“Help me undress her down to her shift. We can bathe her that way.”
“Perhaps I should get one of the other women,” Anne offered.
“To lift her? Ye might manage to get her in but ye’ll never have the strength to pull her out again.”
With a sigh, Anne moved to Lorna’s side, and between them they divested her of her filthy gown. He flung it to one side and kept his gaze averted as the maid peeled down Lorna’s torn stockings. Once those were cast aside, he hefted her into his arms and lowered her into the water. The white linen of her chemise immediately clung to her skin, like a child to its mother, and became translucent.
Unwelcome heat stirred in Logan’s veins and the site struck him as familiar. Her nipples grew visible and there was no hiding the curves that he did not realise she had. The woman was small in stature yet admirably endowed. He gritted his jaw and pushed up his sleeves to slide an arm around her shoulders and hold her in place.
Lorna showed no sign of life as the warm water sloshed around her. Were it not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he would think her dead. Anne worked quickly to clean the grime from Lorna, a blush staining her cheeks. The lass’s skin warmed beneath his hands and the faint pounding of his heart slowed.
He helped Anne rinse her hair and rub in some tonic with one hand. Again, flickers of remembrance tore briefly through his mind, but when would he ever have washed a woman’s hair?
While he concentrated on drawing long breaths in through his nostrils, Anne blotted her hair with a towel and Logan lifted her out. Water dripped on the floorboards and down his legs. His garments were near soaked, but the realisation they still needed to strip her damp chemise from her made him forget the discomfort.
He nodded to the bed. “Place the towel there and put one over her.”
The maid did as he bid and he lowered the woman to the linen towel. Anne flung the other towel over her and Logan spun on his heel to turn his back to the appealing sight. Who knew the woman’s beauty would increase when encased in damp fabric and with wet curls framing her face? A less honourable man would be hard pressed to resist.
Less honourable? He had never considered himself honourable. Where had these thoughts come from? Yet he felt the inappropriateness of their situation strongly. Had he once been a man of principle? To come from nothing and to be Laird Gillean’s chieftain, he must have sacrificed many principles, and he had hardly spent the past seasons working to prove his honour. The need to prove himself drove him. Not honour.
Nevertheless, he kept his back turned as wet fabric slopped to the ground and the sound of linen being rubbed over skin made him clench his fists.
“Sir,” Anne said quietly, causing him to turn.
The woman lay safely tucked into the bed though her naked shoulders forced his imagination to places he did not wish it to go again.
“Have ye some spare garments?” he asked.
“Aye. I believe some of her gowns are still in storage from when the keep was hers.”
“Fetch one, will ye?”
“Aye, sir.”
Anne left.
Left him with this beautiful, naked woman. He pressed his fingers to his temples. What had he been thinking? He should have kept her in the donjon until Gillean returned. If she died, it would only serve her right for sneaking into the castle. Though he knew well her death could bring more trouble than she was worth.
Not to mention she knew of him.
He edged closer and hovered over her. Was it simply him remembering a time he had met her? Perhaps he had been attracted to her then too. Her nose, slightly too snubbed to be considered beautiful, made him want to skim his fingers across it and touch each of those freckles. Each part of her belied the fiery countenance he had encountered in the donjon, from the fair, angel-like hair to the sweet point of her chin.
His heart galloped when her lashes fluttered. Breath held, he watched as the pale blue of her eyes became visible under half lifted lids. Recognition sparked in those eyes and she jolted upright. Before he comprehended what had happened, this petite, naked woman had flung herself around him and pulled him down upon her.
“I thought ye dead,” she cried. “Finn said ye were dead.”
He fought her hold, tried to pry her hands from his neck but her grip remained strong. His body inevitably responded to the soft breasts flattened against his chest and as he fought to lift himself away, his hands came into contact with her waist and the curves of her hips.
But her strength did not last and her illness must have eaten into her surprise as she relented and fell back. She did not seem to notice her nudity so he hastily covered her while she gazed up at him. Tears glinted in her eyes and he heard her sharp intakes of breath—an effort to control her emotions he assumed.
