Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02]

by My Heavenly Heart

  She’d gone at Swift Fox like a bear protecting her cub, all sharp claws and emotion. She shocked the Cherokee for certain. He repeated the story often as the evening progressed and the jug grew lighter.

  “She did not come after me until you arrived,” he’d said, after taking a puff off the pipe. “She was not afraid for herself.”

  Logan squatted down near the pile of furs. “Who are you?” he whispered. Lady Rachel Elliott she’d said, but that just didn’t make sense. Not that he didn’t think an English Lady could live on the frontier. His half-brother Wolf had married Lady Caroline Simmons and they made their home at Seven Pines. But Caroline hadn’t just appeared one day by Wolf s side insisting she was there to save him.

  Leaning forward, Logan studied her with narrowed eyes. He sure never saw Caroline decked out like this either. Logan’s gaze swept over the silvery gown and diamonds twinkling at her neck and ears. There was a beauty patch on her cheek, its edges curled from wear. With his finger he brushed it off, wondering why anyone as lovely as she would paste something false on her face.

  But then the same could be said for the powdered wig. Her own hair was a shimmering pale blond. She was no angel, of that he was certain, but she did look like one.

  Which made absolutely no difference, Logan assured himself as he pushed to his feet. She was a problem he didn’t need. But one he didn’t quite know how to rid himself of.

  For now she looked damned uncomfortable. Cursing under his breath, Logan spread several layers of skins on the floor. Then nudging Dog aside he scooped his unwelcome guest into his arms. She nestled closer, her breath fanning his neck. Logan allowed himself to savor the feel of her only a moment before stretching her out on the pallet.

  When he lay the bearskin over her she rolled her head from side to side. She was mumbling, something unintelligible at first, but when he leaned closer he could make out what she said. “I have to save him. I have to.”

  Logan backed up. This whole thing was insane. She was insane. And he was just as insane for listening to her for one second.

  He strode to the door, grabbing his coat off the peg as he reached for the latch. He felt restless. There was no reason to attempt sleep. Perhaps a bit of night air would help. After he opened the door he gave a low whistle. The dog always enjoyed these night forays.

  But obviously that was before the woman arrived. For he was already cuddled up close, his canine head wedged against her side.

  “The hell with you both,” Logan said under his breath before stomping into the clear, cold night.

  ~ ~ ~

  The cabin was empty when Rachel woke the next morning, but someone had built up the fire and a delicious scent wafted up from the pot. She stretched, lifting her arms high above her head and wondered how she’d come to be lying flat on a bed of furs. Oh, what did it matter? She slept well, was rested, and despite the reddened areas on her legs felt better than she had since... since her death.

  Though she told herself there was nothing humorous about her situation, Rachel couldn’t help laughing. Which was what she was doing when the man pushed through the door. He was wet again, clad only in some sort of short apron that covered him from waist to mid thigh, front and back. But despite his near nakedness, it was his expression that held Rachel’s attention. He looked as if he’d eaten a lemon. Rachel’s countenance sobered.

  He stomped to the hearth, his back to the flames and stared at her a moment. “’Tis glad I am that you find time for levity... and sleeping. Though most would think the time of day for being about was long past.”

  Rachel elbowed her way to sitting. Her pleasant mood was a thing of the past. “Are you saying I slept too late?” Why, she could swear it was still morning. What did the man want?

  He only grunted in that way Rachel found very annoying.

  She brushed a tangle of curls from her face, wondering what had become of the pins that held it up. “I’ll have you know I’ve been called an early riser, by some. Even if I attend an especially late entertainment I ring for my chocolate by half past ten.”

  He lifted a brow before turning to warm his front side. “That early?”

  His sarcasm was no more appreciated than his monosyllable grunts, Rachel decided, and told him so. This elicited no response at all.

  “Who are you?” Rachel folded her arms when he glanced around. “You do have a name, don’t you?”

  “Logan MacQuaid.”

