by Pamela Clare
He felt a surge of temper at this insult—perhaps because it struck too near the path his thoughts had been taking. He leaned in closer, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears. “I’ve asked for your obedience, no’ your maidenhead. And make no mistake—on your own, you’d be dead within the week.”
She blanched at his words, but her chin stayed high. “Why did you kiss me?”
Because I couldna stop myself. “I needed to wake you and was afraid you’d cry out in alarm. Havin’ my mouth over yours was but a way to keep you quiet.”
Now she looked angry. “You could have done that wi’ your hand.”
There was no denying that, so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Why did you kiss me back?”
A rosy blush stole into her cheeks, and she looked away from him, seeming suddenly young and vulnerable, like a spring flower that had just been trodden upon.
You’re a bastard, MacKinnon. The lass has been through hell.
He stopped himself from brushing a strand of golden hair from her cheek. “You’ve no cause to fear such dishonor at my hands, lass. I’ll ask nothing of you beyond your obedience.”
She met his gaze, her green eyes clouded by doubt. “And I will do my best no’ to fail you again.”
Iain stood, lifted her into his arms, and carried her toward the pallet, trying not to hate himself.
Annie fought to sort out her jumbled emotions. She’d been reprimanded—and she’d deserved it. This was not the forest around Rothesay, after all, but the colonial frontier. Her carelessness might have gotten them both killed. He was right to be angry with her.
But was she not also right to be angry with him? He’d threatened to take a strap to her as if she were his slave or a wayward child. ’Twas one thing to endure such abuse from Master and Mistress Hawes, for they had owned her, and no matter how much she’d hated it, such had been their right by law. But she was not one of the major’s Rangers. She was not subject to his discipline.
And then there was the kiss. She’d been asleep, and he had taken advantage of that to steal a kiss. She did not believe for a moment this was how Rangers woke one another as a rule. Then again, he had done nothing more.
Why did you kiss me back?
’Twas a question she could not answer, and it troubled her all the more.
He set her down on the pallet, which was surprisingly soft and springy, then began removing his gear. He pulled off his powder horn, slipped one knife from its sheath at his hip and another from somewhere behind his back. Then he reached for his sword and removed his pistols. But the pouch at his waist remained as it was. “I’d say we gained twelve hours on them overnight. I’ll give us half of that to sleep. Then we start your lessons.”
“Lessons?”
“Aye. It’s time you learnt to load a firearm. If you’re to be wi’ me in the wild, then you’d best learn to be useful. ’Tis for your own sake.” He set his weapons down in one corner of the little shelter. Then much to Annie’s dismay, he lay down beside her. “Take off the coat.”
Confused, but having just agreed to obey him, she did as he asked.
He drew it over himself as if it were a blanket and held one side up for her. “Come, Annie.”
Did he expect her to lie near him? There was room in the small shelter for some space between them. “But—”
“Och, for God’s sake, lass!” He reached out, took her about the waist, and pulled her against him. Then he tucked the overcoat snugly beneath her chin. “Go to sleep.”
She felt surrounded by him. Her bottom pressed against his hard thighs, her back against his chest. His arm with its corded muscles and strange markings encircled her waist, and his breath ruffled her hair. His scent mingled with that of the freshly cut pine boughs. She had never been so close to a man before. She could not sleep like this.
But even as her mind protested, her eyelids grew heavy. And as she drifted to sleep she realized Iain had somehow managed to bear her on his back all day yesterday and row a boat all through the night. He’d had no sleep at all.
Chapter 7
Annie felt warm and snug. Floating between slumber and wakefulness, she drew closer to the warmth surrounding her. She felt the steady thrum of a heartbeat against her cheek, the rise and fall of someone breathing. She smelled freshly cut pine and leather and man.
Her eyes flew open. She froze.
She lay beneath his bearskin overcoat, her face pressed against his chest, her head resting on the hard bulge of his upper arm. His other arm encircled her, held her close. Their legs lay in a tangle, his hard thigh tucked intimately between hers, her leg draped over his, her skirts rucked up to her hips.
