Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  So, because she knew her antagonism was illogical, she smiled placidly at him while she freed herself from MacLean’s grip. “I hope, if we’re about to take another leg of our journey, that you gentlemen also slept.”

  Harry bowed. “Yes, ma’am. I’m a soldier. I sleep whenever I get a moment.”

  “And I. I slept with you until an hour ago.” MacLean ran his finger over her lower lip. “You were exhausted. Do you feel better now?”

  Everything about him shouted concern: his voice, deep and vibrant, his eyes, steady and warm, the way he touched her as if she were precious to him.

  So she stepped away from him again. “I am better. I’ll just make sure I have my things—”

  Without warning, the train slammed to a halt. She staggered into MacLean. He tumbled backward, taking her with him. Harry flew over the chairs. Brakes squealed. Panels groaned. Glass shattered, and two of the candles pitched to the floor and went out.

  The silence that followed terrified Enid. Two cars ahead, the engine chugged slowly, but no sound came from the forward cars, where the rest of Mr. Throckmorton’s guard rested.

  Harry got his breath first and swore, virulently and without regard for her delicate sensibilities—which satisfied a deep need in her, so she was grateful.

  MacLean had just got out of his sickbed, and now he’d been flung violently to the ground. “MacLean, are you all right?”

  “You’re not as light as you look.” He grunted and shifted her aside.

  She tried to hold him still. “Your ribs? Your leg? Are you bleeding?”

  Sitting up, he grasped her shoulders, held her still and looked into her eyes. “I’m well. And you?”

  “Me? Of course I’m well. But you—”

  “I am not an invalid.” He said it so definitely and looked so forbidding that she subsided.

  But she watched carefully as he rose without assistance and extended a hand to her.

  “I’m fine, too, thank you for asking.” Harry used a chair to help him to his feet.

  “Blood?” MacLean asked.

  “A little.” Harry dabbed at his scalp, and his fingers came away red. “Wrenched my foot.”

  “That’s bad.” MacLean looked at the cars ahead. “I don’t like this.”

  “Nor I.” Harry limped forward through the car. “I’ll go see what’s happened.”

  MacLean waited until Harry opened the forward door and closed it again, then he sprang into action. He pulled on his greatcoat, handed her her cape and bonnet.

  Frightened by his grim demeanor, she put them on without question.

  “Gloves?” he questioned.

  “I have them here.” She didn’t know what he planned to do, but she got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach when he pulled a long-handled brown carpetbag out from under the bed.

  He handed it to her. “Can you carry that?” It weighed so much that it dragged at her arms, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he brought forth another, larger one from beside the table. He took something out of it—she would have sworn he held a knife—then slung the pack over his shoulder. “Look at me,” he said.

  She did, and her mouth dried.

  “This is an ambush. We’re leaving, and pray God it’s not too late.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to the rear door. I need you to blow out those candles and come to me. Can you do that?”

  “Of course I can.” And of course, I’m scared to death, she might have added, but to what purpose? She eyed the distance between her and the door, then extinguished the candles. In a darkness as black and thick as tar, she moved through the debris to his side, glass crunching under her feet.

  As if he could see her, he found her hand and clasped it. Pushing her against the wall, he whispered, “Stand there.” He opened the door.

  Fresh, cool air brushed her face. Not far away, she could hear men shouting. But back here, she could hear no movement.

  “All right.” Without making a sound, MacLean jumped onto the track. He whispered, “Jump, Enid. I’m here.”

  She obeyed without thought. He caught her and swung her off the tracks.

  The shouting grew stronger, and a gunshot rang out.

  She started and clutched at him.

  Without a moment of hesitation, he led her swiftly away from the train and into the darkness.

  When the sun finally lightened the dreary day, they were climbing a lonely hill at a great rate, and Enid was ready to collapse.

  MacLean noticed, of course. On this jaunt through the dark countryside, he’d proved time and again that he noticed everything. He had successfully avoided the occasional farmhouse. He’d led her around cliffs and over rugged paths without pause. And when she’d said that he must be weary and need a rest, he’d found her a rock to hide behind so she could avail herself of the facilities.

  She didn’t like him understanding her so well.

  And why didn’t he need a rest, anyway? They’d come miles at a great rate and he moved ahead steadily, almost at the crest of the hill, while she . . .

  “We’ll stop here.” He planted his walking stick beside a cluster of boulders. “You can rest and I can look out over the area, see where we’re going, see if we’re being followed.”

  Dropping her bag, she glared at him and panted, “You’ve been . . . sick. Why . . . aren’t you . . . exhausted?”

  “I’m a wee bit tired, lass.” His Scottish accent had grown stronger the farther he’d walked into the countryside. “But you’re doing well, too.”

  “I’m . . . wheezing!” Leaning against the boulder, she pressed her hand to the stitch in her side.

  “English women don’t exercise as they ought. Fresh air, there’s the ticket, and brisk walks in the sunshine.”

  She tilted her head back against a boulder. “You’re a jackass.”

  “If you can insult me, you’re feeling well enough,” he observed. “Here.” He handed her a skin of water he’d filled at a stream at least ten years and half a continent ago.

