It wasn’t till she saw him pause, the axe poised in midair, that she noticed the smell. Unfortunately, that seemed to be what caused him to stop also. He twisted around, his eyes meeting hers for an instant before she squealed and slammed the door.
The bacon was ruined, burned to a crisp.
Chapter Six
“Every living thing in this world is put in the charge of an angel.”
— Saint Augustine
Eight Questions
“When are we leaving for the Cherokee town, Cheoah is it?”
“Soon.”
“Yes, but when? Would you look at me please when I speak to you.”
There it was again, that haughty tone, and Logan knew what her expression would be—a sharp-eyed stare down the length of her delicate nose—before he glanced up. And he lifted his head with reluctance. Not only did he tire of her orders and wish to show her he would tolerate them no more, but he would just as soon not notice the sweet curve of her breast, above the ragged neckline of her gown. Or the face that could only be described as beautiful despite her superior attitude.
He settled back against the log wall, marking his place in a large book with one finger before deigning to glance her way. And Rachel came to a startling conclusion.
She hated to be ignored.
Perhaps not so startling when she thought on it. Her father had ignored her and she’d hated it. But that had been long ago. Ever since she moved to London, to Queen’s House, no one had dared overlook her. Not that anyone would, she assured herself. She was usually the center of attention with friends and admirers never far away.
Everyone thought her pretty, too.
Except Logan MacQuaid.
“You have my complete attention, Your Highness.” He sounded annoyed and sarcastic and Rachel lifted her chin a notch higher. Which made it more difficult for her to see him sitting there on the floor. Didn’t he realize how barbaric that was? He sat with one long buckskin-clad leg spread out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. A book rested in the V made by his thigh and body.
“I asked you when we are leaving for the Cherokee village.” She knew he didn’t want to take her there... it was only because the Adawehis had insisted. In some perverse deep corner of her soul, that made Rachel all the more determined to go... even if she didn’t feel he might need her to save him.
“We’ll start out day after next. How are you coming with your cloak?”
Rachel glanced down at the animal skins in her lap, then twirled the bone needle between her fingers. “Fine,” she said while trying to push the point through the tough hide. When it didn’t go easily she gave up and tried to recapture his eye. He was back reading, his head bent forward, a stray lock of dark hair falling across his cheek.
She had to admit his reading surprised her.
When first they met, after she had a good look at him, Rachel would have wagered he hardly knew what a book was, let alone had the capacity to read one. But he had several leather-bound volumes, and though it was nothing compared to King George’s library, she couldn’t help being impressed.
“When does the festival begin?” She watched him take a deep breath, watched his chest expand beneath the loose-fitting shirt before he lowered the book.
“In five days.”
“How do you know? Did Lone Dove tell you or is it always the same day such as Christmas?”
“Ah,tawh,hung,nah is the ceremony of cementation. It is the tribe’s chance to begin anew. And it is celebrated ten days after Nung,tah-tay-quah.” He paused. “The first new moon of autumn.”
“I see.” She caught the telltale shifting of his hands as he began to reopen the book... to shut her out. “What are you reading?” She’d glanced at his books several times when she was bored but couldn’t understand even the titles on most of them.
“Miscellaneous Observations in the Practice of Physick, Anatomy and Surgery.”
“A book on medicine?” When he nodded she rushed on. “Are you a physician?” Except for the fact that he looked as he did and lived in a small hidden corner of nowhere, it seemed to make sense. He’d mixed medicines and nursed her to health when she had the fever. But he quickly dispelled that notion.
“Nay, I’m no doctor.”
“But the books. And you appear to know so much.”
“’Tis an interest, nothing more. At one point I’d thought to pursue...” Logan clamped his mouth shut. Why was he telling her these things about himself?
“Why didn’t you?” He obviously enjoyed studying.
He shrugged as if whatever the cause it mattered naught to him. But Rachel wasn’t fooled. “My father brought me to the new world.”
“Couldn’t you have stayed in Scotland? Surely there was a way.”
“Have you not heard of Culloden, Your Highness?”
“Of course.” She was no student... of history or anything else for that matter. But who hadn’t heard of the battle between the Duke of Cumberland’s forces and Prince Charles. “It was a glorious victory.”
His dark brow arched. “That interpretation would depend upon whose side you were on.”
“But surely you weren’t—” Rachel stopped and bit her lip as he cocked his head to one side and stared at her. “You’re Scottish. I’d forgotten.” She’d never been around anyone whose beliefs differed markedly from hers. Oh, perhaps there was a disagreement about whose music, Handel’s or Bach’s, was the most melodic. Or who painted the most passionate portraits. But not something as profound as who should be king of England.
“Though you couldn’t have fought for the Pretender, could you? Certainly you are too young, sir.” Rachel leaned forward. “The battle was so very long ago.”
“Nineteen years is not so very long, Your Highness. But you’re quite right, I didn’t go to battle for the Prince. But my brother did. He was captured and hanged.”
“Hanged?”
“Aye.” Logan smoothed his hand over the worn leather binding of the book. “He was hardly more than a lad. Seventeen. Five years my senior.”
