Courting the Corporal

by Heather McCorkle

  She huffed as she spun away from him. “Whatever are you doing? And why on Earth would you call me princess?” The indignation in her voice failed to cover how breathy it sounded.

  That sound caused a reaction in his body that made him glad her back was turned. Willing blood to flow to anywhere in his body but his groin, he turned back toward the river as he removed his chaps and breeches. Though the air was warm and muggy, it felt wonderful on the lower half of his legs that his thin, cotton underpants exposed.

  “Because you’re acting like one. Would you prefer duchess? Hmm, yes, I think I rather prefer that. Well, duchess, I am preparing to take a bath, but never fear, for your modesty’s sake, I shall leave me pants on.”

  “That is hardly a comfort.”

  Brush in one hand, horse’s lead rope in the other, he shook his head as he walked into the water until it came to his waist. The horse’s head dropped to drink, its eyes sliding closed in indulgence. Wetting the brush, he began to scrub away at the sweaty patches that the saddle had left on his horse. To his surprise, Catriona laughed and turned back around toward him. Her eyes widened but she didn’t look away.

  “You know nothing about me, Mr. Fergusson.”

  “In that case, Mrs. O’Brian, enlighten me.”

  Blood rushed to her face and tears shone in her eyes. Her jaw tightened and she gave him a look that could stop a raging bull in its tracks. “Don’t call me that, please.”

  The pain in her voice drained the mirth right out of him. He hadn’t meant to be insensitive, only to return her orneriness. “Me apologies. While I’m particular to duchess, what would you prefer I call you?” He kept his tone gentle, the playful words an attempt at a truce.

  Much to his surprise, she removed her coat and started to unbuckle her gun belt. Once that lay on the ground, she worked at the laces of her chaps. Eyes wide, tongue tying in his throat, he turned away to focus on washing his horse. The image of her waited behind his eyelids. How much would she take off?

  “I trust you will be the gentleman you promised the MacBranains you’d be,” she said, a teasing note in her tone.

  He cleared his throat and turned farther away. “O’ course.”

  Lincoln swam by, his small gray head floating above the water as his huge paws paddled him about. Tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, he seemed the very picture of happy and relaxed. Fergusson envied the pup’s carefree manner more than he cared to think about. More than that, he envied that Lincoln swam behind him, straight for Catriona.

  “Since we’re going to be on the trail together for over a month, we are certainly no longer strangers. You may call me Catriona. What’s your given name?” came her sweet voice.

  Doing his best not to picture her undressing behind him, he cleared his throat. “Rick.”

  A short laugh came from Catriona, making him glance over his shoulder. The woman stood there in only her drawers, a corset, and an undershirt. Back to him as she was, he saw her small, long-fingered hands working at the laces of her corset. He realized it might actually be possible to swallow one’s tongue.

  “As in Richard? An Irishman with an English name, truly?” she teased.

  She began to wiggle out of her corset, making him very glad for the cool water that reached up to his navel. If only women didn’t wear so many layers, even beneath a corset…

  “Hells no,” he couldn’t help but snap.

  Standing now in only a thin undershirt and her drawers, she turned her head toward him. He snapped his head back to the horse and continued brushing it.

  “What then?”

  Though he hated telling people, he couldn’t allow the challenge in her voice to go unanswered. “Patrick.”

  “’Tis a fine Irish name. Why do you sound ashamed to say it?”

  Hearing the very same words his mum had always said both made his heart ache and his lips turn upward. “Because the name is so common, others use the term ‘Patty’ to describe all us Irish, and they do so as if the name is a curse, as if we’re a curse.” His voice dropped on the last, imparting far more emotion than he had intended to let slip out.

  Cool water splashed across his back. His horse turned its head to look behind him. He almost did the same, but caught himself at the last moment. While he had no interest in acting the man of proper society, nor was he about to turn to see her nearly naked. What would Sean think? More so, much as he wanted to, he refused merely because she might be goading him to do so.

