Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (32 page)

“It’s all right,” she said, even deigning to let her hand flutter to graze the greasy and no doubt vermin-infected head. Logan could only gape, his mouth open in disbelief as the force of Wallace’s wailing diminished.

“Logan.” Rachel said his name twice before his gaze met hers. She coughed, then wiped her streaming eyes. “Those furs are putting out a good bit of smoke. Do you suppose you could do something?”

“Oh, aye. “ He felt foolish for not thinking of it before. Now, as quickly as he could... and still keeping a wary eye on Wallace, he jerked open the door, barely sidestepping Henry as he bounded into the cabin. The dog was soaked, his black and white fur matted and he appeared primed for action, his teeth bared, a low growl rumbling through his body. Henry skidded to a stop. Seemed to assess the situation, then to Logan’s amazement trotted toward the hearth and, after turning about a few times to pick his spot, plopped down.

Logan dragged the smoldering pelts out into the rain, leaving the door open to air out the cabin. In the small barn he found enough rope to tie father and son and hurried back to Rachel. He found her hunched over, adding more split wood to the fire. She glanced around and smiled and Logan felt warm inside, despite the icy rain that soaked through his clothing.

He blinked, then let out his breath, relieved to see the radiant circlet he thought he saw hovering above her head was gone. A trick of the freshly caught flames, he assured himself.

The woman wasn’t really an angel.

Angels didn’t exist. At least not in Logan MacQuaid’s life.

Besides, if he hadn’t believed in her madness before, this incident proved it. Logan’s blood ran cold when he thought of her facing down an armed man. A crazed armed man. Hell, if she didn’t belong in Bedlam, he didn’t know who did.

And to make matters worse, it was obvious she believed every word she told the man who still sat huddled and sniveling on the floor.

Logan jerked Wallace to his feet, receiving no resistance at all. He made no attempt to be gentle as he twisted Wallace’s hands behind his back. When he was securely tied, Logan did the same to his father who, sputtering, was regaining consciousness. Without a word, Logan dragged both men from the cabin.

When he returned the cabin was aired out enough to shut the door. Rachel had found a piece of toweling and was leaning toward the hearth calmly drying her hair. Golden curls escaped from the linen, shimmering in the oscillating light when she turned toward him.

“What did you do with them?”

“They’re tied in the barn... which is better than they deserve,” he said defiantly.

“I suppose you’re right.” Rachel sighed. “I do feel a bit sorry for Wallace though.”

“Because he was feebleminded enough to swallow your angel story?”

Her eyes narrowed and she shot him a harsh look before turning back to her task. At that moment she appeared anything but angelic. But that didn’t keep Logan from regretting his words. She merely shrugged when he apologized.

“’Tis of no matter. I do feel that Wallace was truly remorseful, though.”

“Perhaps.” Logan moved to the hearth more drawn by her than the roaring fire. “But only after you reminded him of the rewards the devil had waiting for him.” Logan couldn’t help it. A grin deepened his dimples. “Did you see his face when you spoke of the fire and brimstone?”

Rachel giggled, slanting him a look from under her lashes. “It was rather wan, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, ’tis a wonder he didn’t drop over dead right then and there.”

Rachel nodded, then tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I think I shall put in a good word for him.”

Logan turned to warm his backside. “I doubt the authorities in Charles Town will care to do anything about father and son one way or the other.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean here.” Rachel considered keeping the rest of her thought to herself. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how annoyed he would be. But then she wasn’t too pleased with his comment about feebleminded Wallace believing her an angel. Rachel met his eyes, a guileless expression on her face. “I meant when I return to heaven.”

~ ~ ~

What in the hell was wrong with him that he kept forgetting how daft she was? How many times did the fact have to slap him in the face before he accepted it? Was he so blinded by a comely face and form that he couldn’t recall the lessons of his mother?

Illnesses of the mind were something he knew not how to handle. It wasn’t like a fever or inflammation. No amount of purging or bloodletting would heal it.

Logan glanced at her as she dipped a cloth into the kettle of warm water. She insisted upon tending his wound, though he insisted it ’twas nothing. She smiled as she came toward him. Beautiful and serene. How very deceptive.

He closed his eyes as she bent toward him. Moments before he stripped out of his shirt and now she made a soft soothing sound with her mouth as she touched the cloth to his wound.

“’Tis a wonder he didn’t gut you, given the size of his knife.”

“I dare say he tried. But as I said before ’tis but a flesh wound. The bleeding is already stopped.”

She leaned down, a lock of her hair whispering across his belly and Logan sucked in his breath. His flesh quivered, and beneath his loincloth the proof of his desire thrust forward.

“Does that pain you over much?” Her eyes were very blue when she gazed up at him.

“Nay.” He couldn’t feel the cut at all. And when she looked at him like that the part of his mind that knew her insane couldn’t seem to function.

He only knew how smooth her skin was, like fine porcelain. And her spun gold hair. And the scent of her, soft and wild as the heather growing on the hills. She drew him with all his senses. He wanted her. And as she stared into his eyes he knew the same carnal need that strummed through him, wove invisible threads about her.

Her fingers stilled as Logan’s gaze lowered to her mouth. Her lips were soft and pink and as he watched, her tongue peeked out to moisten them. Logan nearly moaned.

His hands seemed to reach up, cupping her shoulders of their own accord. He pulled her toward him, wanting... needing... to taste those trembling lips. She came willingly, draping across his thighs as he sat on the side of the bed.

“Logan.” Her breath drifted over him.

The force of his kiss had her melding against him. Her arms wove about his neck, her fingers tangling with his hair. Logan’s tongue filled her mouth, thrusting and retreating with long, silken strokes.