“Why are ye here? Where have ye been? Are we to escape?” She clutched the blankets around her. “Why am I naked? Logan, I—”
He lifted a hand to silence her. “How do ye know me?”
Her eyes widened. “Ye were in the donjon. Yer voice... ye kept me locked up! Logan, what—”
“Listen, lady, I dinnae know how ye know me but I was merely doing my duty.”
“Yer duty?”
“A mercenary, I believe ye called me. Well, mayhap I am, but Laird Gillean is still my lord and master and ye are his prisoner. In his absence, I believe that makes ye my prisoner.”
“Yer prisoner?” She attempted a weak smile. “Is this some kind of jest? Are ye still angry with me?”
“I dinnae know how to jest.”
She blinked up at him, her brows knitted. Her gaze inevitably fell to the unsightly scar on his neck. “What happened to ye, Logan? Finn said ye were cut down.”
“Aye, in battle. The battle yer men instigated. By God’s good grace I survived.”
“Why did ye no’ return? Logan, I have much—”
“The wounds inflicted,” he continued, ignoring her, “caused me to lose my memory. Perhaps that pleases ye that yer warriors did as much damage or perhaps ye would have preferred me dead, I dinnae know.”
“Why should I be pleased to have ye dead? Ye speak in riddles.” She put a weary hand to her forehead. “I am delirious, aye? Ye are a figment of my imagination? Of my hopeful dreams?”
To his astonishment, more tears welled in her eyes and she pressed a shaky hand over them to stem the sobs. His patience snapped. She might be ailing but she refused to understand what he was saying. Logan did not believe he could make it any clearer and she knew about him. He had to find out what she knew.
He dropped to the bed, gripped her arms and shook her. She had no choice but to stare at him as he held her arms away from her tear-stained face.
“What do ye know of me? I must have ye tell me.”
“I dinnae—”
“Ye know nothing then?” he spat, disappointment burning his gut.
“Nay, I dinnae understand.” She winced and wriggled against his grip.
The bedding slipped, revealing one luscious breast. He let his gaze drop to it briefly, but any desire became masked by his need for answers.
“Yer hurting me!”
Teeth clenched, he forced himself to soften his grip. “What do ye know of me?”
Lorna took her time studying him. Her gaze traced his long hair, his beard, the scar on his neck. Then their gazes connected and his heart squeezed. The sensation disturbed him.
“Ye dinnae remember me?”
“Nay. I remember naught. My life started a little over four seasons ago when I awoke here, recovering from a grievous injury and many others.”
“Ye are serious, are ye not?”
“As I said, my lady, I dinnae jest.”
“Release me and I shall tell ye everything.”
He considered her. The woman was clever. From what little he knew of her, Gillean had pegged her as an intelligent, bold leader. Logan needed to be cautious. She could well use his memory loss to her advantage.
“Very well.” He opened
his fingers and stepped back, allowing her to sit and cover herself once more.
“Do ye truly remember naught?”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “Aye, naught.”
“We met when I was but seven and ten. Do ye remember that?”
“Nay. I told ye, I remember naught. Damnation, how many times do I have to say it?”
She jerked at his harsh words but lifted her chin. “Ye came here shortly after my marriage to the Laird—my dead husband and Gillean’s brother.”
Lorna eyed him as if expecting his memory to rush back. He bit off an impatient response. “I was a peasant boy, aye?”
“Aye,” she whispered. “But I knew ye were more than a mere peasant boy. Always.” She said this with such conviction, he puzzled over the emotion behind the words. “Ye worked by my side, leading my men after Walter died.”
He shook his head. “I worked for Gillean. I came here before the battle.”
Sheets gripped around her chest, she attempted to kneel on the bed, eyes imploring, but he saw the tremble of her body and she slumped down against the pillow. “Ye have been lied to. I dinnae know what Gillean’s plan for ye is, but ye have never worked for Gillean—always me.”
