Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] (7 page)

And damnation the cabin was cold. She’d sat right in front of it and let the fire die down. Again.

“There’s a settlement at the other end of the valley.” Logan tossed a chunk of wood onto the waning fire. “’Tis but a day from here.” He glanced at her, mentally calculating how inept she would be traveling in the wilderness. “Maybe more.”

She didn’t say a thing, only sat in his chair,
his chair
, and stared at him with her big blue eyes. “We’ll be leaving at first light.”

“For where?”

Didn’t she ever listen? “For the settlement. For McLaughlin’s Mill.” The log caught and crackled behind him. The flames threw dancing flickers of light across her face as she pursed her lips.

“How long will we be staying?”

“There be no ‘we.’” Logan leaned against the stones surrounding the fireplace. “I’ll be taking you there and returning. The Mill ’tisn’t London but you’ll find it—”

“I can’t go there. I won’t.”

His fists clenched and Logan forced himself to relax his fingers. “Ye don’t have a choice.”

“But you said you weren’t leaving. You said—”

“I changed my mind.”

“Was it because I fed your share of food to the dog? For if it is—”

“That’s not the reason.” Though it certainly was a factor. But Logan had decided when he was outside that he couldn’t have her staying here all winter. He didn’t want her here. Or perhaps it was he wanted her too much.

Logan folded his arms, forcing his thoughts away from how long it was since he had a woman, and how comely he found this particular one. Despite her disheveled appearance. Despite the haughty tilt to her head. Despite the fact that she was mad.

“You don’t seem to understand, I—”

“Aye, ’tis true, I don’t. I don’t know how you got here. Or what you want with me. But I do know we’re setting out for the Mill come morning.”

Except by morning she was burning up with fever.

Logan awoke before dawn to ready for the trip. At first he thought her tossing and moaning the result of a dream, perhaps it was this place that forged the nightmares that haunted her. But as soon as he built up the fire and was able to see her he knew what the flushed tone of her skin meant.

He knelt beside Dog on the pallet—his pallet—and touched her shoulder. When her eyes opened they were large and glassy. She smiled slightly. “I... don’t feel very well,” she whispered.

He started to rise only to have her hand clamp over his. Her heat scorched his skin.

“Don’t leave me... please.”

He touched her cheek. “I’ll be gone but a moment. To fetch some medicine and water.”

She seemed to accept that, for her fingers loosened their grip and she shut her eyes.

~ ~ ~

Her thoughts were a jumble, and as hard as she tried, Rachel couldn’t straighten them out. Sometimes she could swear she was home at Queen’s House sharing a bit of gossip with Liz. Other times she was swallowed by water as cold and green as Logan MacQuaid’s eyes. Those eyes seemed to haunt her. She told Liz of them, of the tall, silent man with the gentle touch. The man she couldn’t seem to save.

And then there was the light.

Rachel blinked against the glare. This wasn’t like the other time when she met the angels. Then, she felt calm and at peace. Now she ached.

“How are you feeling?”

Rachel turned toward the voice, the one thing she remembered as constant through all her dreams. “What happened to me?”

“You had a fever. It came upon you quickly. But I think the worst is over.” He moved the light, which Rachel could see now was a candle. “Can you drink something?”

“It tastes horrible, doesn’t it?” She remembered that too. He kept coaxing foul liquid down her throat.

“Aye,” he said and laughed. “But I’ll add a bit of honey to it.”

“You don’t laugh very much, or smile either. I like it.” She must still be feverish to be saying such things. He didn’t seem to take her words as a compliment. He merely stood as if she said nothing. In a few minutes he was back, lifting her shoulders and placing a metal cup to her lips.

That’s when Rachel discovered she was naked beneath the fur blanket.

She knew she should be outraged. But for some reason as she sipped the liquid, tasted the honey, she wasn’t.

However by the next morning when she woke, her thoughts weren’t nearly so charitable. She raised her head enough to glance around the cabin.
He
was there, by the hearth, stirring something in the pot. He straightened, turning toward her as if he knew she stared at him. For a long time they said nothing and Rachel felt the strong pull of those green eyes. Like in her dreams.