She lay still for a moment, her pulse skittering. She did not wish to wake him. Not only did he need his sleep, but she would die of mortification if he were to discover the two of them entwined like this. Besides, she needed to see to personal matters, and that would be so much easier to do if he were asleep.
She withdrew the arm she’d draped about his waist and tried to lift her head, only to discover that her hair was trapped beneath him. She grasped her locks with one hand, slowly pulled them free. Then she began to wriggle carefully backward. But his thigh was tucked so tightly between hers that she could not move without her most private flesh rubbing against it.
She froze. Tried again. Stopped, and then tried again.
The friction alarmed her, sent a jolt of heat deep into her belly. Distressed, she gave up trying not to wake him and scooted quickly away from him and out from under the bearskin overcoat.
Miraculously, he did not wake. His eyes were still closed, his lashes dark against his sun-browned skin, his breathing slow and steady. No doubt the rigors of the past two days had left him deeply weary.
Annie crawled out of the lean-to and found herself beneath a wide blue sky. The sun had traveled far across the heavens, making it late afternoon. Birds sang in the branches of trees. The snow was melting. A breeze murmured through the tops of the trees, carrying the scent of pine and snow and damp earth. Although there was still a chill in the air, spring was almost come.
But the peacefulness of the moment was not to be trusted. She need only look at herself to know that. Her gown was torn and bloodied, her hair a tangled mass. Her feet were still horribly sore. And although she could not see her face, she could feel the deep gash Iain had stitched together and knew she was badly bruised.
She looked at the man who had saved her life. Oh, aye, he was bonnie, though he was in need of both a bath and a barber. She’d never seen a man with such long hair before. Civilized and refined, the men in her father’s circle kept their hair short and wore fine, powdered wigs. They would never have let the sun bake their skin until it was brown like an Indian’s, nor would they have worn animal hides or etched themselves with strange markings.
Nor would they have been able to fight off six attackers and carry you all day.
Even as her mind made the unwelcome comparison, the gentlemen she’d known, whose faces she’d once found handsome, seemed suddenly foppish, pampered, and soft. Not like Iain MacKinnon. Even in his sleep, his vigor and manliness were plain to see.
Realizing she was staring, she forced herself slowly to her feet and, biting back a moan, willed herself to walk off into the trees footstep by agonizing footstep.
Iain listened to her hesitant steps, to the catch of breath in her throat and knew she was in pain. He had to admire her fortitude. For a lass, she showed great spirit.
He’d been dozing for a while now, unwilling to wake her. He’d sensed the moment she was fully awake because she’d quit breathing. He’d feigned sleep, amused by her silly, skittish attempts to disentangle her body from his—until all her wriggling and writhing had caused his blood to run hot and turned his cock to stone. When her sex had rubbed innocently against his thigh and the feel of it had startled her, as clearly it had, it had taken all his will not to reach down, grab her rounded bottom, and show her just what such friction coul
d do for a woman.
She had been heaven to hold, even in his sleep. She’d felt small in his arms, her body soft in all the right places. He’d had to remind himself more than once that he could neither bed her nor woo her. He had nothing to offer her until this accursed war was over and his farm was restored. He doubted a flower as fair as she would remain unplucked until then, and he knew better than to ask any woman to wait.
Hadn’t he asked Jeannie to wait? Aye, he had—and she’d endured all of three months before marrying another man. A farmer come lately from Ulster, the man she’d chosen hadn’t had the skill to keep himself and his wife alive. Now the two of them bided in earth together.
Annie would likely be some man’s wife within the year. And what a lucky bastard her husband would be, for Annie was a lass of deep passion—responsive, spirited, hot-blooded. Of that much Iain was certain.
He sat up, feeling more than a little surly. He needed release—that was all. He needed five minutes by himself or a night in Stockbridge, and then he’d be able to quit thinking about her. Unfortunately, he’d get neither anytime soon.