Logan narrowed his gaze at her. Was she lying? Did she hope to persuade him to release her? And why would Gillean lie?
“I see no profit in it for Gillean. If I worked for ye, that would make me the enemy. Why not let me die from my wounds? His staff tended to me, saved me from a malady that made me delirious. Why waste such time on a mere peasant?”
“I dinnae know, but ye must believe me. Mayhap he saw yer worth, just as I did. Ye were always a strong leader, Logan, and a powerful fighter. Ye were my closest friend.” Her voice trailed off and she lowered her lashes, hiding some emotion.
To cover her lies, mayhap?
Blood rushed in his ears. Some part of him longed to latch onto her words. Through her version of his past, his life had more meaning. According to Gillean, he was nothing but a peasant who had fought his way to the top. But the words coming from this beautiful woman’s lips spoke of an honourable man.
But, if he thought hard, he could not reconcile that. He was quick-tempered, gruff, angry... he longed for more. More land, more prestige. Something to distinguish him from the rabble. This man she spoke of could not be him.
He cleared his throat. “If ye think ye can talk me into releasing ye, ye are sorely mistaken, Lady Lorna.”
She lifted her lashes. “Ye dinnae believe me.” Her voice remained cold, rigid.
Lips pursed, the only hint of surprise lingered in her eyes. She was a master of disguise, he deemed. Going from tears to tight reserve in but a moment? A fine actress indeed. In spite of himself, he admired it. Here was a woman who would do anything to survive—a warrior of a kind. Much like himself.
“Nay, I dinnae believe ye.” How could he when he now had the measure of her?
“Ye must,” she begged breathlessly. “Ye must. Let us leave. Let us escape to Glencolum. There is much I must tell ye.”
Logan allowed his expression to shutter, in spite of the way her voice did something to his heart. A tiny rift had opened up in it, but he would not let a woman’s pleas enter. She had manipulated his memory loss to her advantage. Any recollection of her had to be from his time serving with Gillean’s army.
“There is food on the table.” He nodded to the coffer. “The maid shall be along with some clothes shortly. I suggest ye eat. Ye are frail.” Swivelling on one heel, he ignored the way the vision of her tucked into the blankets, her bare shoulders pale and delicate against the red, lingered in his mind, and he strode out of the room.
His name echoed in his ears and he paused outside the room. Shaking his head to himself, he slammed the door and motioned to the two guards. “Dinnae let her out, dinnae succumb to any of her tricks.”
With that, he strode off, endeavouring to put the lass out of his mind. Like the memories of his past, he hoped she too would vanish along with the churning sensation in his gut that now plagued him.
Chapter Four
At some point during the night, Lorna drifted to sleep. Exhaustion claimed her. She had not touched her food—her appetite had gone—nor did she attempt to drink and move except to use the chamber pot. For that, she relied on Anne to help her. It seemed her body had become weaker since Logan’s visit. Illness made her body shake and her skin went from fiery hot to freezing.
But as the blissful haze of sleep stole the aches from her muscles, her dreams haunted her. Logan and his whispered words of longing played through her mind. He had loved her with such devotion; yet she had always rejected him. She might act bold, but she had been terrified of being with a man again. It did not matter that she knew he would never hurt her as Walter had. Being that vulnerable again, loving someone, was too much for her to bear.
Mayhap this was her punishment for denying him. They had made love once—a frantic moment of weakness and desperation. They had not even undressed so he could not see her scars, but in her dreams, he touched her and her skin was perfect. But just as she had over a year ago, she sent him away, denied him.
And now she would never get him back. The sweet haze of lovemaking vanished and gave way to grief—a grief so painful it turned her thoughts black. She left him in the midst of battle and he had been killed, leaving her to bear their son alone. Forevermore, she would regret leaving him, though she could not regret their child—a dark-haired boy who never failed to remind her of his father.
“Ewan.” Her body jerked and she came awake. Waking to the unfamiliar sight of red drapes and a low burning fire peeking through the gap in the curtains surrounding the bed, it took her several moments to realise she was not on the cold floor of the donjon, nor in her cousin’s keep at Glencolum which had been her home since the battle.
