Wild Dawn

by Cait London

  When she trembled, MacGregor slid his other hand along her neck, his fingers gently easing aside the snarled strands. His touch skimmed across her sensitive flesh, warming it. He breathed unevenly, and the soft sound tore at her nerves. “If you’re quite finished—”

  She closed her eyes as he urged her chin higher, running his fingers across her swollen jaw and down her throat. He shifted, and she braced herself to fight

  “Jack put up a squall when they brought you here—had to settle him down before I closed in on the cabin. He squalls sometimes at the wrong time.... By then the men were gone and you were moving around—mad as a wet hen—looking as if you wanted to strip the hide off the first man who showed himself.”

  He looked away, the flames running a red pattern across his cheeks and catching in his black beard. “Maybe they had time, the three of them.... If you’re with child now, it will be mine. Any child you drop will get the same treatment as Jack.”

  “Well, I never...” Her furious protest caught in her throat as MacGregor’s large hand eased upward, lightly tracing a path to her temple. Lifting a heavy wave aside, he examined her forehead. She winced as he lightly probed a large bruise.

  “Drop,” she repeated archly, packing every bit of her high-blooded background into the words. “You mean like a cow drops a calf?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” MacGregor said softly, arranging the fur more closely around her slender neck. “No offense. But when I’m done with Jack, you need a wash.”

  Regina turned her face to the fire, ignoring him as he crouched beside her. “You could allow me privacy, MacGregor,” she said quietly.

  “Privacy won’t help the festering. You need tending,” he returned as quietly, turning to test the water placed near the fire. “You’re having a wash next.”

  “Not by you—” But clearly MacGregor wasn’t listening.

  Lifting Jack carefully into the large pan, MacGregor quickly bathed his son. He chuckled as the baby splashed, the deep pleased male sound at odds with the baby’s gurgling. Regina watched, fascinated as MacGregor’s large hands fashioned a clean cloth about the baby’s bottom and gently wrapped him in a warm flannel gown and a small embroidered blanket. His expression warmed when Jack’s little fist struck him in the nose. “There now, Jack.”

  Forgetting her anger for a moment, Regina looked closely at the pattern of daisies and bluebells stitched across the blanket. Jack’s black shock of hair, a reminder of his Indian heritage, contrasted the delicate pattern.

  His father caught the tiny flailing fist in his lips, staying the baby. MacGregor’s hard mouth tugged playfully at the tiny hand as he folded Jack close against his chest. Taking the tin from a pan of warm water, MacGregor eased a milk saturated cloth into his hungry son’s mouth.

  As she watched, father and son exchanged a long look that tore at her heart. Regina looked away from the intimacy into the fire, uneasy with the memories of her father.

  The marquess’s power feeds on your hatred, Jennifer had crooned years ago. Your day will come, and then he’ll be frightened of losing everything. Don’t let him own you as he did your mother. Own yourself, sweet Regina. Remember your mother’s pain... Remember the legends, my lass... remember....

  A spray of sparks shot from a pinecone and Regina frowned, her head throbbing. Whispers clawed at her without words. Like the wind, the whispers slid around her, beckoning her. What were the legends?

  Looking into the flames and hearing Jack’s suckling noises ease, she swallowed the dry wadding of emotion in her throat. “I am so tired,” she murmured, fighting the tears burning her lids.

  MacGregor eased Jack into his warm nest, covering him carefully. “Easy, boy,” he murmured softly, watching his sleeping son take one last shuddering sigh.

  When the westerner gently freed her bound wrists, Regina realized she had been dozing. The fire blazed now, heating the room against the howling winds.

  “Time for your bath,” he said gently, tugging away the fur. Watching her quietly, MacGregor reached to unfasten the first button of her dress. When she jerked back from his touch, he nodded toward the steaming pan of water and his flannel shirt, neatly folded on a hearthstone. “You’re next. I’ll do your backside—”

  She swallowed, instantly awake. “Oh, no, you’re not. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my own needs. Thank you.”

  MacGregor eased open her top button, watching her. “You have a choice—undress by yourself, or I’ll do it for you. But I want to see every inch of that scrawny white hide myself before we get on the trail. I’ve seen more than one big man taken down by a small unclean wound. First the red streaks begin, and then the fever and it’s either an arm or a leg sawed off, or he dies.”