  “Ah, I thought I detected a Scottish brogue.” He said nothing to that but then she supposed she should be growing use to his reticence. “From where in Scotland do you hail?”

  “Alloway near Ayr.”

  Rachel folded her hands, resting them on the fur blanket covering her lap. “And how long have you been in the colonies?”

  “Since forty-seven.” Logan reached for the shirt he’d taken off earlier and pulled it over his head.

  Rachel found it a bit easier to concentrate with his chest covered. She sighed. “What of your friend?” She glanced around. “Where is he?”

  “Swift Fox left early for his village. Now, if there be no more questions for me Your Highness, I suggest you rise from your royal bed.”

  Royal bed indeed. He was so annoying. Rachel lifted her chin. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why.”

  He wasn’t going to ask, Logan assured himself as he dished out his portion of stew. He didn’t care what she was talking about. He didn’t care anything about her. But he found himself glancing back as she pushed aside the heavy bearskin. “Why what?” It was more command than request and Logan noticed the sharp lift of her head when he spoke.

  She stood, smoothing down the torn and ragged skirt as best she could before facing him, her shoulders back, her stare haughty. “Why anyone should care what becomes of you.”

  Logan’s hand paused, the spoon carrying a bite of stew forgotten. “For once we are in complete agreement, Your Highness. ’Tis not a soul who does... myself included.” He stared at her, his green eyes hard, before adding, “And ’tis the way I like it.” He lowered the spoon and the bowl without eating. Not bothering to retrieve his jacket he stomped out of the cabin, and was immediately sorry.

  The weather had turned cold with a northern wind that tore through his homespun shirt. He looked back at the cabin door and imagined himself opening it. Imagined her haughty expression. If only he hadn’t made such a dramatic exit.

  But then this wasn’t the first time.

  There was the time he stormed out on his half-brother Wolf, vowing to kill every Cherokee he could find. It was a stupid thing to do. Even if he’d just discovered his wife and daughter were dead... massacred by Cherokee.

  Logan turned away from the cabin and stalked to the edge of the cliff that looked down over the valley below. Damn it all, Mary died years ago. He should be at least able to think about it without this terrible feeling of... Logan squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed.

  God, what he wouldn’t give for it to be grief that consumed him. That’s what it should be. Grief for his wife. Grief for the child, the infant, that he’d never seen. And oh, Lord, he was sorry, sorrier than he could ever say, that they were gone.

  But it was guilt that overpowered him. Guilt that kept him on this mountain and forced him to stand on the edge when fear of the heights made him dizzy.

  For it was his fault they were dead.

  His fault.

  ~ ~ ~

  She managed to fix herself some of the stew without catching herself on fire. Logan noticed the dirty bowl on the table beside the chair when he finally returned to the cabin. Actually two dirty bowls. The second—the one he’d abandoned when he left—was on the floor. The dog in his usual spot on Logan’s bed appeared satiated.

  He supposed he had that coming after feeding her meal to the dog the day before. Except that this was his cabin and his food and as far as he could tell Her Highness hadn’t lifted one of her delicate little fingers since she arrived uninvited on his doorstep.

 
; And damnation the cabin was cold. She’d sat right in front of it and let the fire die down. Again.

  “There’s a settlement at the other end of the valley.” Logan tossed a chunk of wood onto the waning fire. “’Tis but a day from here.” He glanced at her, mentally calculating how inept she would be traveling in the wilderness. “Maybe more.”

  She didn’t say a thing, only sat in his chair, his chair, and stared at him with her big blue eyes. “We’ll be leaving at first light.”

  “For where?”

  Didn’t she ever listen? “For the settlement. For McLaughlin’s Mill.” The log caught and crackled behind him. The flames threw dancing flickers of light across her face as she pursed her lips.

  “How long will we be staying?”

  “There be no ‘we.’” Logan leaned against the stones surrounding the fireplace. “I’ll be taking you there and returning. The Mill ’tisn’t London but you’ll find it—”

  “I can’t go there. I won’t.”

