Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (31 page)

Rachel had stepped outside the cabin where she spent the night in time to see a huge blond man with a scar across his face rushing toward Logan. Perhaps if she hadn’t been sent to save Logan’s life she wouldn’t have raced after the man... or leaped onto his back when it seemed his embrace could suffocate.

But she had. Rachel took a deep breath, the smell of pine strong, then urged her mount forward, even with his. “It wouldn’t be so difficult if you would simply allow me to... to...”

“To what? Hover over me?” Logan reined in his horse, turning his head to stare at her when the animal sidestepped. “Disrupt my life? It seems you’ve already done that.”

The words were out of his mouth but Logan came close to apologizing when he saw her face. For just a moment the proud woman who insisted she belonged in the king’s court was gone. In her place was someone who simply tried to do the best she could. Someone who didn’t realize how ill prepared she was to cope.

“We need be on our way,” he mumbled, spurring his horse forward. “Else we won’t make the Grubers’ cabin by nightfall.”

As it happened they were far from the small settlement of Anderson Gap when the dusk of an autumn evening drifted about them. Rachel’s horse went lame—at least she insisted the mare’s right front hoof was sore. Logan could find nothing wrong when he grudgingly stopped to examine the horse. But the chestnut, after a few words from Rachel, refused to accept a mount.

Which meant they rode double, Rachel perched in front. And since Henry trotted along at his own pace, they rode slow. The result being it was quite late and a cold drizzle had begun to fall before they reached the Grubers’ cabin—only to discover the Grubers didn’t live there anymore.

“They done moved back to Charles Town, didn’t they Pa?” the man who answered Logan’s hail said.

The older of the two who stood in the doorway agreed. “That’s what we was told.”

The son was short and wiry with lank brown hair and pale blue eyes that seemed to bulge out when he stared... which Rachel thought he did too much. His father’s most distinguishing feature was a mouth completely devoid of teeth. They were both dirty and their cabin made Logan’s seem like a palace.

But it was relatively dry and for all their uncouth ways, they seemed to know how to treat a lady. Rachel was given the only chair, the only unchipped dish, and was asked by neither man to lift a finger.

Both father and son seemed starved for conversation and though Logan sat tight-lipped, his back against the side wall, Rachel obliged by answering their questions.

She didn’t tell them who she really was. But by the time the stew was washed down with a bit of strong-tasting wine she was sharing anecdotes from her life at court.

“The king is very strict about observing the Sabbath, you know,” she said, her voice only slightly slurred. Her head felt a bit muzzy so she took another sip, trying to clear it. “No gaming of any sort. Banned it, he did.” The cracked cup came to her lips again.

As she took a drink her eyes caught sight of Logan. His scowl grew deeper with each second. He’d pulled his mouth so flat she could see the indentations where his dimples should be.

She wished she could make him smile at her.

Rachel sighed, then took another drink. He was angry because she was telling the truth. He didn’t like to hear it. But the two gentlemen... what were their names? Oh yes, Oscar and his charming son, Wallace. They believed her.

Putting the cup down, Rachel smiled at her engaged audience. Like Logan they sat on the floor. But they huddled close by her chair, leaning toward her a bit, their homely faces upturned in rapt attention.

One, Oscar, poured more liquid into her cup before she even realized it was empty. They treated her like the lady she was. Like a princess... Logan’s princess. Rachel took another drink.

“He’s very generous, you know. Well, perhaps you don’t know, but ’tis true. The king showers Her Majesty with jewels though she doesn’t like to wear them much. Can you credit that?” From the corner of her eye, Rachel noticed Logan push to his feet. “Of course, I have stopped wearing mine.” Caroline had helped her sew them into a pocket beneath her skirts. Rachel leaned forward toward her subjects. “The diamonds simply didn’t seem appropriate on the frontier.”

“I think a bit of fresh air might do you good,
wife
.”

Rachel began to protest. She didn’t want any fresh air, which if she recalled meant cold, wet air. And she certainly wasn’t Logan’s wife. But he hustled her out of her chair and toward the door so quickly that her head whirled... which caused the most unsettling sensation in her stomach.

She was out the door before she could open her mouth.

Which, as it turned out, was a good thing. For when she did, it was to empty her stomach, quite unladylike on the sodden ground.