  Struggling to her feet, Regina looked down at him, her eyes narrowed. “Scrawny white hide—you oaf! I can tend to my toiletries without you leering like some laughing—”

  MacGregor lifted an amused brow. He stood slowly, reminding her of his great size. Placing his hands on his lean hips, he tilted his head to one side and studied her as though she were an unruly child.

  “Woman, you’ve got a fast tongue. But I’m seeing what they’ve done to you myself.”

  Regina backed away a step, kicking her skirt out of the way. “Very well, you have pushed me to the edge of my endurance. I shall have to tutor you in a manner you understand—violence. You ought to be ashamed, MacGregor. A man your size—”

  She glanced about the room, searching for a weapon. Finding none, Regina glanced at him, reached down to sweep up the back hem of her skirt to draw it through her legs, fashioning loose pants. She lifted her fists in front of her. “Come on, then, fight me. I’m told I’m quite proficient—”

  “For a flea.” MacGregor smiled then, his teeth showing whitely against the black beard. When he chuckled, Regina lashed out a foot, catching the back of his knee. Locking his legs and widening his stance, the mountain man crossed his arms over his chest, clearly unmoved by her attack.

  Regina thrust out a finger, poking him in the chest. Beneath the shirt, there was no yielding, flabby flesh. Nothing but muscle and bone. She swallowed and continued, “I spent a summer with the French Basque shepherds—foot boxers, champions.”

  Amusement deepened in his flashing eyes as he tucked an errant lock behind her ear in a lightening quick movement. “Uh-huh. You’re taking a bath, ma’am—”

  “You’re toying with me as though I were a child.” Her foot shot out again, striking his flat, muscled stomach.

  “Ooof!” MacGregor stepped back, grinned wider, and began unbuttoning his shirt. When he exposed a triangular patch of black hair on his tanned chest, Regina’s mouth went dry. Over the hard muscles the crisp hair formed a vee down to his navel....

  Her heart racing, she faced him. The mountain man circled her slowly, forcing her into a dark corner. He reached out, and she chopped his forearm lightly with the side of her hand. The blow, meeting hard muscle and sinew, jarred her to the shoulder. Her fingers slid away, brushing the twin scars covering his chest.

  She decided on another tactic. Clearly force was not working. “MacGregor, truly you have been kind, but—”

  “Yes, ma’am?” he asked politely as though he had all the time in the world. “Truly?”

  She ignored his mockery. “I... might need bathing. But I am no small child. I can tend to myself,” she finished weakly. “Perhaps you could look after the stock until I finish.”

  Sidestepping her next kick, he wrapped a hand around her ankle. While she balanced on one foot, he said, “You have my word that I’ll treat you just like Jack, ma’am. But I want to see—”

  “My scrawny hide. As though I were a plucked chicken for the stewpot,” she finished for him, balancing precariously as he lifted her foot higher.

  MacGregor’s large thumb swept slowly along her ankle as though testing the smooth skin. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She eyed him warily, struggling for balance. He was teasing her, his thumb sweeping her
insole playfully. She ignored the ticklish sensation, scowling at him. “MacGregor, no one has bathed me since I was a child. I insist upon privacy.”

  Long hard fingers tightened on her ankle, and MacGregor’s tall body was suddenly too still. “No one?” he asked softly. “At your age?”

  Hopping aside, Regina glared at him. “What do you mean, ‘at my age’?”

  He released her ankle, and she stood free, trembling with anger. “Hell. You aren’t exactly a spring chicken,” he stated flatly, looking at her more closely.

  Glaring at him, Regina walked to the fire. “Of course, I’m not. But I’m not in my dotage, either. Stop staring at me as though you’ve just seen a dinosaur.”

  Watching her thoughtfully, MacGregor scratched his chest, fingers rummaging through the coarse hair. In a quick rippling movement he stripped his shirt and tossed it aside. MacGregor’s chest was broad and heavily muscled. His flat nipples shifted over muscles as he ran his fingers across his skin. Layers and ridges of muscles ran across his flat stomach, his dark skin gleaming. He shifted, legs apart, and his trousers slipped an inch lower to reveal an untanned strip of flesh.