  His fists clenched and Logan forced himself to relax his fingers. “Ye don’t have a choice.”

  “But you said you weren’t leaving. You said—”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Was it because I fed your share of food to the dog? For if it is—”

  “That’s not the reason.” Though it certainly was a factor. But Logan had decided when he was outside that he couldn’t have her staying here all winter. He didn’t want her here. Or perhaps it was he wanted her too much.

  Logan folded his arms, forcing his thoughts away from how long it was since he had a woman, and how comely he found this particular one. Despite her disheveled appearance. Despite the haughty tilt to her head. Despite the fact that she was mad.

  “You don’t seem to understand, I—”

  “Aye, ’tis true, I don’t. I don’t know how you got here. Or what you want with me. But I do know we’re setting out for the Mill come morning.”

  Except by morning she was burning up with fever.

  Logan awoke before dawn to ready for the trip. At first he thought her tossing and moaning the result of a dream, perhaps it was this place that forged the nightmares that haunted her. But as soon as he built up the fire and was able to see her he knew what the flushed tone of her skin meant.

  He knelt beside Dog on the pallet—his pallet—and touched her shoulder. When her eyes opened they were large and glassy. She smiled slightly. “I... don’t feel very well,” she whispered.

  He started to rise only to have her hand clamp over his. Her heat scorched his skin.

  “Don’t leave me... please.”

  He touched her cheek. “I’ll be gone but a moment. To fetch some medicine and water.”

  She seemed to accept that, for her fingers loosened their grip and she shut her eyes.

  ~ ~ ~

  Her thoughts were a jumble, and as hard as she tried, Rachel couldn’t straighten them out. Sometimes she could swear she was home at Queen’s House sharing a bit of gossip with Liz. Other times she was swallowed by water as cold and green as Logan MacQuaid’s eyes. Those eyes seemed to haunt her. She told Liz of them, of the tall, silent man with the gentle touch. The man she couldn’t seem to save.

  And then there was the light.

  Rachel blinked against the glare. This wasn’t like the other time when she met the angels. Then, she felt calm and at peace. Now she ached.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Rachel turned toward the voice, the one thing she remembered as constant through all her dreams. “What happened to me?”

  “You had a fever. It came upon you quickly. But I think the worst is over.” He moved the light, which Rachel could see now was a candle. “Can you drink something?”

  “It tastes horrible, doesn’t it?” She remembered that too. He kept coaxing foul liquid down her throat.

  “Aye,” he said and laughed. “But I’ll add a bit of honey to it.”

  “You don’t laugh very much, or smile either. I like it.” She must still be feverish to be saying such things. He didn’t seem to take her words as a compliment. He merely stood as if she said nothing. In a few minutes he was back, lifting her shoulders and placing a metal cup to her lips.

  That’s when Rachel discovered she was naked beneath the fur blanket.

  She knew she should be outraged. But for some reason as she sipped the liquid, tasted the honey, she wasn’t.

  However by the next morning when she woke, her thoughts weren’t nearly so charitable. She raised her head enough to glance around the cabin. He was there, by the hearth, stirring something in the pot. He straightened, turning toward her as if he knew she stared at him. For a long time they said nothing and Rachel felt the strong pull of those green eyes. Like in her dreams.

  But this was no dream. Her life... or nonlife... was more a nightmare. A nightmare from which she seemed unable to escape.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  His brows lifted. “’Tis obvious Her Highness is feeling better.”

  “And ’tis just as obvious you are a scoundrel, taking advantage of me while I was sick, and—”

  “First let me assure you that I am what you say.” He inclined his head in a mocking bow. “A scoundrel through and through.”

  “I knew it.” Rachel clutched the bearskin to her chin.

  “Aye, it must be reassuring to know you needn’t alter your opinion of me.”

  Rachel simply glared.

  “But on the other hand, there was no advantage taken of you while you lay feverish. I hardly find your charms irresistible.”

