Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02]

by My Heavenly Heart

  Logan paused before stepping into his cabin. When he glanced back he was again struck by how beautiful she was... and how annoying. “There be nothing else.”

  “Nothing but ‘dog’?” Without realizing what she was about, Rachel stepped closer to the sleeping spaniel. “But that’s unheard of. One always gives pets a name.”

  Logan turned to face her, his jaw clenched. “He is not my pet. And he has no name.”

  There was more to his words than what he said. Rachel realized that on some plane she couldn’t comprehend, and at the moment didn’t wish to try, He was such an exasperating man. Certainly the animal sprawled at her feet was no prize. He was lazy and hardly a watchdog. But he deserved a name.

  Rachel met his obstinate stare with one of her own. “Then I shall name him.” His dark scowl nearly brought a smile to her lips. “Henry, I think.” Rachel sank down to tickle the ruff under his chin. “What think you of that, brave hunter of rabbits? Do you like the name Henry? ’Tis the moniker of several great kings.”

  “And no damn dog of mine shall wear it.”

  “Oh, really?” Rachel tilted her head to look up at him. “Well, it appears to be too late. He’s already named.”

  His jaw hurt from clenching it, Logan realized, and immediately tried to make himself relax. What in the hell did he care what she called the scruffy mutt? She was a temporary nuisance, a temporary annoyance he had to suffer. He almost laughed at that thought. Perhaps she had been sent... sent to punish him further. Well, if that was the case, she was damn good at her task.

  Logan turned on his heel and slammed into the cabin with a mumbled, “Call him whatere you like.” Logan knew it would make no difference. The animal did as he chose.

  Except that in the days that followed that didn’t seem to be the case.

  She was still weak from the fever. Logan couldn’t help but notice. And though he wanted nothing more than to let her fend for herself—to put a stop to the infernal waiting upon her he seemed to do—he couldn’t. At least not yet.

  So she sat in his chair, what he’d come to think of as her throne, and accepted a cup of tea, or bowl of stew. For the most part she was gracious, so damn gracious Logan felt like a servant in his own home.

  And she continued to call the dog Henry.

  He was sure she did it to annoy him at first. She’d look down that freckle-dusted short nose of hers and sigh as the animal lay sleeping, its legs sticking straight in the air. “Doesn’t Henry look adorable? I’ve never seen a dog sleep quite like that before.”

  To which Logan would grunt something unintelligible. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of a discussion.

  “I once had a dog, you know.”

  It was three days after the Adawehis’s visit and Logan had just returned from his morning bath in the creek. The last thing he wanted to discuss as he stood by the fire drying off, was dogs. His own had opted to stay sitting by her chair rather than bound outside with him. But his lack of comment seemed to make no difference. She continued as if he’d shown a keen interest in her statement.

  “I was much younger. And my father didn’t know of it, of course.”

  She paused and something in her tone made Logan stop as he pulled the shirt down over his head. “Why would you say ‘of course’?”

  “What?” She glanced up as if only now realizing he stood before her. “Oh, dogs reminded him of my mother. She apparently had several that she kept with her nearly all the time, or so the cook’s helper told me once.”

  “Your mother died, then, when you were young?”

  “No.” Her eyes met his. “She left. It was all quite scandalous. She ran away with a younger son of my father’s friend, Lord Bathoon. No one knows what became of them. Some say they committed suicide by leaping into the sea, their hands joined. Others, that there was an accident as they rode in their carriage along the cliff road. Or, perhaps they’re still alive, living together in some hovel in the south of Wales.”

  When she ended her speech her voice was unusually bright as were her eyes. And Logan stood still, the sound of the cracking fire and the dog’s snoring all that broke the silence.

  “Gracious.” She wiped her palms down across her silvery blue skirt. “I can’t imagine why I started telling you of my past like that.”

  “How old were you?”

  “When she left, you mean? Hardly more than a babe. I remember very little about her.” She took a breath, placing her hands on the chair arms and stood. “I don’t wish to discuss this further.”