The stinging pain of grief lingered in her chest and she rubbed it. Body stiff and painful, she muffled a cry as she shifted onto her back and stared up at the canopy. She pressed a hand to her breast as if it would ease the agony.
“He’s not dead,” she reminded herself. Shock still burned through her body. Over a year of mourning him and Logan wasn’t dead.
But he might as well be.
He remembered nothing. Did not recall that one night together or the way he’d insisted he’d win her heart one day. Logan was not the same man she had once known. And Gillean... She fisted the blanket in one hand. Gillean had lied to him. To what end though? Some twisted sense of revenge mayhap. After all, she had helped his rich bride escape.
And Logan had always been a fine leader. It was why she had come to trust him. Once her husband died, she gave Logan command of her men and he had never failed her. Gillean had likely recognised such qualities and, with his warring ways, such a man could only be an asset.
Slipping one leg out of the blankets, then the other, she put her feet to the floor and scooted forward. Her legs trembled. The malady had stolen her strength. She shoved aside the curtains and debated the platter of bread and cheese on the table, but time was scarce. Lorna had to escape, and fast.
That did not mean she would not return with an army for Logan though. If she had to have him put in irons and dragged back to Glencolum she would. She would not leave him again.
A hand to the bedpost, she rose up and drew in a long breath. Lord, she had never felt so helpless in her life, except mayhap when she had heard tell of Logan’s death. But the knowledge of her babe growing inside her had given her strength. That same reason would have to feed her strength now. Her son awaited her and he deserved to know his father, but whether Logan would ever accept him or not, she did not know.
Padding across the wooden floorboards, she eased open a shutter and peered out into the night. Torches lit the walls and the defences were well guarded with the few men that were present. No doubt Gillean had expected Glencolum to retaliate after the battle but they could ill afford the losses. Her cousin’s clan had been recovering from years of w
ar with a neighbouring clan. Could she ask them to fight again?
Lorna studied the wall and counted the number of men. Wherever Gillean was, he had likely taken men with him. The journey to her cousin’s keep was a mere day. With Gillean’s forces depleted, there was no better time to strike. Her revenge—a need that still burned brightly thanks to Gillean’s lies—would have to wait. If she had to crawl to Glencolum, she would, and would summon an army to rid the Highlands of Laird Gillean’s threat, once and for all.
Heart thudding in her ears, she tiptoed over to the door and pressed her ear to it. The wood was thick, yet rumbling snores penetrated it. She allowed herself a smile. It seemed her guards had fallen asleep on duty. At least, she hoped so.
Twisting the handle, she grimaced as the iron creaked. When no one tried to prevent her, she eased open the door and peered out. Only a few torches lit the narrow wooden walkway that spanned the top of the Great Hall and either side of the door, as she had predicted, were two snoring men, their mouths open and their swords dropped carelessly to the side.
Lorna debated taking one of the weapons—she had some experience with swords—but she suspected they would only hinder her escape. As it was, she did not know if she would be able to sneak out the way she entered.
Lifting her chemise, she edged along the balcony and peered below to see several servants sleeping on straw pallets on the floor. Their snores and mumbles echoed throughout the vast space. Sneaking past would be no easy feat, but what other choice did she have?
A prickle skimmed her spine as she paced forward.
“Where are ye off to?”
She whirled, her chemise dancing around her legs and her heart jammed in her throat. Logan appeared from the staircase at the end of the balcony, stepping out of the gloom with his arms folded and his brow furrowed. Lorna swallowed.
“Ye cannae keep me here,” she hissed, wary of waking the guards and having more than Logan to contend with.
“Ye’ll no’ outrun me.”
He was right. But she had to try. He took a step forward and she bolted. Logan cursed and the sound must have roused someone, as she heard another rough curse and several sets of heavy footsteps behind her.
To Avenge Her Highland Warrior Page 3