  Rachel felt his comment like a blow... well, at least a blow to her pride. “I wouldn’t expect you to have discriminating enough taste to appreciate me. Why the king’s brother is just waiting for me to—”

  “Aye, I’m certain he’s madly in love with you, and pressing for your hand so he can make you his princess,” Logan said as he grabbed up a bowl, ladling some broth into it.

  Madly in love was a bit strong. But he had sought her company and, was rumored, her hand. Rachel wondered briefly if he’d been saddened by her death. She couldn’t imagine Prince William being more than mildly sorry that she couldn’t partner him in a quadrille again. With a shake of her head she brought her thoughts back to the present. Mr. MacQuaid was approaching, a bowl of steaming liquid in his hands. But though her stomach growled from hunger she wanted, needed, some answers first.

  “Then why did you unclothe me?” Rachel knew color stained her cheeks so she raised her chin a notch to counter it. She didn’t think he would answer her at first. He’d squatted beside her, bowl in hand.

  “I expect since your voice is back in good form, you’re also able to feed yourself.”

  “I am.”

  With a shrug he set the bowl on the floor, giving the dog a meaningful stare before rising to fix himself some of the food. “You were uncomfortable,” he finally said.

  “That hardly gives you the right to—”

  “Treat your fever?” His head shot around and Rachel noticed he spilled some of the hot liquid on his hand. But he took no heed. “Be that what I’ve no right to do?”

  “No, but—”

  “I did not ask you here Lady Rachel. I did not ask you to try and push me down a mountain, or catch yourself on fire, or attack my friend. And I most certainly did not ask you to come down with a fever and take three days of my time, nursing you back.”

  “Three days?” Rachel took a deep breath, then her gaze sought his. “I was sick for three days?”

  “Aye. But I wasn’t going to let ye die.”

  “Little chance of that.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just didn’t realize I could become so ill.”

  “No one is immune to fevers.”

  “So it would seem.” Since she was already dead, or at least had died once, Rachel assumed this stint on earth would be... well, charmed. That she would be like an angel, floating down to do her good deed, then floating back to
the heavens accompanied by a crescendo from a celestial chorus.

  Obviously, that wasn’t the way of it. She had no golden wings, and though she hadn’t tried, Rachel seriously questioned her ability to fly. She was like a real person... like she was before. Able to smell and taste and feel. Capable of burning herself and becoming ill. She appeared to have no special powers, nothing to help her with her task of saving Logan MacQuaid’s life.

  And if truth be known, he seemed better able to take care of himself than she was. He was certainly large enough, and strong enough to do it.

  “The broth will taste a might better if you eat it warm.”

  “What... oh, yes, thank you.” Rachel glanced up to see he’d finished his meal and was heading for the door.

  “I’ll leave you alone for a bit.” His eyes darted to the pile of silver-blue silk. “If ye need any help—

  “I’m sure I can manage.” Rachel bid him leave with a wave of her hand. She waited till he shut the door before pushing aside the fur and trying to stand up. She was weaker than she thought, but she wasn’t going to allow that to keep her unclothed one moment longer than necessary.

  She got her arm tangled in the sleeve of her shift. And there was the unmistakable sound of tearing threads before she managed to smooth it down over her hips. And she thought this would be the easiest of her garments to put on. Oh, where was her maid when she needed her?

  Rachel sank into the chair, dropping her head in the cradle of her hands. That’s the way Logan found her when he came back in the cabin. He helped her back to the fur pallet, let her lean against him as she ate her broth, and didn’t say anything about her earlier false bravado. All of which made her very grateful.

  Rachel was more cautious the next time she got up. She asked Mr. MacQuaid for a bucket of water... warmed, and though he grumbled a bit, he complied. She at first requested a tub, of course, but quickly learned one was not available.

  Which no doubt explained why he chose to bathe in the creek. She however did not.

  He lent her a comb and brush, and Rachel was surprised by them. The set was not as ornate as the one she had in London, but it was silver.