  “Nonsense, Rick Fergusson. While I will admit that you bear no likeness to our Patron Saint in any way, you should still be proud that you bear his name,” she said.

  He laughed. “You know nothing about me, either. I could be a saint for all you know.” He was feeling rather saintly, what with his restraint and all.

  Her laughter echoed after his. “Hardly. Of that I’m certain.”

  The sound of feet moving through water to his right told him to turn his head left. Saints, was she coming around in front of him? Water splashed nearby. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, eyes clenching shut.

  “The same thing you are. Keep your mind on a proper track, Mr. Fergusson. I’m only getting in deeper water to cool off. Simply because society deems a woman shouldn’t do a thing, doesn’t mean she cannot.”

  He shrugged. “I have to agree with you there.”

  She didn’t swim around in front of him after all. Disappointment hung heavy on his shoulders. Perhaps he wanted her to tease and goad him so badly that was imagining it. He suddenly felt the fool.

  “Really?” The surprise in her voice almost hurt.

  “Really,” he grumbled.

  Part of him wanted to elaborate, to tell her that he was a forward-thinking man who believed a woman could—and should—do whatever she wanted to. But to do so would bare more of himself to her than he cared to. The less personal they allowed things to get between them, the easier this trip would be. For him at least. Knowing she was soaking wet in no more than her underclothes only feet behind him shot that theory full of holes. Oh hell, there went his mind picturing her wet underclothes!

  His horse pawed at the water, a sign that he was about to try to roll in it if Rick didn’t hurry. A quick pat on the belly kept him upright. As quickly as he could, he finished washing his horse and himself, then led the horse back up the sandy bank. He wanted to thank the creature for bringing his mind back to the important things at hand. While Catriona bathed, he busied himself by setting up a picket line and tying the horses to it, then on to setting up their camp. He was determined to be the proper gentlemen. The fact that she teased him about not being one made him want to try all the harder. Since he wasn’t building a fire or setting up a tent, he didn’t take as long as she did.

  “Will we not be sleeping in tents?” came her voice from behind him, her bare footsteps soft on the sand and grass.

  For more than one reason, his body went so tense his spine straightened. “Sorry, duchess. We need to be able to pull up camp quickly. As I have already proven, your virtue is safe with me, no worries there.”

  Cloth rustled and the buckles on a saddlebag rattled. He tried not to picture her changing into dry drawers and failed so miserably he had to fight the urge to curse his imagination. He focused on the gold and orange patches of the sky he could see through the trees. Several moments later, she walked around in front of him and eased herself down onto her as-yet-unfurled bedroll. So active was his imagination that for a moment he thought he glimpsed round breasts and pale skin. But it was only the beige tunic she had put on over her corset, which still managed to push her breasts up enough to reveal a touch of cleavage. Sunset shadows cloaked her, preventing more than a glimpse of golden light on skin or fabric here and there.

  Pale blue eyes pinned him like a bug. “You pushed us hard all day, and now you want to be able to break camp quickly. What are you not tel
ling me?”

  The shadow of his mustache tickled his nose as he scrunched his top lip up and shrugged. “We need to get to California fast is all.”

  That needle-like gaze refused to let go of him. “I am no lass who will swoon at the first sign of danger. Tell me the truth, Rick.”

  “All right. We’re being followed.”

  Her eyes widened a bit and her left hand moved a little closer to her pistol. Such instincts breathed to life a new respect for her. “Who would follow us?”

  “Someone who doesn’t want you to reach California. Someone hired by Ainsworth, no doubt.”

  She swallowed so hard he heard it from where he sat ten feet away. “He would do that?”

  “Oh, aye, he certainly would.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?” she whispered.

  One of the horses on the picket line behind them snorted and she jumped. Despite the slight tremble of her limbs, he wasn’t about to pretty this up for her because if he did, then he would be responsible. Or at least he would feel as though he was.

  “That’s the type of man he is. He unloaded that which he didn’t want for a minimal profit, went off to war like the rest of us, and now that the dust has settled, he wants it back.”