“And they hanged him?”
He said nothing but then he didn’t have to. Suddenly she could feel his pain, knew the horror of having someone he admired, nearly worshiped, taken in such a way. “You loved him very much,” she said and held his gaze when he looked up.
“He was my brother though we shared but a father.”
His eyes hardened, the dreamy shades of the sea turning to the glitter of glass, and Rachel clutched the chair arms, her nails digging into the hard wood. A thought—nay more a feeling—swept over her, of hatred, of betrayal. She wet her suddenly dry lips. “Your father,” she began, not knowing exactly how to word her question.
“Was a true bastard.” Those intense eyes met hers, held.
“Is he dead?” Rachel’s voice was but a whisper.
“Aye.” He looked away and Rachel let out a breath she didn’t realize she held. It was as if the spell was broken.
“But I don’t understand.” And she didn’t. A moment ago it had all seemed within her grasp. She didn’t know just what it was, but somehow she thought it held the key to her stay here... to saving his life. But that was ridiculous. His father was no threat to him. By his own account his father was dead.
And Logan didn’t seem willing to explain anything to her. He ignored her remark, instead studying with furrowed brow the pile of skins in her lap. “Are you sure you can sew?”
“Of course I can.” Rachel loosened her grip on the chair and felt about for the needle, unfortunately finding the point first. “Ouch.” She stuck the tip of her finger in her mouth and glared at him, almost as if it were his fault that she pricked herself. It was his fault. If not for him she wouldn’t even attempt this horrid task of making herself a coat of animal skins. When he first suggested she might like something warm to wear on their trip to the Cherokee town, she thought it an excellent idea. She was tired of either being cold or draping a heavy fur about her shoulders.
> But that was before she learned she was expected to make the garment. She did have some experience with needle and thread. What lady didn’t? She embroidered, and worked tapestries, and was generally known to have a fine, delicate stitch.
Except that fine and delicate did not work with this.
She had no idea how to construct a sleeve or form the body of a jacket... which was why she was making a cloak. But even with that she could barely manage to push the sharpened bone needle through the thick hide.
Yet she had her pride.
So she continued to try.
“Would you like me to help you?”
Rachel lifted her lashes and slowly let her finger slip from between her lips. There was something in his tone she hadn’t heard since she was ill and even then she’d wondered if the fever made her hear things that weren’t truly there. Something burned behind her eyelids and she blinked several times before forcing a smile.
“I’ve decided to make a cape instead of a jacket,” she finally said. “I think ’twould be more stylish, don’t you?” Before he could answer she hurried on. “I had a cape when I went to the lake after Liz. A fine one of deep blue velvet with silver lining. It matched my gown. But I must have lost it somehow. Perhaps when I fell into the water.”
Rachel glanced up to find him staring at her intently. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he thought she was mad. She cleared her throat. “Don’t you think a cape would be nice?”
“I suppose.” Logan leaned back against the wall. “If that be what you prefer.”
But that didn’t help her push the needle through.
~ ~ ~
Which was what she was trying to do the next morning.
She’d risen near dawn as best she could figure. Hours before she ever awakened in England, even though Queen Charlotte did wish her ladies to attend morning prayers. But it appeared that Mr. MacQuaid expected her to cease sleeping when he did. He made no attempt to be quiet as he tossed wood on the fire. Then he whistled for the dog to come with him.
Henry, of course, had stayed where he was, draped over Rachel’s feet.
“Come on with you, Dog,” he’d growled after yanking open the door, allowing a blast of cold air to sweep through the cabin.
“Oh for heaven’s sake Henry, do go with him. You know you enjoy your morning swim. You’re just being stubborn.” That said, Rachel pulled the bearskin over her face. But she didn’t miss Logan’s muttered curse as the dog pushed to his feet and trotted through the open doorway. Or the peace-shattering slam as the door shut behind him.
She snapped the fur down, sat up, and finger-combed the tangled curls from her face. Before wandering outside to nature’s privy she laced up her corset. She’d long since given up trying to mold her body as rigidly as before. Then she carefully slipped on the tattered remains of her once lovely gown.
Back inside she spread her cape, at least the skins that were to become her cape, on the floor. She managed two uneven stitches before the burst of cold air heralded his return. Rachel didn’t turn around, but she knew what she’d see if she did.
Every morning, no matter how chilled the air, he bathed in the creek. She didn’t know if he wore the leather breach cloth when he dove into the water, but he always had it firmly secured about his narrow waist when he returned to the cabin.
That was all he wore.
Rachel tried to concentrate on shoving the needle through the hide as she heard him take a strip of linen and rub it over his hair-roughened skin. Every day he dried himself briskly in front of the fire. Then he wrapped on his leggings, and soft boots. Rachel forced the vision of his long muscular legs from her mind.
Soon he would reach for a clean shirt from the pile she washed. He’d shrug it over his head and—
“What the hell did you do to my shirt?”