  “Thank you.” But she just stared at the sack. “My arms hurt so badly from carrying that bag—what do you have in it, stones?—that I can’t lift them.”

  Shaking his head, he uncorked the bag, then held it for her to drink. She gulped eagerly at the water, and when she was finished she slid down the side of the boulder. The damp here chilled her bones, but her feet were up and her legs were outstretched, and she didn’t have to move a single, aching muscle.

  “A knife,” he said.

  She looked at him as he stood over her. “What?”

  “You asked what was in your sack. A knife. Hardtack. Cheese. Dried meat. Blankets. Bandages. Ointment. Rope.”

  “You gave me the heavy bag!” Which she knew was nonsense, but she felt no need to be reasonable.

  “I have the same thing, but more. I’m carrying my kilt and my sporran. Even scorched as they were, I couldn’t leave them behind.” Taking off his greatcoat, he rolled it up and stuffed it in his sack. “I brought you a comb, too.”

  If he expected praise, he shouldn’t be telling a woman whose thighs trembled from exhaustion. Querulously, she picked the silliest thing to complain about. “We don’t need two knives.”

  He couldn’t have sounded more patient. “One to use. One to trade. It’s a fair trek across Scotland, and the food won’t last forever.”

  “We can’t stop and buy something? You brought all that stuff and you didn’t bring any funds?”

  “There’s a bit of the blunt, too, but any luck we’ll avoid meeting anyone. If we do, we’ll not show the cash around, and we’ll save it for an emergency.”

  She wanted to groan, but she couldn’t spare the breath. Instead, she watched as he made his way to the top of the hill and lay across the rocks to survey the land in every direction. The wind blew his auburn hair back from his familiar stranger’s face. His eyes squinted as he looked back where they’d come from, then forward where they would go. His clothing blended
into the landscape—ah, that explained the monotonous black and brown—but she could still see the broad shoulders, the narrow waist. And his legs—her lips tilted bitterly—they were muscled. How could she have been so foolish as to attribute those thighs and those calves to the exercises he had performed in bed? He had been walking, all right. No wonder everyone had insisted she take nice, long respites from her weighty duties.

  Men.

  What was she doing here? Last night—no, the night before—they had made love as passionately as ever two lovers had. She’d marveled at his strength, been astonished by his skill, learned his body as if she’d never learned it before.

  Because she had never had him before. Because now, after eight years alone and innumerable offers from too many dissolute men, she had unwittingly become a wanton. They could never go back to the way it had been before: nurse and patient, abandoned wife and estranged husband. So she had made the resolution to be serene, strong, able to withstand the storm she saw hovering on the horizon.

  The trouble was, she kept thinking that somehow she could avoid the storm.

  If he never remembered, she could forever let him think they were married.

  But his family knew the truth and would tell him.

  But if not for his family, she could live a lie.

  Although, why? She didn’t love him.

  But she had . . . feelings . . . for him, and she knew that when he discovered the truth, he would rage at her, or worse, stare at her with those green eyes as cold as ice.

  But she wasn’t a coward. It was his mind she worried about. His brain had had shocks enough, and she feared the consequences of such a blunt and dreadful truth . . .

  She was a coward, and with low moral character to boot, for she still wanted him. Perhaps if she just gave a hint of the truth, that hint would be the trigger that returned all his memories. Yes, perhaps just a hint . . .

  Just . . . she had to remain tranquil. No more repartee, no more teasing.

  He jumped off the rocks and landed at her feet. “There’s no one on the glen on either side. As long as the thugs don’t have dogs, we’ve lost them. Stand up.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’re sitting on the cold ground. Let’s put a blanket under you so you don’t get a chill.”

  She wanted to protest, to say it wasn’t worth the pain of rising, but he had that look on his face. The I know what’s good for you look. So wearily she climbed to her feet, allowed him to spread out a blanket, tumbled back down. “How many miles did we come?”

  “Twelve, at least. We’re not far from the tracks now.”

  “What?”

  “We walked in a circle, backtracked a bit to throw them off the scent.” He flung himself flat on his back right at her feet. “Lass, will you feed us some breakfast?”

  “Of course.” Pulling the stone-filled sack to her side, she dug out the bread and cheese. “The man does the scouting, the woman does the real work.” Tranquility would have to wait for another day. A day less fraught with danger.

  He rolled onto his side, propped his head up with his hand. “Scouting’s hard work. It takes years of training and expertise. Don’t forget, I’ve been leading the way, too, forging a path through the dark and the cold.”

  Last night, for all his circling and backtracking, he had led the way so surely that he might have been able to see through the dungeonlike darkness. She could make out nothing, each step had been an adventure, and she had had to trust him not to walk her into a tree or drop her down a gully.

  And she had trusted him. She had been impressed with his exploits. Now he made light of them. “I would trade places with you in a minute,” she said.

  He reached for the sack. “All right.”

  She hung onto the strap and glared at him.

  Somehow, the balance between them had changed. She had moved into his territory, the land of hunter and hunted. She could never survive here, but MacLean had donned command like armor, and where before his life had been hers to save, now her life depended on him.

  “I would lead,” she said, “but not with the way my legs ache.”