“Oh...” she moaned. “I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick, Your Highness. You’re drunk.”

The voice came from very near, and Rachel realized with some embarrassment that she was bent forward and Logan was holding her up. He passed her a handkerchief, made wet from the icy needles of rain, and she used it to wipe her mouth. “Impossible,” she mumbled when she could at last stand. “Ladies don’t get drunk.”

“Well, this one is. Now come on.”

Rachel let out a whimper when he pulled on her arm. “I’m ill, I tell you. Don’t.” Then, “Where are we going?” as she realized he was hustling them away from the cabin.

“We’re leaving,” was all he said.

“But it’s raining and dark.” She could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone him. But she felt his presence as he bent his face down close to hers.

“Listen to me, you little fool. Those men might not believe you part of King George’s court but their greedy little eyes lit like torches when you mentioned jewels. And the younger one, hell, both of them, watched you as if you were a tasty morsel they couldn’t wait to gobble up.”

“Oh! How silly you are. Why those men are my—” The word subjects died on her lips as the door to the cabin flew open.

Light spilled out, giving an eerie glow to the falling rain.

“Pa and I think ye need to come back inside.”

Logan inched his hand back toward the musket he’d slung over his shoulder before dragging Rachel from the cabin until he remembered the wet powder would do no good. He tried to appear relaxed. “My wife insists we start off toward Charles Town tonight.” With his left hand he gave her a shove, trying to push her out of the light. She resisted and before he could stop her, stepped toward the doorway.

“Actually, I wish to come in out of the rain.”

Logan lunged for her the same time Wallace did. He would have had her, too, if the father hadn’t leaped forward. The blade of his hunting knife glistened as it pressed toward her throat.

Logan heard Rachel’s gasp; felt his own heart stop.

“Now get yourself in here.” By this time the son had produced the ancient musket Logan noticed earlier leaning by the door. The notion struck him that he could probably disappear into the darkness before Wallace could get off a shot, but then he caught a glimpse of Rachel’s stricken face as she was dragged inside.

“Come on with ye!” Oscar yelled. But the sound didn’t drown out Rachel’s fervent plea for Logan to run and save himself.

“Get in here, or I’ll take a slice out of yer woman.”

When Logan stepped through the doorway she seemed genuinely annoyed that he was there.

“Let her go.” Logan tried not to flinch when Wallace shoved the barrel of the musket into his back. “Now I don’t think we will, will we, Pa?”

His father didn’t answer. He stood behind Rachel, still holding the knife to her throat, but his free hand began inching down her chest, his dirty finger juxtaposed grotesquely against her pale wet skin.

“Ye said I could have at her first, Pa,” Wallace complained.

The downward motion of his hand stopped momentarily. “Shut yer trap. We’ll both have our turn. Now get rid ’a that one.”

“No!” Rachel’s scream seemed to come from the depths of her soul. “No, no. Don’t kill him. You can’t! I was sent to save him.” Tears ran down her face, mingling with the icy rain. “You can’t. I’m an angel. An angel, do you hear me?”

“She’s a mad woman.”

Rachel’s head twisted toward Logan. “I am not! How dare you say that! I’m an angel, blast you, Logan MacQuaid. An angel. Sent from heaven above.”

She raised her hands, ignoring the knife held threateningly close to her neck. Her face lifted toward the smoke-darkened ceiling as if calling on all the heavenly hosts. And in that moment, Logan wouldn’t have been surprised if the Lord God Almighty sent lightning bolts flashing down to smite his enemies.

She was magnificent.

She was believable.

And Logan was not the only one thrown under her spell.

Oscar stood transformed—Logan had a sudden vision of him turned to a pillar of salt—his thick-lipped mouth open, the knife dangling loosely by his side. His son, too, though still aiming the musket toward Logan, had eyes that bulged toward Rachel.

“Get down, Your Highness!”

Logan roared the command as he lurched toward Wallace, chopping the gun from his hand with one downward sweep of his arm. The musket clattered to the packed dirt floor. He kicked it away, diving into Wallace, fighting the overwhelming urge to look around toward Rachel. Was she still alive or had the knife held so negligently by Oscar sliced through her delicate flesh?

Had his timing been off? Had he committed yet another mistake in a lifetime of them?