Despite her resolve not to look at him, Rachel twisted around. He was as she imagined him, covered from the waist down, broad chest bare. Black hair, wet from his recent dunking, dripped, the water running in rivulets down across his shoulders. Rachel swallowed as she watched a drop weave through the curls surrounding one of his nipples. The cold had made it hard and pebbly. Rachel tore her eyes away only when he spoke again.
“Didn’t you rinse the soap from it?”
“Well, yes... of course, I did.” But obviously not very well, for the shirt was so stiff it nearly kept its shape. She’d thought it seemed unusually hard when she gathered it off the branches, but hadn’t thought too much about it. His shirts were made of the coarsest fabric and she simply assumed that was the way they became when clean. But it was obvious from the expression on his face that wasn’t the case.
She wished he only looked at her with anger. She could handle that and give him back more than she received. After all, she wasn’t meant to do such menial tasks as laundry. But his scowl was softened by the disappointment in his eyes.
Rachel pushed to her feet, grabbing the shirt from his hand, scooping up the others that were equally soap-stiff, and ran toward the door. She slammed it and hurried to the creek before Henry could roust himself to follow. Which was why she was surprised to feel his wet nose on her arm as she swished a shirt through the frigid water.
“You really never laundered anything before, did you?”
The sound of his voice coming from so close behind her made Rachel’s back stiffen. She quickly brushed away a tear that had escaped her lashes. “Of course not. Do you honestly suppose it is something the queen has me do for her?”
He could tell she was trying to sound cavalier, but the slight quiver in her voice ruined the effect. Logan knelt beside her, reaching out to cover her hand with his own, She tried to wriggle from beneath him, but he held firm. “It doesn’t matter that much, you know.”
“Don’t be silly. No one can wear something this full of soap.” Rachel glanced down to where the shirt still floated in the water, surrounded by a thick scum of gray.
“Let me help you, then.”
“No. You gave me this task to do and I shall do it.” Her fingers were numb from the water but somehow she didn’t mind as long as his hand covered hers. “You were right to think I can’t do anything.”
“Nay.”
The warmth of his hand disappeared and Rachel felt fresh tears spring to her eyes. Then he clasped her shoulders, turning her upper body around so that she was forced to look at him.
“I was wrong, Rachel. You have many talents.
“But none that are worthwhile.” She sniffed and he gathered her, snuggling her against his chest. Rachel knew she should pull away, but it felt so pleasant to be there, warm and secure, inhaling his smell and crying against his hair-roughened flesh. For now that he held her, she seemed incapable of stopping the tears.
His arms wrapped tightly about her body and she tried to burrow more deeply against him. She never cried. Never. At least not since the day years ago when her mother left. But now she couldn’t seem to stop. And all because of not being able to wash some stupid shirts.
“Rachel.”
She sniffed when he said her name. He really did have a pleasant way of saying it—not like when he called her Your Highness. She looked up to tell him so, but could only sniff again.
He smiled, that smile that showed his dimples, and brushed away a tear with his thumb. His face was very close to hers, his eyes very green and Rachel didn’t protest at all when he curved his other hand around the back of her head. And inched her closer.
The first brush of his lips against hers was just that, a whisper of breath, the slightest pressure of warm flesh. Yet it felt like more, so much more. Rachel sighed, wondering how the mere suggestion of a kiss could feel so good, wondering what it would be like to have that mouth pressed firmly to hers.
And then she had to wonder no more.
As if they were caught in the vortex of the waterfall whirling beneath the falls he swept her against his body. From knees to chest there was not a sliver of space between them. His open mouth d
evoured hers.
Rachel’s fingers twined with the damp hair at his neck. Her heart pounded and she thought she could hear the echo of his in reply. The kiss deepened, his tongue filled her mouth as if searching for some mythical part of her he couldn’t quite understand. And Rachel could only cling to him, absorbing the sensations that exploded within her.
She’d been kissed before. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered a stolen moment with the prince. His thumb lifting her chin. Her lack of any genuine response. And she cared for the king’s brother; hoped to wed him when she returned.
Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she hadn’t thought of that. Wishing she could just go on floating in the sensual haze Logan MacQuaid inspired. But it was no use.
She couldn’t forget who she was... what she was. And why she was here. She wasn’t sent here to succumb to this man’s kisses. She was here to save his life. And though she wished to believe otherwise, Rachel knew this wasn’t the way.
It took him a moment to realize she was pushing away. At first when she twisted her head to the side he took it as an invitation to ravish her neck. And the shivers that his tongue and teeth sent rippling across her skin came close to making her forget her resolve.
“Please, Mr. MacQuaid.”
He nibbled. “Please what?”
It was a logical question and one Rachel had to force herself to answer. “You... we must stop this insanity.”
Insanity.
Logan let his arms drop to his side, not even bothering to steady her as she swayed toward him. Insanity she called it. For a moment he’d thought this the only sane thing he’d done since she arrived, unexpected and unwanted, on his mountain. He was a man with needs. Needs he hadn’t addressed in some time. And she was a woman, attractive and desirable despite her haughty and aggravating ways.
Why shouldn’t they...? He couldn’t quite put a name to what they had come close to doing. What he was still willing and, if the ache in his groin was any indication, able to do.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 9