But this was no dream. Her life... or nonlife... was more a nightmare. A nightmare from which she seemed unable to escape.

“Where are my clothes?”

His brows lifted. “’Tis obvious Her Highness is feeling better.”

“And ’tis just as obvious you are a scoundrel, taking advantage of me while I was sick, and—”

“First let me assure you that I am what you say.” He inclined his head in a mocking bow. “A scoundrel through and through.”

“I knew it.” Rachel clutched the bearskin to her chin.

“Aye, it must be reassuring to know you needn’t alter your opinion of me.”

Rachel simply glared.

“But on the other hand, there was no advantage taken of you while you lay feverish. I hardly find your
charms
irresistible.”

Rachel felt his comment like a blow... well, at least a blow to her pride. “I wouldn’t expect you to have discriminating enough taste to appreciate me. Why the king’s brother is just waiting for me to—”

“Aye, I’m certain he’s madly in love with you, and pressing for your hand so he can make you his princess,” Logan said as he grabbed up a bowl, ladling some broth into it.

Madly in love was a bit strong. But he had sought her company and, was rumored, her hand. Rachel wondered briefly if he’d been saddened by her death. She couldn’t imagine Prince William being more than mildly sorry that she couldn’t partner him in a quadrille again. With a shake of her head she brought her thoughts back to the present. Mr. MacQuaid was approaching, a bowl of steaming liquid in his hands. But though her stomach growled from hunger she wanted, needed, some answers first.

“Then why did you unclothe me?” Rachel knew color stained her cheeks so she raised her chin a notch to counter it. She didn’t think he would answer her at first. He’d squatted beside her, bowl in hand.

“I expect since your voice is back in good form, you’re also able to feed yourself.”

“I am.”

With a shrug he set the bowl on the floor, giving the dog a meaningful stare before rising to fix himself some of the food. “You were uncomfortable,” he finally said.

“That hardly gives you the right to—”

“Treat your fever?” His head shot around and Rachel noticed he spilled some of the hot liquid on his hand. But he took no heed. “Be that what I’ve no right to do?”

“No, but—”

“I did not ask you here
Lady
Rachel. I did not ask you to try and push me down a mountain, or catch yourself on fire, or attack my friend. And I most certainly did not ask you to come down with a fever and take three days of my time, nursing you back.”

“Three days?” Rachel took a deep breath, then her gaze sought his. “I was sick for three days?”

“Aye. But I wasn’t going to let ye die.”

“Little chance of that.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just didn’t realize I could become so ill.”

“No one is immune to fevers.”

“So it would seem.” Since she was already dead, or at least had died once, Rachel assumed this stint on earth would be... well, charmed. That she would be like an angel, floating down to do her good deed, then floating back to the heavens accompanied by a crescendo from a celestial chorus.

Obviously, that wasn’t the way of it. She had no golden wings, and though she hadn’t tried, Rachel seriously questioned her ability to fly. She was like a real person... like she was before. Able to smell and taste and feel. Capable of burning herself and becoming ill. She appeared to have no special powers, nothing to help her with her task of saving Logan MacQuaid’s life.

And if truth be known, he seemed better able to take care of himself than she was. He was certainly large enough, and strong enough to do it.

“The broth will taste a might better if you eat it warm.”

“What... oh, yes, thank you.” Rachel glanced up to see he’d finished his meal and was heading for the door.

“I’ll leave you alone for a bit.” His eyes darted to the pile of silver-blue silk. “If ye need any help—

“I’m sure I can manage.” Rachel bid him leave with a wave of her hand. She waited till he shut the door before pushing aside the fur and trying to stand up. She was weaker than she thought, but she wasn’t going to allow that to keep her unclothed one moment longer than necessary.

She got her arm tangled in the sleeve of her shift. And there was the unmistakable sound of tearing threads before she managed to smooth it down over her hips. And she thought this would be the easiest of her garments to put on. Oh, where was her maid when she needed her?