  Regina forced her eyes to meet his. Within the folds of her skirt, her fingertips moved restlessly against her thigh. With an effort she forced her nails to bite into her leg. “If you will step outside for a moment, MacGregor, I can bathe by myself.”

  “No. I want to see every inch for myself—”

  Regina’s chin went up as she finished his sentence again. “Of my scrawny hide. You are so complimentary. Heavens, you would make the ladies at court swoon with delight—”

  Moving toward her, MacGregor grinned. “Take off your clothes.”

  She thrust out her open palm, staying him. “If you touch me again, I’ll cheerfully geld you.”

  Chuckling at her, he reached into his bags to extract a tin. Opening it, he thrust it beneath her nose. The pungent smell shot up her nostrils, causing her to grimace. “Smell that. Butterfly root, leaves—Indian cure-all. You need it painted on those scratches, or you’ll get the fever. Like I said, I’ve seen marks like those take a good man down after days of being out of his head. You drink Indian tea to go with it, and you’ll be fine.”

  Regina shifted uncomfortably. She rubbed her hand down her bruised arm, the scratches hot beneath her touch. “Very well. I can see the difficulties of an infection in the wilds.”

  Placing the tin aside, MacGregor poured more steaming water into the large pan. Bending slightly, his trousers tightened on firm haunches and heavy thighs. When he straightened the fabric cupped his bold masculinity, and Regina’s thoughts scooted back to the marble statues, their sex clearly molded amid the leaves of the family garden. Firelight traced a firm ridge of muscle sliding down his arm.

  Inhaling sharply, Regina closed her lids. MacGregor wasn’t a statue in her father’s garden; every inch of the mountain man threatened emotions deep within her.

  Shivering slightly, she forced her attention to the salve, sniffing it. “Hmm. Hardly rosewater, then.”

  Regina looked at Jack’s warm soapy water, desperately wanting to bathe. She hated the feel of the men’s hands roaming her skin— yet to have a man look at her without clothing....

  She turned to MacGregor, leveling a hard stare at him. “I have your word, then. You won’t—?”

  Nodding solemnly, he reached out to take a small twig from her knotted hair. He tossed it into the blazing fire, then took the huge Bowie knife from its sheath at his waist and handed it to her. She gripped the handle, the heavy weight uncomfortable in her hand. “You have the word of MacGregor... but if I can’t restrain myself, I’d prefer you used a good sharp blade to cut me. Or geld me.”

  Regina ignored the taunt and lifted her chin. “Turn about, then, while I disrobe.”

  He nodded slowly at the knife held in her hand. “I’d take it kindly, ma’am, if you wouldn’t try to use Old Hugh in my back.”

  Regina lifted the blade, running her thumb along the honed edge. “Old Hugh?”

  When he nodded, she averted her head to hide a quick smile. So the black knight had named his sword “Old Hugh,” she decided, examining the leather-wrapped handle.

  “I shall try to restrain myself, MacGregor. Though the thought has certain appeal. Turn about.”

  When he turned slowly, crossing his arms, Regina’s breath caught. The scars of a bullwhip crisscrossed his broad back. On his upper shoulder a circle of reddened flesh surrounded an angry, puckered wound. Her fingers stretched out to trace a deep ridge lightly. “Gads, you need attention yourself, MacGregor!”

  “Woman, are you part chattering magpie?” His shoulder shrugged away her light touch. “Get on with it.”

  Her fingers trembled as she undressed quickly, shivering despite the flames at her back. Grabbing his clean shirt, she held it in front of her. “You may turn around. But remember your promise.”

  The sight of his back held her. She’d seen oxen mistreated like that by her father. Watching his face as he turned, she trembled as his gaze stroked down her body.

  His eyes darkened as he looked at her shoulder, bruises mottled the smooth slope forming the shape of a rough hand.

  Taking the soapy cloth, MacGregor began to wash her. He gently cleansed a long scratch running from her throat downward to her upper breast. Easing the shirt aside, he patted the cloth along a bloody ridge.

  Closing her eyes, Regina forced herself to breathe slowly, dragging the air into her lungs. No man had ever seen her fully undressed, and the humiliation of her helpless struggles against the three men returned.