  With a mere mention of the name, “Henry,” the traitorous dog bounded to his feet and followed close by her skirts as she headed for the door. “I believe I shall take a stroll while you prepare our morning repast.”

  And to think he’d had a moment of sympathy for her... even liking. He who knew what it was like to live with memories he’d as soon forget. Well, he’d be damned before he turned into her personal lackey. If she was strong enough to “stroll about” she was strong enough to “prepare her own repast.” His too, for that matter.

  ~ ~ ~

  It really was lovely here. There was none of the controlled beauty of the parks around Queen’s House, but Rachel loved the mist-shrouded mountains and the scarlet and gold valley. Each morning the vapors drifted up, dancing through the fir and spruce. Sha-cona-ga Lone Dove had called it... blue like smoke.

  Rachel stood on the edge of the precipice looking out over it all. Henry lay by her feet, already asleep. She wished she hadn’t thought about her mother... wished she hadn’t told Logan. She was here for one reason and one reason only. And it had nothing to do with dredging up unpleasantness from her past. From the moment her father died, leaving her orphaned, and she’d gone to live with her closest living relative, Queen Charlotte, Rachel decided to put thoughts of her mother behind her.

  She’d only shown the slightest interest when Liz showed her a portrait of Lady Anne in the gallery at St. James Castle. Of course she’d wondered what her mother looked like... all paintings of her mother at her home in Devonshire had been destroyed when she left.

  And to be sure, she’d been astonished at the resemblance between herself and her mother. “At first I thought I’d come across a portrait of you,” Liz had said, while Rachel stared at the gilt framed canvas. Then she turned, without saying a word and walked away. She never went back for a second look. She never discussed the incident with Liz. Her closest friend Liz.

  So why, when there was no need of it, did she bring the issue up with a man she didn’t even like?

  Rachel shut her eyes and took a deep breath, opening them again to stare unseeing over the landscape. What was she doing here? Logan MacQuaid seemed in no danger of having his life snuffed out. She’d seldom seen a man more capable of protecting himself.

  Yet Lone Dove was not surprised by her assigned task. He accepted her words with no qualms... accepted them perhaps more easily than she did herself. For the more time that went by, the more impossible her assignment seemed. And she did long to return to Queen’s House. For the peace and pleasure she’d known there. For the chance to avenge her friend’s life.

  What was Lord Bingham doing right now? Did he consider himself a fortunate man, well rid of an unfaithful wife and her lover and friend? No one to point a finger toward his guilty heart and reveal his sin. But she would do it. When she returned, she would tell the Queen and Lord Bingham would bear the punishment for his crime.

  But first she must finish here. And patience was something Rachel never held dear. “Listen to your spirit,” the Adawehis had told her. “You will find the way.” But her spirit told her nothing and her mind only screamed that she must hurry.

  She was an angel. Surely she could control things about her if she tried. Could summon a chorus of hosannas. Could fly. Rachel paused, a slight smile tilting the corners of her lips. Of course, angels could fly. Any painting she’d ever seen showed them hovering, their wings outstretched. Granted, she had no wings, least none sh
e could see, but she must possess them all the same. She must be able to fly.

  She stepped forward, not sure she actually planned to try it—not ever getting the chance.

  Strong arms wrapped about her waist, moments before the thrust of his body knocked her to the side. He rolled before they hit the ground, absorbing most although not all of the shock. Rachel barely had time for her breath to return before he had rolled again, this time on top her.

  “What in the hell were you about to do?”

  His face was above hers, dark and angry, his green eyes narrowed.

  “I was...” Rachel bit her lip. At the moment it seemed perfectly ridiculous to say what she thought of doing. Testing one’s ability to fly by leaping from the side of the mountain was madness. At least he would think so. “Nothing. Now please get off me.” But he didn’t obey. She could feel the pebbly hardness of the ground beneath her back as he settled on her more firmly.

  “I saw you with me own eyes, Rachel.”