Rachel sank into the chair, dropping her head in the cradle of her hands. That’s the way Logan found her when he came back in the cabin. He helped her back to the fur pallet, let her lean against him as she ate her broth, and didn’t say anything about her earlier false bravado. All of which made her very grateful.

Rachel was more cautious the next time she got up. She asked Mr. MacQuaid for a bucket of water... warmed, and though he grumbled a bit, he complied. She at first requested a tub, of course, but quickly learned one was not available.

Which no doubt explained why he chose to bathe in the creek. She however did not.

He lent her a comb and brush, and Rachel was surprised by them. The set was not as ornate as the one she had in London, but it was silver.

Rachel washed her hair, using the soft soap he gave her, then standing by the fire quickly washed her skin. When she was finished she pulled the shift on again and began combing the tangles from her hair. Which was not an easy task. It seemed to take forever and her arms were tired when she finished, but she was determined to finish dressing. How could she possibly save him if she were bedridden?

The corset proved a problem.

Rachel slipped her arms through the straps and held the boned silk to her breast. But the ties were in the back and despite several tries she could not lace it up. Rachel glanced at her gown... her only gown, then toward the closed door. Though she was naturally slender, had grown thinner still since her death, her ball gown would not fit about her waist unless she wore the corset.

Her gaze strayed to the door again. She could hear him outside. The steady
thump, thump
of his axe. What to do. She’d never dressed herself before, and it appeared she could not now.

With a determined step she marched to the door and pulled the latch. “Mr. MacQuaid.” He didn’t respond the first time she called, though the dog who was sleeping in a puddle of sunshine lifted his head. “Mr. MacQuaid!”

The axe bit into the chopping block with enough force to make Rachel think he’d heard her quite well the first time.

He turned, backhanding the sweat from his forehead as he did. “What do you want now?”

Rachel’s lips thinned. He could be so... She couldn’t even think of a word to describe him. Did she have to ask? Couldn’t he tell what the problem was? But no, he just stood there his legs spread, hands on narrow hips and glared at her. He didn’t even have the decency to pull his shirt back on. His chest was broad and covered by a wedge of curly black hair and Rachel jerked her gaze away when she realized she was staring.

“I can’t lace my corset.”

He reached for the axe handle, giving it a hard tug. “Don’t wear the tortuous thing.”

“I must. Without it my gown won’t fit.”

“Hell and damnation,” he growled before swinging the axe back into the wood. “Turn around.” Logan grabbed the laces none too gently and studied the double row of silk-edged holes.

“I believe the thread is to be laced through in a crisscross manner, though I must admit I’ve never done it.”

“I can see what needs doing. Just stand still.”

“As you wish, sir.” Rachel reached out to steady herself against the log wall. She tried to do as he said, but each time his knuckles skimmed across her thin shift her body gave a little jerk. She couldn’t seem to help herself. She could smell his musky scent, feel the heat from his body. Gooseflesh crept down her arms and she had to concentrate on breathing.

For his part Logan could hardly keep himself from reaching around and cupping the breasts that pushed up from under the corset. His fingers felt thick and inept as he forced the ribband through a tiny hole. His hand brushed her skin and for a heartbeat he paused, only to begin again, jerking the laces through the eyelets with a vengeance.

“Don’t break the thread. It’s the only one I have.”

“Excuse me Your Highness. I’ve had sore little practice playing the lady’s maid.”

“You needn’t snap at me.”

That’s where she was wrong. It was either snap or throw her down on the ground and bury himself inside her royal body. And wouldn’t the high and mighty Princess just love that? Of course she wasn’t the only one who’d deplore his actions. Once his seed was spilled Logan knew he would regret having touched her. No, better to concentrate on what the hell he was doing and get it done.

“Tie it off. No, pull it tighter first.”

“Would you make up your mind!”

“Pull.” Rachel sucked in her breath. “Yes, that’s it. No, why did you let it go?” When she received no answer, Rachel turned. Standing in the clearing was the savage who’d visited earlier. Beside him stood an old man with long white hair. She glanced up at Logan MacQuaid and could swear he blushed beneath his heavy growth of whiskers.