Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (11 page)

“Can you do nothing for yourself then?” He pushed to his feet and approached, looking as if he did plan to play the part of lady’s maid again. Thoughts of him helping her out of her gown were enough to spur Rachel to action. She twisted away, scurrying behind the curtain he’d hung for her privacy. Her fingers felt like shards of ice as she tried to unfasten the hooks on her bodice.

“I could have drowned, you know.” She had thought she was drowning... again.

She could hear him moving about in the room. Could hear his amused chuckle. “I seriously doubt that Your Highness.”

“I don’t swim.” Rachel managed to untie the tabs of her petticoat.

“But I assume you can stand.”

“Stand?”

“Aye. Which is all ’twas necessary to rise above the water.”

Rachel felt the heat of embarrassment seep up her neck. She was so agitated when the water closed in over her head, remembering the other time... the time she died... that she’d panicked. She stepped from behind the curtain wrapped from chin to toes in a fur blanket. She still shivered, but could feel a bit of warmth permeating the cabin.

That is until she met his stare and noticed the chill of his light green eyes.

He didn’t say anything but she could feel what he was thinking. Disappointment. In her. And a very real regret that he was forced to offer her hospitality until they visited the Cherokee town.

Rachel took a deep breath and stepped closer to the flames. “I will attempt to be more diligent with the fire.” She slanted him a look up through her lashes, hoping to see an expression of belief on his face. She glanced down quickly. The devil take him. She didn’t give a fig what he thought.

~ ~ ~

The afternoon brought a new revelation. He expected her to milk the cow.

Rachel stood in the doorway of the barn, staring at the cud-chewing cow. This really was more than she could tolerate. Dust motes danced in the slant of late afternoon sun that shone through the slit of a window. The air smelled strongly of straw and animals, and for an instant she seemed carried back to the stables at Queen’s House.

She always enjoyed riding.

Rachel sighed. There was no horse to have saddled. Nothing but a pie-eyed cow. She could refuse to do it, of course. Rachel didn’t think Logan MacQuaid would hurt her, or even try to force her. But she couldn’t help recalling his face when he noticed the fire was out. And the memory of how cold she was wouldn’t go away either.

“Well, Mistress Ellen it is but you and me.” Rachel wasn’t sure what made her call the cow that, but the creature seemed pleased. She shifted her head around, staring at Rachel with large, liquid brown eyes. Patting her neck seemed as natural as flirting over the fringe of her fan. “I really don’t know how to do this. Oh, I realize
he
showed me this morning, but...” Rachel let the rest of her sentence drift off as she reached for the small three-legged stool.

She settled down as Logan did this morning, between the cow’s front and back legs, prepared to be repulsed—surprised when she wasn’t. Rachel edged the pail beneath the swollen udder and took a deep breath. “You do realize I’ve never done this before, don’t you, Mistress Ellen? Yes, I imagine it is rather simple, however... Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She reached out, tentatively touching, then squeezing the cow’s teats. She was rewarded with a squirt of sweet-smelling milk splashing into the bucket.

She couldn’t help laughing. “What a wonderful creature you are, Mistress Ellen.” Her fingers tightened again. By the time she’d found a rhythm of sorts the pail was full of frothy liquid with a canopy of steam rising above it, and Rachel’s forehead was pressed against the cow’s hide.

“This is one of Logan MacQuaid’s chores I shall gladly do,” Rachel said as she lifted the rope handle, placing the milk near the door. Before she left she gave the cow a small curtsey. “It was my pleasure to meet you, Mistress Ellen.

“And I do appreciate your flattery about my hands.” Rachel examined her palms. “I do imagine they are smoother than Mr. MacQuaid’s.”

There was no imagining about it. She knew exactly how Logan MacQuaid’s hands felt. Each time he touched her it was obvious they were work-rough. And strong. And gentle. Rachel pushed that thought from her mind. “I’ll return tomorrow morning, Mistress Ellen.”

As she walked back to the cabin, Rachel realized she was beginning to hate her gown.

She kicked at a piece of torn silver lace tangling about her foot. And spilled some milk in the process. Why wasn’t she wearing something a bit more sensible when she drowned? Something that would hold up a bit better. Her gown was in tatters—her dip into the lake certainly hadn’t helped its appearance.

Oh well, as soon as she returned to Queen’s House, she would be able to choose from her large collection of gowns. First she’d immerse herself in a tub, with lots of delicious hot water and soap that smelled of flowers and left her skin feeling soft and smooth. She’d have her maid wash her hair and brush it dry, then dress it in the most fashionable of styles. Rachel closed her eyes reminiscing about the life she used to take for granted. Remembering also that Liz had no chance of returning to it.

No, as much as she would like a bath and clean clothes, her first duty when she returned would be to speak out against Lord Bingham. Her first duty, and her first pleasure.

Rachel started back toward the cabin with a more determined step, only to stop abruptly when the door opened and Logan appeared.

“Have a care for the milk you’re spilling Your Highness.”

Rachel righted the pail, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. “You look... different.”

He seemed not to understand her statement for a moment, then grinned rather self-deprecatingly. That’s when she first noticed his dimples. Two of them on either side of his mouth. At first they seemed out of place on such a solemn man. But the more she looked, the more taken she was by this new discovery. He was far more handsome than she’d originally thought. His beauty was as rugged as the land.

“I thought it best to rid myself of the beard before the ceremony of
Ah,tawh,hung,nah
.”

“Oh.” Hardly a witty comment, but Rachel couldn’t think of a thing to say. It occurred to her that she was staring rather unabashedly and quickly averted her eyes. “I’ve milked Mistress Ellen,” she said for lack of anything better to say.