  He grinned and relinquished his hold, and didn’t point out she didn’t have the foggiest idea which direction to choose.

  “Besides, back at Blythe Hall you deceived me about your walking—”

  He lifted his eyebrows, but didn’t deny it, the louse.

  “—But I presume you’re tired now.”

  “I am,” he admitted simply.

  “I ought to give you the littlest piece of bread as punishment—when I think about the anguish I suffered over you taking your first step!—but I’ve cared for your body too long to jeopardize my work.” She tore off a chunk of bread, placed it on a napkin and pushed it toward him.

  “You did care for my body, most assiduously. I thank you.” He smiled at her so salaciously she knew he didn’t refer to her skill at nursing.

  Finding the knife, she pulled it free of its sheath. She fingered the sharp edge and smiled in return. If she could have contained her blush, it would have been the perfect threat.

  “Give me that, lass, before you’re tempted to use it incorrectly.” Sitting up, he took it and the cheese.

  He handled the knife skillfully, she admitted, for the slices he placed on her bread were thin and even, just the way she liked them. And because she was compelled to worry about every little thing, she worried that he’d been watching her eat and remembering her preferences. A thoughtful man would do that for his wife.

  Oh, heaven save her from thoughtful men! She took her first bites of the nutty bread and tart cheese, and hastily asked, “Who’s tracking us?”

  “I can’t remember, lass, but from all appearances I’d have to say they’re people who want me dead.”

  Rooting about in the bag, she found dried fruit. Not just apples, but more exotic fruits. Holding them up, she said, “Look. This is wonderful!”

  “Your friend Celeste had her hand in this, I see.” He smiled at her uninhibited bliss. “When men pack, there’s nothing so fine.”

  “Dear Celeste.” She bit into an apricot and sagged in enjoyment of the tart, sweet flavor.

  Snagging her hand, he brought it to his mouth and took the other half of the fruit in his teeth.

  He fed her. She fed him. Much too primitive. Much too seductive. And the way he was looking at her, as if he planned to lean over and kiss her . . . those deep, fabulous kisses which led to sin and sorrow. She tried to snatch her hand back. He came along. He pressed her against the boulder, hand on her shoulder, and swooped in to catch her lips with his.

  The kiss was everything she feared. Blatant enticement. He didn’t force her compliance. The rat. He swept her lips with his, sweet, quick, smooth passes that made her quiver with the need to seize his hair and hold him for her kiss. The contact warmed her, made her heart hurry and her color rise. He smelled so good, like security, like husband, like love . . .

  With her hand on his chest, she shoved him away and took a quivering breath. “See, this is just the type of trouble I feared.”

  “Trouble?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You call that trouble?”

  “It could be, if we got carried away and the knaves chasing us found us in flagrante delicto—”

  He chuckled. “With our trousers down and our skirts up, so to say.”

  “You ought to go on without me.”

  “Don’t want to hang about with a man being pursued?” He sounded laconic and not at all worried.

  “That’s not it at all, as you very well know. I’m holding you back. You move more quickly, more quietly than I do, you blend into the countryside, you sound like a native—”

  Reaching into the sack at her side, he brought out a slice of dried apple and tranquilly examined it. “I am a native.”

  “You could get home twice as quickly without me.”

  He didn’t say anything for a very long moment, then he sighed. “Ah, the things you think of me.”


  “The things I . . . what do you mean?”

  He looked up, and she changed her mind about his composure. His eyes glinted, his chin jutted; he was furious. “That I am the kind of man who would abandon his wife to cold and hunger in the middle of the Scottish wilds to save his own hide. That I would go without you to my home, never knowing if you lived or died.” He held up his hand to stop her from speaking. “Maybe I was that kind of man before. I don’t remember.”

  Distressed, she said, “No, not you!”

  “But I know I’ll not do it now, and you can just put it out of your mind.”

  “But what if I—” She swallowed.

  “What if you what?”

  In a rush, she asked, “What if I told you I wasn’t your wife?”

  His fury didn’t roar. It arrived in a menacing whisper. “Then I’d say that two nights ago you did a damned good imitation of a wife.” He took a breath. “We’ve got a long way to go. There’s no use you attempting such tricks.”

  She couldn’t believe it. She had taken courage in hand and confessed the great deception—and he hadn’t believed her!

  “You are my beloved wife, and if they captured you, they would torture you until I gave myself up.”

  She hadn’t thought of that, or that they—whoever they were—would believe her tale as little as MacLean did. “Would you give yourself up for me?” She blinked. Where had that come from?

  “What do you think, lass?”

  He stared into her eyes, and she caught her breath. Stephen MacLean would have given her up and never thought about it again. Kiernan MacLean would not only give himself up for the woman he perceived as his wife but he would fight for her—and die for her, too.

  The differences between them were so great that she didn’t understand how she could have ever been fooled.

  Her stomach clenched as she realized how great an honor it would be to be Kiernan MacLean’s wife, and she barely fought off the temptation to claim to be his. But if he had honor, she did, too. “As deeply as I feel about the tribute you bestow on me, I must insist—”

  He slashed the air with his hand. “That’s enough. How are your shoes?”