  “You saw nothing.” She was angry now, and only partly because she wasn’t sure he hadn’t seen the truth. “Get off I say. Get—”

  But the rest of her words were cut off when his mouth covered hers. His kiss was rough, as she expected from him, hard and uncompromising. Not like the few kisses she’d shared with William.

  Beneath her gravel and dirt ground into her clothing and hair, and above her his weight was oppressive. But his tongue pressed into her mouth, stirring to life sensations that filled her with longing. Which was folly, if not completely impossible. How could someone who wasn’t even alive feel as she did?

  Rachel tried to focus her mind on that as well as the fact that she could barely tolerate the man. But none of that seemed to matter as his lips pressed into hers. Of their own volition her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling in the long strands of obsidian hair. Her breathing grew shallow and quick, her heart thumped painfully in her chest, and she could only hold on to him, pull him closer.

  He shifted, sending his tongue and a salvo of shivers down the side of her neck. Rachel gasped in air, moaning when his hand covered her breast, pushing it up free from the binding confines of her stays. The pads of his fingers were work-roughened and none too gentle as they massaged her flesh. But that did nothing to impede the dizzying excitement that grew within her. If anything his touch fanned the flames as surely as a quickening wind would.

  Her nipple grew painfully taut, and only the moist heat of his mouth assuaged the ache. She was swirling in a vortex, her body arching toward his, her hands restlessly exploring the ridges and valleys of his back.

  And then it was gone.

  Her body still sang. But his weight was gone. The delicious things he did with his hands and mouth were gone. The transition was so quickly made that at first Rachel wondered if some invisible force had plucked him off her.

  But then she opened her eyes and saw he’d merely rolled to the side and now sat knees spread, bent head in hands. His face was hidden to her by the loose fall of dark hair, but Rachel could see the ragged rise and fall of his chest as he gulped air into his lungs. His breathing matched her own.

  He turned his head, staring at her a moment with those green eyes before he spoke. When he did his voice was husky and low. “Now do you know why I want you to leave?”

  Chapter Five

  “He who considers his work beneath him will be above doing it well.”

  — Alexander Chase

  Perspectives

  “You drink too much.”

  Rachel stood in the open doorway, looking into the small cabin. He sat, or more correctly, sprawled, on the chair, a jug perched precariously on one knee. At the sound of her voice he glanced up, not quite meeting her stare.

  “And what if I do? ’Tis naught to you.”

  She wished what he said were true. Oh, how she wished it. But nothing could change what she was sent to do. Nothing.

  Rachel had lain on the ground, her legs spread beneath a twisted skirt, her mouth wet and tingling, wondering what to do. He was no longer there to befuddle her thoughts. After his initial comment about wanting her gone he’d pushed to his feet. “Don’t go near the edge again,” was all he’d said before striding hurriedly toward the cabin.

  As if she would dare.

  No, her encounter with Logan MacQuaid had left her quite dizzy enough without needing to step off the edge of a cliff to test her ability to fly. It also left her feeling very human. And confused. And embarrassed. And heaven only knew how many other emotions rattled about in her brain, like so many bees buzzing about a rose.

  “Listen to the spirit within you.”

  Lone Dove’s words came back to her again. Listen to her spirit rather than her mind. But how? She lay there on the ground until the discomfort of the terrain finally forced her to rise and brush the dirt and pebbly stones from her clothes.

  Rachel had still been wondering what to say to him when she opened the door to find a cup pressed to his lips. He took another swig now almost in defiance of her remark.

  “Mary forgave you long ago.”

  Rum splashed down the front of his open-necked shirt, wetting the tangle of dark curls on his chest. He yanked the dented pewter from his mouth. “What the hell are you prattling on about?”

  She didn’t know. Rachel blinked and searched her mind, trying to remember where that thought came from. Nothing. Yet it was there. The very strong conviction that he’d been forgiven. By a woman. Mary.

  And it was clear Logan MacQuaid knew of whom she spoke.

  He set the cup on the floor and turned in the chair to face her. His speech was only slightly slurred. “I want to know what you meant by that remark.”

