against his sun-darkened skin and black whiskers. And despite his rather disheveled and straggly appearance, she had to admit his smile was captivating.

“Ah...what did you say?” Had she actually been concentrating so much on his momentary slip into good nature that she missed his response?

“I said my clothes are dirty. If you wish to scrub yours too, I won’t object.”

“That’s hardly the point,” Rachel called after him as he began striding away. He paused to look over his broad shoulder and she continued. “Since they’re your soiled linens, I think you should wash them.”

“Then who would hunt for dinner?” He arched a dark brow. “You, perhaps?”

Rachel’s lips thinned. Of course he knew she couldn’t hunt. By the looks of the long rifle she couldn’t even lift it. “I wasn’t aware one prevented the other.”

“In other words you’re of the opinion I should do both?”

“I assume you have before. Certainly you laundered your clothing before I came.”

“Occasionally. However, I wasn’t obliged to provide supper for two as I am now.” That said he lifted the rifle, cradling it in his arms, and started toward the path behind the cabin, only stopping when she called out again.

“Do you think perhaps I should go with you?” He glanced back over his shoulder, his expression questioning.

“In case I’m needed to...“ She bit her bottom lip.

“Save me?”

It did seem ridiculous, now that she heard him say it aloud. Rachel squatted, plunging the soapy shirt into the water. “Never mind.”

But she couldn’t help glancing around as he disappeared behind a copse of trees. Then she stared back at the pile of dirty laundry. How had she...
she
managed to get herself into a situation where she was expected to clean a man’s dirty linens? Her mind wandered back to England for a moment, to Queen’s House and the bevy of servants at call. How she’d taken for granted that her gowns were always clean, her underthings, fresh. Did someone take them to a river and pound them on a flat rock for her? Rachel laughed at the thought. The palace had a laundry... somewhere.

Rachel sighed and when she did her eyes met Henry’s. Logan left him when he went hunting and the dog sat now on his haunches, his mouth open, his dripping tongue hanging out, as if amused by her predicament.

“If you continue to laugh at me like that I shall... shall toss you into the river. We shall see how you enjoy that, Henry.”

In response the dog leaped up, bounding forward and nearly knocking Rachel over in his exuberance to dive into the water. A splashing array of sun-sparkling droplets cascaded over her as the animal dove, headlong into the current.

“Oh, my!” The chilly spray took Rachel’s breath away. Her eyes popped open and she wiped water from her face as she watched Henry frolic about. “I shall pay you in kind for that, Henry. Don’t think I won’t.” But, of course there was nothing she could do now. The dog obviously loved being in the water. Which made one of them, Rachel thought as she leaned down and picked up another shirt.

It smelled of Logan.

Not heady with perfume as the men of her acquaintance in London. But of the outdoors and sweat, and a certain fragrance that seemed to be his alone. She was smiling when she brought the shirt to her face and inhaled; frowning when she realized what she was doing.

“For heaven’s sake,” she squealed, bending over and splashing the linen into the water. It was barely wet when she scooped a handful of soft soap and spread it over the shirt. The water was frigid. The lye in the soap burned her hands. She couldn’t seem to work up any suds. And she didn’t much care.

Holding the shirt between her finger and thumb she swirled it once through the water, then leaped onto shore and carried it dripping wet and soapy to toss over a bramble of rhododendron branches. The next shirt she washed much the same way, and the next. By the time she was down to her last piece of dirty laundry, Rachel was nearly as soaked as her wash.

Henry had long since climbed from the river and lay drying himself in a patch of golden sunshine. Rachel scowled at the animal. Straightening, Rachel spread her palms on the small of her back, stretching. “Perhaps I should let him call you simply dog.

“Oh, I know this isn’t your fault,” she admitted but her voice sounded peevish. “He is the one I blame, believe me. But you could at least be sympathetic, you know.” She scooped up the final shirt, bending forward and grumbling at the same time. “This water is so cold. And I hate this—”

The word soap never crossed her lips for as she reached around for the crock her feet slipped on the wet and sudsy surface. With a windmilling of arms that did nothing to stop her fall Rachel splashed into the bone-chilling water. Her scream ended with a gulp of icy liquid and Rachel was living her death again.

~ ~ ~

Logan held his breath, as his finger slowly squeezed back the trigger. He’d caught sight of the buck’s tracks over the ridge and trailed him for over a mile, finally catching sight of the fine animal after it had circled back toward the cabin. His mouth watered at the prospect of venison steaks as he drew a bead on the buck. In just a moment he would fire and—

“What the hell?” Logan and the deer heard the scream simultaneously. The buck reacted instantly, lifting his antlered head and galloping off into the woods. Logan raced toward his cabin just as quickly.

My God, what had she done now? Logan leaped across a trickling stream, his feet trampling the undergrowth of moss on the other side. She could hardly catch herself on fire while washing his clothes, and she knew better than to approach the edge of the ravine. Didn’t she?

Damn! He climbed over a boulder and thought of Ostenaco. Swift Fox had said he was far away in Kaintukee, but perhaps he’d returned. Perhaps he had come, looking for Logan and finding Rachel.

Logan’s lungs burned as he burst into the clearing. The dog was at the edge of the river, barking his fool head off and Logan headed there on the run. It wasn’t till he passed the border of hollies that he saw what the commotion was about.

He waded into the water, mentally bracing himself against the cold and reached down, yanking her up by her shoulders. She was soaked and sputtering and nearly blue from the cold. “What the hell are you doing, Rachel?” Logan scooped her up without waiting for an answer. He strode toward the cabin, kicking open the door and settling his shivering bundle by the hearth.

It was stone cold.

Logan muttered an oath hot enough to sear Rachel’s ears, but that was the only part of her that was warm. “I told you to toss some logs on the fire before you came out.”

He had, too. Rachel could clearly remember sitting in the chair earlier today as he spoke to her. He stood leaning against the door, one foot resting on a keg and he was telling her that he no longer intended to play her servant. “As long as you’re to be living here for a while you will earn your keep,” he’d said and Rachel had visions of him lying atop her, kissing her.

But he quickly dispelled that notion before she could conjure up a decent degree of indignation. He wanted her to work... to do her share. She sat listening to him in disbelief, wondering just who he thought he was talking to as he listed several chores that were to be hers.

“Keeping the fire going is partly your concern. I shall chop the wood, but you’re to throw logs on the flames when need be.”

She said nothing.

“And I think you can do the wash, too.”

“I’m to be your servant then?” she asked with a lift of her chin.

“Nay. We’ll work together. Now I’ll be in the barn. Make sure the fire’s going strong before you come out.”

But of course she hadn’t and now she was freezing to death and all because the awful man made her wash his shirts. Rachel stood on the dirt floor, dripping wet and watched as he coaxed what was left of that morning’s fire back to life.

“Grab up a fur and wrap it about you,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “And I’d get out of those wet clothes if I were you. You’ll be coming down with a fever again.”

He acted as if this were her fault, Rachel thought. She still stood where he put her, too taken with shivers to follow any of his directives. It wasn’t until he had flames licking around several logs that he glanced back again and then it was with a scowl on his face.