He tossed off the bearskin overcoat, felt a nipping pain in his shoulder.
The gunshot wound. He’d been so exhausted he’d forgotten all about it.
He pulled his shirt over his head, felt it pull where the cloth stuck fast to dried blood. The ball had cut a path across his skin, but not so deep as to be worrisome. He poured water onto his neckerchief and wiped the blood away.
He heard her limping footsteps, looked up to find her at the edge of the clearing leaning against a tree, her face ashen and lined with pain. Still in a foul temper, he dropped the cloth, stomped over to her, and lifted her into his arms, his tone of voice more gruff than he intended. “All you need do is ask, Annie.”
“You cannae bear me as a burden forever.”
“You’ll heal soon enough.” He set her down on the pallet, sat beside her, and then reached for the salve. He spread the burning ointment on his shoulder, grateful to have something to think about other than the woman beside him.
When she didn’t speak, he looked up to find her looking desperately ill at ease. He thought he knew the cause, and he couldn’t resist baiting her. “Did you sleep well, lass?”
She looked at the sky, but her face flushed pink. “Aye.”
“Did the heat of my body keep you warm?”
She looked at the forested valley below them and nodded. Pink became scarlet.
“I’m glad. Did my arm make a good pillow?”
Her gaze flew to his, horror in her eyes. Then her gaze fell to his chest. Her eyes grew wide, and she quickly looked away.
So she found the sight of him without a shirt troubling, did she? For some reason, Iain liked that, and his bad temper began to fade. Repressing a grin, he held up a strip of clean cloth. “Can you help me wi’ this, lass? I cannae tie a dressing on my arm one-handed.”
Annie tried to keep her mortification from showing on her face. He knew. He knew! He knew she’d lain with her head on his arm. Which meant he probably knew how their bodies had pressed together.
Trying not to look at him, she scooted closer to him, took the cloth from his hands, then sat up on her knees. “We may be forced to bend the rules of decency for survival’s sake, but you might at least feign that you’re as unhappy wi’ the circumstances as I am.”
“But I am no’ unhappy, Annie. Most nights I sleep wi’ my brothers. You smell better than they do.”
“Perhaps you all ought to try bathing. I’ve heard soap and water . . .” The angry wound on his shoulder stopped her retort. A lead ball had carved a groove in his flesh, not terribly deep but surely painful. It was her fault. Had she rowed in the right direction, he might not have been hit.
Suddenly she felt like a thoughtless, silly child. Lives had been lost, and she was fretting over sharing a pallet with him. She wrapped the cloth carefully around his arm. “Does it hurt?”
“Nay. ’Tis little more than a scratch.”
Her fingers brushed his smooth, warm skin as she worked, each touch making her breath catch. His arm was so different from hers, hard and sculpted and so thick at the top she would not have been able to circle it with her two hands. The mysterious black designs that decorated his forearms traveled up his skin, ending in bands of strange shapes that wrapped around the widest part of his upper arms.
“I—I dinnae wish to cause you pain.”
He chuckled. “No need to fret, lass.”
But fret she did. She had never seen a man without his shirt before, and the sight was more than a little disturbing. Planes and ridges of muscle. Flat nipples the color of red wine. Skin almost as brown as the wooden cross that hung against his chest. A scattering of dark curls that tapered down the center of his belly and disappeared beneath the buckskin of his breeches. Rough and raw though he might be, he was also quite braw and . . . beautiful.
Strange warmth spread through her belly, left her feeling flustered. Barely able to think, she fastened the cloth in place with a small knot. Then, before she knew what she was about, she touched her fingertips to the band of markings on his left arm, traced them. Dark bands. Lines that zigged and zagged. Triangles. And what looked like—
“A bear claw. I was adopted into the Muchquauh, the Bear Clan, of the Muhheconneok people, when I reached manhood.” Iain watched her face as her fingers moved slowly over his skin, her touch leaving a trail of fire.