  “She wouldn’t want you to carry on like this. To drink yourself into oblivion.” Rachel took a step forward, inwardly cringing when he recoiled. It was the slightest of movements and he quickly caught himself, straightening his shoulders and pushing to his feet. His step was surprisingly steady as he moved toward the door. He grabbed up his musket, glancing back only once to call for the dog to follow. The spaniel sat by Rachel, having awakened and meandered into the cabin when she did. He was hunched down, licking his paw almost as a cat would, and he ignored his master’s grumbled, “Come on with you, Dog.” It wasn’t until Rachel urged him on with a “Go with him, Henry,” that the animal stood and loped along.

  Rachel sighed as they disappeared behind a screen of holly and pines. How could she protect him if he rushed off into the woods without her? And how could he keep from rushing away from her when she spoke of a mysterious woman and forgiveness?

  She shut the door, crossing to the chair and settling in, her chin resting in the cup of her palm. Who was this woman and what did Logan do that needed her forgiveness? Rachel tried to concentrate, hoping the answer would come to her, but it didn’t. She was only left with a headache and the decision that he must have loved her very much to act as he did.

  For some reason she couldn’t begin to fathom, Rachel wasn’t pleased by her conclusion.

  ~ ~ ~

  He’d made a fool of himself.

  Logan stood outside, steeling himself to enter the cabin. His own cabin for God’s sake. As if he should have to worry about what he said or did in his own home.

  God, what demon had sent her to plague him?

  If he wasn’t lusting after her she was reminding him of things he’d worked hard to forget.

  Mary forgives you, indeed.

  Where had she come up with that? Logan took a deep breath and shut his eyes. For a moment, when she first said it, he could have sworn it was Mary forgiving him. Which was ridiculous. It had to be ridiculous.

  Any further attempt to delay going inside was sabotaged by the dog’s insistent scratching on the door. “Can’t bear to be away from her, can you, you lazy mongrel?” Neither his tone nor the sad shake of his head matched his words as Logan lifted the latch.

  It was dark inside with only the glowing coals of a long untended fire to
battle the gathering night. “Damnation,” Logan mumbled under his breath. The woman truly was worthless. He didn’t know what made him expect to be greeted by the aroma of dinner cooking, or the pleasant flicker of a lit candle. But there was none. And he should have known better.

  Anger welled up, only to sputter and die when he caught sight of her. She was asleep, her golden hair a halo about her head, her chin tucked down in the fur blanket. She’d been ill, he reminded himself. And she was weak still from the fever. For tonight he would let her sleep. But starting tomorrow he would instruct her in some basic rules of frontier living. If she intended to reside with him until the festival of Ah,tawg,hung,nah, she would start earning her keep.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I’m not at all certain what it is you wish me to do.”

  Rachel stood on the shore of the swiftly churning river. Logan MacQuaid was a rod over from her, squatting on a flat, moss-covered rock, holding out his hand toward her.

  “I told you, ’twas easier to reach the water from here.”

  “Yes, I know that’s what you said.” She pretended not to see his beckoning fingers. “I just don’t think I’ve any desire to reach the water.”

  “How else do you intend to do the laundry?”

  Which was the crux of the dilemma. She had no desire to do the laundry. However, he seemed to think it an excellent idea.

  “I don’t do laundry. Servants do laundry.”

  “So you’ve said. Repeatedly.” Logan stood, hands on hips, tired of waiting to help her across the trickle of water that splashed around the rock.

  “And I really don’t think it necessary that I learn. When I return to England the washerwoman will take care of my dirty linens.”

  “Well Your Highness isn’t in England. And from where I stand you’re the closest thing to a washerwoman we have. Now give me your hand.”

  She didn’t seem to have a choice. Rachel took a deep breath and reached out her hand. It was immediately grabbed by his and she was yanked toward the flat rock. Water swirled around her, splashing her beautiful blue-and-silver shoes, which weren’t really beautiful anymore.