Wallace’s bony fist connected with his jaw before Logan sent him sprawling, his nose billowing blood. He landed arms spread on top of the rickety table. It collapsed, sending the stub of candle flying into a pile of animal pelts.

Logan whirled around just as Oscar shoved Rachel to the ground. She fell hard, then didn’t move, lying like a fallen angel.

Logan forced his eyes from her, though the vision remained, forcing his attention on Oscar, on the man who hurt her. Ignoring the blade pointed toward him, Logan lunged. The older man croaked out a blast of air when Logan’s head plowed into his stomach. He flew backward onto the dirt, Logan on top of him.

With one hand Logan searched for the knife and sucked in his breath when the blade found him instead. Blood poured from the slice in his ribs, but he ignored the pain as he grappled with Oscar.

From the corner of his eye Logan caught movement. Rachel. He saw her moving, groping to her feet. A swift surge of relief flashed through him that she was alive.

“Get the hell out of here!” he ordered.

The heavy smell of smoke, of burning fur, hung in the air. Someone coughed. Was it Rachel? He couldn’t be sure. For the wiry man slashed again with the blade. This time Logan caught hold of his arm. Strong fingers manacled his wrist, slamming it toward the packed earth. Oscar gripped the bone-handled knife as if his life depended on it. Rising up, Logan straddled him, jerking the hand up and slapping it down once again... as hard as he could. This time the knife slipped from Oscar’s limp fingers.

A backhand across the fleshy lips had Oscar begging for mercy. But Logan had none to give. Grabbing handfuls of grimy shirt he hauled him to his feet, jerking him around to face the yawning muzzle of the musket.

Wallace stepped forward, out of a cloud of smoke. Let my pa go.” Blood streamed from his matted hair into one eye. He blinked, lifting his shoulder to wipe it away, but kept the gun steady.

“Give me the musket, Wallace.”

Before Logan could do more than shriek out a strangled, “Nay,” Rachel issued her command and faced the son. She reached out when he shifted his aim from Logan to her.

“Stay back!” he yelled when she moved closer. “Stay away from me.” Wallace’s voice quivered.

“It won’t do any good to shoot me. I told you I’m an—”

“Rachel, for God’s sake.”

The barrel jerked back toward Logan when he took a step, dragging the semiconscious father with him.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot. Damn if I won’t.”

“No you won’t, Wallace. For if you do I shall see to it that you go straight to hell.”

The bulging eyes, so like his father’s, opened wider, and sweat mixed with the blood to flow down his cheek. Around him smoldering furs sent noxious smoke billowing into the air, looking enough like hell to give the threat credibility.

“You know about hell, don’t you, Wallace?” Rachel inched closer. “It’s burning fire and brimstone and the tortuous pain is constant. And there’s no way out. Not for the rest of eternity.”

“Shut up.”

Logan stood tensed, ready to leap forward, ready to push her aside. The weight of the father dragged down on his hands and Logan finally realized he still held Oscar up. Releasing the crumpled handhold of shirt the man fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

His son didn’t seem to notice.

Wisps of smoke twisted up around him, but his eyes were fixed on Rachel. He didn’t protest—though Logan did—when she took another step toward him. Then another.

“Rachel.” Logan barely whispered the warning, afraid to startle the youth into doing what any true evil-hearted creature would do... should do. But even though she stood no more than a hair’s breadth from the end of the muzzle, Wallace did not pull the trigger.

He only stared at Rachel, his skin pallid and sweaty, his hands shaking.

Her next step pressed the muzzle into her chest. She reached up, folding her soft, delicate fingers around the rusted iron, and Logan thought his head would explode. Blood pounded in his ears and he knew if he didn’t take a breath soon he might pass out.

But he couldn’t.

Not until Wallace let loose of the stock and wilted into a puddle of slobbering tears at Rachel’s feet. He clung to her skirts wailing and blubbering about eternal damnation and repenting his list of myriad sins, some of which Logan was certain Rachel couldn’t even begin to understand.

Logan leaped forward, snatching the musket, then feeling a bit foolish for his action. It was obvious the pitiful creature kneeling in the dirt had no use for it. He continued to clutch at Rachel, his dirty hands groping at her hem, but when Logan bent to drag him off her, she stayed him with a look.