He arched a brow but made no comment about her naming his cow. He did step forward looking at the pail with some interest. Rachel thought him about to chastise her for spilling so much but instead appeared pleasantly surprised. “I see the cow tried a bit harder today.”

“What? Oh, yes.”

“I started supper. There’s bacon frying in the skillet. Pray, see that it doesn’t burn.”

Rachel nodded. She was staring at him again, wondering how it was she’d never noticed how handsome he was. He’d tied back his hair with a bit of leather and between that and the missing whiskers she could actually see his face for the first time. The wide forehead. The straight blade of nose and the full sensual lips. Combined with the startling green eyes that she’d always thought attractive, he was really very appealing to look upon.

Not like the gentlemen at court Rachel assured herself quickly as she turned and hurried into the cabin. With their silk waistcoats and powdered wigs, they were by far the better looking. Yet she couldn’t keep from peeking around the door as she went to close it.

He was going to chop more wood. He always took his shirt off to do that. Such a ghastly uncivilized habit, Rachel told herself as she lingered in the doorway. Who wanted to look on a man’s bare chest and muscled back? He yanked the linen over his head and Rachel bit her bottom lip. She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry.

He hefted the axe and sent it forging down, cleaving the block of wood and Rachel’s fingers tightened on the door. He really did have a very appealing body. She’d long suspected Prince William of using pads under his clothes and stockings to enhance his appearance. It was obvious Logan MacQuaid would not have to resort to such practices.

Rachel wasn’t certain how long she watched him at his task. Every time two chunks of wood split from one she told herself she didn’t care what he looked like. She was sent to save him and the sooner she could accomplish that, the sooner she could return to her real life. But she still stayed to let out her breath when his arms lifted high over his head.

It wasn’t till she saw him pause, the axe poised in midair, that she noticed the smell. Unfortunately, that seemed to be what caused him to stop also. He twisted around, his eyes meeting hers for an instant before she squealed and slammed the door.

The bacon was ruined, burned to a crisp.

“Every living thing in this world is put in the charge of an angel.”

— Saint Augustine

Eight Questions

“When are we leaving for the Cherokee town, Cheoah is it?”

“Soon.”

“Yes, but when? Would you look at me please when I speak to you.”

There it was again, that haughty tone, and Logan knew what her expression would be—a sharp-eyed stare down the length of her delicate nose—before he glanced up. And he lifted his head with reluctance. Not only did he tire of her orders and wish to show her he would tolerate them no more, but he would just as soon not notice the sweet curve of her breast, above the ragged neckline of her gown. Or the face that could only be described as beautiful despite her superior attitude.

He settled back against the log wall, marking his place in a large book with one finger before deigning to glance her way. And Rachel came to a startling conclusion.

She hated to be ignored.

Perhaps not so startling when she thought on it. Her father had ignored her and she’d hated it. But that had been long ago. Ever since she moved to London, to Queen’s House, no one had dared overlook her. Not that anyone would, she assured herself. She was usually the center of attention with friends and admirers never far away.

Everyone thought her pretty, too.

Except Logan MacQuaid.

“You have my complete attention, Your Highness.” He sounded annoyed and sarcastic and Rachel lifted her chin a notch higher. Which made it more difficult for her to see him sitting there on the floor. Didn’t he realize how barbaric that was? He sat with one long buckskin-clad leg spread out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. A book rested in the V made by his thigh and body.

“I asked you when we are leaving for the Cherokee village.” She knew he didn’t want to take her there... it was only because the Adawehis had insisted. In some perverse deep corner of her soul, that made Rachel all the more determined to go... even if she didn’t feel he might need her to save him.

“We’ll start out day after next. How are you coming with your cloak?”

Rachel glanced down at the animal skins in her lap, then twirled the bone needle between her fingers. “Fine,” she said while trying to push the point through the tough hide. When it didn’t go easily she gave up and tried to recapture his eye. He was back reading, his head bent forward, a stray lock of dark hair falling across his cheek.

She had to admit his reading surprised her.

When first they met, after she had a good look at him, Rachel would have wagered he hardly knew what a book was, let alone had the capacity to read one. But he had several leather-bound volumes, and though it was nothing compared to King George’s library, she couldn’t help being impressed.

“When does the festival begin?” She watched him take a deep breath, watched his chest expand beneath the loose-fitting shirt before he lowered the book.

“In five days.”

“How do you know? Did Lone Dove tell you or is it always the same day such as Christmas?”

“
Ah,tawh,hung,nah
is the ceremony of cementation. It is the tribe’s chance to begin anew. And it is celebrated ten days after
Nung,tah-tay-quah
.” He paused. “The first new moon of autumn.”

“I see.” She caught the telltale shifting of his hands as he began to reopen the book... to shut her out. “What are you reading?” She’d glanced at his books several times when she was bored but couldn’t understand even the titles on most of them.

“Miscellaneous Observations in the Practice of Physick, Anatomy and Surgery.”

“A book on medicine?” When he nodded she rushed on. “Are you a physician?” Except for the fact that he looked as he did and lived in a small hidden corner of nowhere, it seemed to make sense. He’d mixed medicines and nursed her to health when she had the fever. But he quickly dispelled that notion.

“Nay, I’m no doctor.”

“But the books. And you appear to know so much.”

“’Tis an interest, nothing more. At one point I’d thought to pursue...” Logan clamped his mouth shut. Why was he telling her these things about himself?

“Why didn’t you?” He obviously enjoyed studying.

He shrugged as if whatever the cause it mattered naught to him. But Rachel wasn’t fooled. “My father brought me to the new world.”

“Couldn’t you have stayed in Scotland? Surely there was a way.”

“Have you not heard of Culloden, Your Highness?”