He rolled them over without breaking the seal of their lips, no mean feat considering he was also reaching beneath her petticoats, searching for the velvet-smooth skin of her thighs.

She moaned when his fingers followed the curve of her leg, found the sensitive flesh beyond her thigh. He rubbed in circles, teasing at first, then, as if he could not control himself any longer, with more pressure.

“Oh, Logan, please.”

Rachel groaned as he pulled away. Her body hummed, so close to that special place, that special feeling. He loomed above her, balancing his weight on outstretched arms, watching her, his skin stretched taut across his cheekbones. Her breasts raised and lowered, with each ragged breath she took. “Come back to me,” she wanted to say. But before he could he was pulling her over, turning them both so that she straddled him.

Now it was she who loomed above him. Ruffles and silk were thrust aside as ruthlessly as his loincloth. And then his manhood, steel swathed in satin, penetrated the dewy lips of her sex. He held her, his large hands gripping her hips beneath the layers of frothy lace, controlling her, keeping her from sliding down the long, hard length of him.

Then he let her go and with one deep thrust had her gasping for breath. Rachel’s head lolled back, her hair streaming around her shoulders as he arched his hips, sending his staff deeper. Her knees tightened, his fingers dug into her buttocks and the rhythm increased, the tension growing higher... higher.

She could feel him straining inside her, feel the pressure as he grew, expanded with each powerful thrust. He was a part of her, and she of him. She was so akin to him she knew not where his pleasure ended and hers began. They knew the soaring, spiraling rapture as one.

His thoughts were only of her, of the pleasure she gave him, as hers were flooded with him. It was all they knew. The cabin, the rough bedstead, the world outside themselves disappeared, leaving only the two of them. The one entity they’d become.

Their bodies moved now without thought, ruled by sensation. By the need to share the most intimate of ecstasies. Rachel plunged and writhed. Logan thrust deep, spinning them both out of control.

Whirling them off toward the heavens.

~ ~ ~

She fell asleep almost at once, nestled in the cocooning embrace of his arms. But Logan could not. He was tired and spent and the slash across his ribs was beginning to smart. But slumber was beyond him.

The woman he cradled was warm and inviting and he cared for her... more than he ever had any woman. More than he wished to admit.

But she needed help, protection, which he obviously couldn’t provide. She thought she was an angel. She thought she was sent to save him. And because of that, she was dangerous... to others... to herself. Because of him, she almost was killed.

His arms tightened and she sighed, mumbling in her sleep. He had to do something with her. And soon. He had no doubt of that now.

The only question was what.

“Angels are spirits, but it is not because they are spirits that they are angels. They become angels when they are sent.”

— Saint Augustine

The city had changed since he was last in Charles Town.

Logan leaned forward, patting his horse’s sleek neck, wondering if the animal felt as skittish as he did surrounded by all these people. Not that the hustle and bustle really bothered him. It had just been so long.

He didn’t realize how... content wasn’t the word. How settled into his life in the mountains he’d become. How much he’d divorced himself from everything, from everyone.

At the time, those years on the mountain, he hadn’t thought of himself as lonely... simply alone. He told himself it was best that way. Because of his father. Because of Mary. Because of the drink. He had needed solitude. The mountain was his sanctuary.

A sign swung overhead, caught in the breeze drifting off the bay, and Logan read the ornately painted lettering.
THE SIGN OF BACCHUS
.

He was tired, and hungry. And the thought of a soothing mug of rum was tempting. With a squeeze of his thighs, Logan urged the stallion forward.

Glancing around to see if Rachel was as awed as he by the people and activity, Logan stared. She sat on her horse, her back straight, her head high, that arrogant little chin lifted just enough to make her appear a princess. Even though she wore a borrowed gown and a cape made of patched-together buckskin, she looked regal. Which was a silly thing to think.

But then no sillier than the sensation he felt in the pit of his stomach when she caught his eyes on her and smiled.

“Do you know where your brother lives?” she asked, sidling her horse closer to his. They were on Queen Street, near the New Theater, and all around them the sounds of sawing and hammering filled the humid air.

“Aye, but Wolf seemed to think it more likely to find him on his wharf this time of day.” Which was where they were heading. Logan still had trouble believing the brother he idolized as a lad was really alive. He could remember so vividly, almost as if it was happening now, how he felt when his father told him of James’s death.

He was in the library of MacQuaid House... to his Father’s everlasting displeasure, Logan’s favorite room in the drafty old structure. He often thanked Providence that though his father cared little for the written word, some faceless ancestor did. The paneled room was lined with leather-bound volumes covering such diverse topics as husbandry and ancient poetry.

But Logan’s favorite reading centered on philosophy and studies of the mind. Books such as Descartes’s
Les Passions de l’Ame
and Berkeley’s
New Theory of Vision
along with an occasional foray into a medical book kept him occupied for hours. He was contemplating Hobbes’s theory that all action is preceded by thought or idea when his father stormed into the room.

Guiltily Logan slammed the book shut, sending a cloud of dust motes dancing in the stream of sunshine pouring through the mullioned window. But for once Robert MacQuaid didn’t appear to notice his son’s choice of reading material or his unease. He simply strode to the mantel, slapping his palm rhythmically with a riding quirt.

Logan tried not to flinch as the hard leather snapped against his father’s palm... tried not to remember the feel of it against his own flesh. His father stood a moment staring into the flames, then turned, Logan wondered if the unhealthy red hue of his father’s skin was caused only by the fire’s reflection.

“You are heir now,” he announced, his tone steeped in disappointment.

At first ’twas that disappointment that wedged its way into Logan’s consciousness. At twelve he had already constructed a wall around his emotions where his father was concerned. But it seemed no matter how thick he made it, there was always a tiny crack in the mortar. A crack his father found with unerring accuracy.