  The lengthening shadows of the coming night made it hard to tell, but he thought he saw her jaw set in a determined line. “I know his type all too well, and I shall not be intimidated by him. This only strengthens my resolve.”

  Part of him thrilled at her resilience. Part of him raged against it. He had become fond of her, despite his resistance. He didn’t want anything to happen to her. “All right then.” He stood and spread his bedroll out on the grass.

  “We’re to sleep on the ground then?” Her voice was hesitant, edged with a touch of fear.

  A grin worked at his lips as he rolled up his coat, set it at the top of his blankets, and lay down. Placing his arms up behind his head, he gazed up at the darkening sky where the twinkle of stars began to show through. “Yes, duchess, on the ground.” He took far too much pleasure rubbing that in, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.

  As she stood and picked up her bedroll he thought he saw her hands shake. A very small spike of guilt worked its way into him.

  “Will the moisture from the ground not soak up into the blankets?” she asked in an admirably steady voice.

  “No. The backside of the bedroll is canvas treated with wax, a little trick I picked up from the war. Put that side down and you’ll be fine.”

  He kept his head pointed at the stars but watched her out of the corner of his eye. Mumbling to herself, she unrolled the blankets and fussed with their arrangement. A curse word or two in the Irish vein of Gaelic was punctuated by something about bugs. So there was an Irish lass under that carefully proper high society lady after all. It was good to know. Laughter tried to work its way up his throat but he choked it off. With the way she was going on, provoking her now would ensure neither of them slept for quite a while. As if sensing his thoughts, she mumbled something about not being able to sleep on the ground without even the semblance of a roof over her head. Despite her seemingly heartfelt words, her breathing evened out into that of deep sleep only moments after her head came to rest on her coat.

  Though weariness crept up on him, he knew sleep wouldn’t come for a long time. If it came at all. Concern over keeping the lovely, cantankerous woman across from him alive would not allow it. And if that didn’t work, there were always the nightmares to keep him awake.

  Chapter 8

  Day Two

  Something rough and wet brushed along the side of Catriona’s face. Eyes snapping open, she pulled back from the sight of white canine teeth and a long pink tongue inches from her face. Before she realized it was only Lincoln, she had backed right out of her sleeping roll and smacked into a tree trunk. Nasty puppy breath clung to her like the most odious of perfumes. On instinct she brushed the canine saliva from her face with the back of her hand.

  “Ick,” she mumbled.

  Gray ears with white peeking out from where they flopped over perked up as Lincoln bounded to her side. She stopped him before he could get close enough to lick her again. Keeping him and his tongue at bay, she petted him, wiping her hand off on his fur as she did so. Oblivious and happy, the pup nuzzled into her. She almost said something to him, but caution born from years of needing to know her surrounding and situation before making a sound held her tongue. It was bad enough that she had mumbled before. No need to take further risks.

  The dim light of the beginnings of sunrise softened the trees and stream bank, giving them an almost dreamlike quality. Already it was warm enough that even in only her nightshirt and drawers she felt comfortable. Oh dear Saints, she wasn’t wearing her corset. What would Rick think of her if he noticed? There was a time when she wouldn’t have cared. Life had changed that, and so much more, about her. The man was all but a stranger to her. A strange, alluring man who looked incredible without a shirt on, but a strange man nonetheless. She wanted to go back to her bedroll, her pack where her clothes were stored, anywhere with something to cover herself. But practiced caution overrode the strong desire with ease. Instead she froze against the tree with the pup in her arms, listening, looking.

  The soft, trilling call of chorus frogs filled the air, but oddly no birdsong accompanied them. Her eyes darted to where Rick had been sleeping. His bedroll was not only empty, but gone. Slowly, she leaned out around the tree to check on the horses. All three stood with their heads drooped in sleep, saddles and packs on their backs. The only gear missing on them was her personal bedroll and pack. Was he planning on leaving her? She tried to recall if she had said anything particularly abrasive the day before, but it was all a jumble of sore muscles and irritation. The possibility was strong that she had.