  Would their unclean touch remain forever? Tears burned her eyes and she averted her head.

  Kneeling before her, MacGregor gently tugged on the hem of the shirt. When she held it firmly, shaking her head in denial, he continued to wash the nail marks on her inner thigh.

  The marks were deep, infected, and as he bent close, patting the soapy cloth lightly, she tensed. “Easy now,” he reminded her softly, inspecting the wounds. “They’re festering.”

  When his fingers pressed against her thigh gently, urging her to spread her legs, Regina breathed sharply and clutched his shirt desperately. She had been shamed enough by men’s hands— “No. That’s enough.”

  MacGregor took her fingers, holding them. His thumb ran across the back of her skinned knuckles. Looking up at her, he said slowly, “There’s a deep gash running around your leg to your backside. It’s festering.”

  Fighting years of hiding her body, Regina fought also for control. Waiting, MacGregor began to apply salve to her upper body. When he returned to her thighs, Regina forced her legs to move apart. His fingers worked gently at the scratches between her legs, and she inhaled softly when his warm breath slid across her skin. She hadn’t expected her body’s moist heated response to his light touch, nor the need to touch him.

  For just an instant she wanted to feel his arms hold her safely as he had held Jack. But she wanted more... to rummage her fingers through the dark crisp hair covering his chest, to stroke the scars on his back, soothing him.

  MacGregor had seen hell, and she wanted to erase that pain. She closed her eyes, fighting to remember that the man wanted to claim her as he would a lost cow.

  MacGregor worked quickly, efficiently dabbing the salve on when he was finished. “Turn around.”

  Regina gripped the shirt tightly when he dampened the cloth, dabbing lightly at a wide patch of scraped skin where she had been dragged by the men. Her grip on the knife tightened. He breathed roughly once as she sidled from the cloth, the fiery pain soon eased by his salve. “That place is bad,” he murmured.

  He bent to unwrap her feet, tossing the rags aside. Taking her ankle, he placed her foot in the warm soapy water to wash it thoroughly. Unbalanced for a moment, Regina placed her hand on his shoulder. Tendons and muscles slid beneath her touch, warm and steely, working smoothly beneath the surface.

  With his head bowed MacGregor cleansed and dried each
foot, then slid them into his large stockings. After tugging the heavy knitted tops over her knees he stood and placed his hands on his hips. “We’ll have to do that again tomorrow.”

  He swept a glance at her legs, then turned away. “Ah... you might want to scrub a bit more... privately.”

  The intimacy of his request caused Regina’s cheeks to heat. Regina lifted his shirt and, using the cloth, cleansed herself of the men’s hands before she looked at him again.

  The flames lit his face; hell blazed in his eyes, hidden beneath the thick shield of lashes. Then the moment was gone.

  After lifting her hair free of the collar, he turned to scowl at the fire. Pitch exploded in a small cone, and a flurry of sparks shot out onto a hearthstone. MacGregor stared at the tiny coals, a vein showing in his temple.

  Regina watched the primitive beat of his blood throb beneath his weathered skin. His large hand reached out to settle upon his empty leather scabbard as though searching for the Bowie handle. “Fresh water is heating in the bucket. There’s mud in your hair. Needs a washing.”

  Regina’s hand shot to her hair. She remembered falling behind the horses and being dragged by her hair. She shuddered, remembering the coarse laughter. “Of course.”

  After refilling the basin with fresh hot water, he stood aside and waited for her to kneel. She glanced up to see his eyes crinkle at the sides. “Looks like a bird’s nest,” he said, the deep voice touched by humor. “Makes a man wonder why women have so much of the stuff. Or Indians, either. Though theirs is some neater.”

  “My dishabille is not my fault, MacGregor,” Regina returned stoutly. “And for your future information, a lady does not like to be reminded that she is... mussed.”

  He chuckled again, that low unused sound like the purring of a Bengal man-eating tiger. When she sniffed and began plucking out her remaining pins, carefully placing them on a stone, MacGregor eased down to his knees. He took a strand, running his fingers down the length, gauging it.

  Taking care, he eased the strands apart, stopping as she winced. “Ouch!”