She looked up at him, clearly surprised. “Adopted?”
“Aye, lass. The grannies got so tired of my bein’ forever at their fires eatin’ their food that they decided to make me part of the family so they could quit treatin’ me like a guest and send me out to fish.”
That made her smile.
“Did it hurt?” Her fingers continued their innocent exploration of his skin.
“Aye, it did, for a fact. But no’ near as much as the tongue-lashing I got from my father when he saw.” Iain wondered how words managed to find their way past his lips. He could scarce think, much less speak. “He feared the symbols would turn me into a heathen.”
Her fingers reached the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, and she lifted her gaze once more to his. And he saw in her eyes that her curiosity was not entirely innocent. So, she felt it, too—this pull between them.
She jerked her hand away. “Forgi’e me. ’Twas no’ right of me to touch you like that.”
Feeling cheerful despite the unsatisfied heat in his blood, he caught her hand, raised it to his lips, and watched her eyes darken. Oh, aye, she felt it, too. “’Tis only natural for you to be curious, lass. Now let’s have somethin’ to eat.”
Annie tried again. She placed the heavy rifle at half cock, then opened the pan by pushing the frizzen forward. Next she poured a bit of black powder into the pan and closed it.
Her stomach growled. She felt her cheeks flaming red and looked up to see Iain with a grin on his face. “How do you Rangers stay so big and strong eatin’ naught but dried cornmeal?”
His grin grew wider. “’Tis only when harried or on a forced march that we eat so little. I promise you’ll dine on better fare at the fort, lass. Load your weapon.”
She poured a bit of powder down the long muzzle, a task that required her to sit up on her knees and reach high. Then she grabbed a ball, dropped it into the muzzle, and drove it to the bottom with the very long rod. Last, she slipped the rod back into its stock—this time without hitting Iain.
“Well done.” Iain took the rifle, put the cock to rest, and put a cork in its muzzle. “What would you do next?”
“Cock it, aim, and fire.” She was surprised to find that his praise meant something to her. “’Tis no’ so hard as I thought.”
He chuckled. “Nay, ’tis no’ hard to load a weapon when you’re sittin’ in a patch of sunshine wi’ the wee birdies singin’ in the trees. ’Tis somethin’ very different to load and reload under fire wi’ the screams of the dyin’ around you.”
Anni
e saw the laughter fade from his eyes, felt a shiver chase up her spine. “I hadna thought of that. It must be terrible.”
“It is war.” He set the rifle aside, stretched out on his side, his weight propped up on one elbow. Thankfully, he’d donned his shirt again, or she’d not have been able to speak. “’Tis a cool head, sharp aim, and the skill to reload quickly that keep a man alive at such times.”
He’d said it was only natural for her to be curious, and she was—about him. ’Twas the first time in many long months she’d really spoken with anyone. Master and Mistress Hawes had never had words to spare for her unless it was to scold her or to preach their dour notions of the Bible. It felt so good just to talk with someone.
“Have you seen many battles?”
His gaze searched the dark line of trees at the edge of the clearing. “A fair few.”
“How fast can you reload?”
“Pray to God you never have cause to find out, lass.” He reached for his water skin, squirted liquid into his mouth, handed it to her. “Talk of war is no’ fittin’ for a woman.”
She drank, plugged the water skin, then handed it back to him. “And yet women die in war and their children wi’ them. Why hide the truth of it from us?”
She thought of Mistress Hawes and her unborn child, felt another surge of remorse.
For a moment he said nothing, then he reached over and traced a line down her cheek with his finger. “When a man looks into a woman’s eyes, lass, he doesna want to see the horrors he has kent written there. He wants to see joy and warmth and some measure of innocence. ’Tis the natural duty and desire of a man to protect his woman and children from the world’s bitterness.”
For some reason, his words brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back and hoped he had not seen. “H-how long have you been here in America?”
“You’ve a gabbie tongue of a sudden.” He measured her with his gaze. “We left Skye in ’46.”