  Soft yellow rays of light filtered through the tree trunks and leaves here and there, marking the sun’s progress toward the horizon. The birds should be singing, yet they remained silent. Her gaze traveled up into the trees. High up in a birch, nearly hidden by the bright green heart-shaped leaves, perched Rick. Held to his right eye was a sailor’s spyglass. After several moments, he tensed, pocketed the spyglass, and began to climb down. Catriona scurried over to her bedroll, grabbed her pack, and fled into the bushes with it.

  Quick as she could, which wasn’t very quick considering how difficult it was to get into a corset by oneself, she dressed, brushed her hair out, and started back to camp. The thin trees provided such little cover she could only hope he hadn’t seen her. Rick was tying her bedroll onto the back of her horse as she approached. Brow pinched with tension, he regarded her for a moment without saying a word. At first she thought him angry, but then she noticed how his eyes flickered across her body and hair with admiration.

  “We need to get moving,” he finally said as he handed her the reins to her tall, painted horse.

  As he passed her, he scooped Lincoln up from where he sat at her feet, and placed him in the nest on the packhorse. The urgency in his voice had her swinging up onto her horse without question. Her groin muscles and the tender flesh of her buttocks and womanly parts protested with stinging pain, but she ignored it. Sitting the trot was not all it was cracked up to be. She began to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to post like a civilized rider and have the pain in her legs instead of her nether regions.

  Rick’s eyes shot to her as he swung onto his buckskin horse. “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t. If you try to post today you won’t be able to walk tonight.”

  Brow furrowing so deep she could barely make out his jade-green eyes, she squeezed her horse forward. “Don’t do that, ’tis quite disconcerting.”

  Eyes wide in feigned innocence, he placed his hat on his head and squeezed his horse into motion. “Whatever do you mean?”

  His horse launched into a fast trot and he made no move to slow it down. On the packhorse b
ehind him, Lincoln hardly noticed the bouncing in the soft hammock created between the two sides of the packs. Teeth clenched against a tart reply, she urged her own horse into a trot that stung with every beat, and found herself envious of the pup. Instead of leading them south, back to the trail they had abandoned yesterday, Rick kept them pointed north, deeper into the plains.

  She urged her horse up alongside his. “Will we not lose time by going so far north of the main trail? We’ll miss the township of Lancaster.”

  “Not enough to matter, and we’ve no time or need to stop there. We’re only going another mile or so deeper into the hills, out of sight of the main trail,” he answered.

  “And in a hurry. Would you like to tell me why?”

  His gaze remained fixed on the fields of green grass ahead. “Nope.”

  “Well, will you?”

  A long sigh blew from his stubble-lined lips. “Ainsworth’s man has picked up our trail.”

  Alarm shot through her, and though she wasn’t sure she’d use it, she was suddenly glad for the weight of the pistol at her side. “Are you certain?”

  “Aye.”

  As the horse felt her desire to go faster by the clenching of her legs and change in her seat position, he sped into a fast trot that jarred her with each long stride. Posting would have made it smoother initially, but Rick was right. She couldn’t post all day. She’d have to sit through the trot and find its rhythm. “Should we not go a bit faster then?” she asked.

  Calm as a man waiting for a fish to bite, he shook his head. “Nope. Trotting disturbs less ground and the horses can keep the pace up longer, thereby going farther.”

  A frustrated grunt escaped between her clenched teeth. The one corner of his mouth that she could see rose into a grin. For a fleeting moment she hoped his horse stumbled, tossing him to the ground so that smug look would get ground into the grass and dirt. But the more pressing matter of the pain each beat of her horse’s hooves caused quickly distracted her from such thoughts. That, and the idea of someone following them. No, not following them. Tracking them down so they could ensure she didn’t make it to California. She clung to the hope that they only meant to scare her off rather than something far more nefarious.