Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02]
Page 18
He hadn’t imbibed rum since they left for Cheoah, but it was apparent he wanted to now. A wave of desolation swept over her. She moved closer, standing between him and temptation. If anything his body grew more tense. Instinct had her reaching out to touch his shoulder. Pride halted her hand in midair.
Ever since the episode with Ostenaco on the mountain Logan avoided any contact with her. He was solicitous, but unfailingly distant. Never touching her unless absolutely necessary.
What would he do if she dared to dance for him?
Rachel could almost hear the drums pounding in her head, feel her blood heat. What would he do if she began swaying to unheard music, undulating her body against his? If she stripped from her gown and danced in the glow of the fire?
The urge to find out was near irresistible.
She wanted him to look at her as he had then. To hold her. To kiss her and fill her and make her forget everything but him.
But when his eyes met hers, they were hard as green glass. “You should get some sleep. We will leave early.” Without even waiting for a reply he turned away, continuing to scoop cornmeal into small leather sacks.
She wanted to scream at him, rail and pummel his chest with her fists, anything to break this wall he’d erected about himself. She didn’t understand it. But then that wasn’t all she didn’t understand.
His life had been saved again. Perhaps it wasn’t all her doing, but she had helped, had done all she could to keep him out of danger’s path. And she was still here.
Though not for long. She knew he planned to take her to his brother and leave her. That much she was able to learn. And if he did she was doomed.
~ ~ ~
“Do you have any other mortal enemies?”
They were making their way along the path leading to MacLaughlin’s Mill. As Logan promised last evening, they started their journey early this morning, waking and eating a bowl of scorched, lumpy porridge before the sun splintered light over the crest of the mountain.
Logan paused, staring back at her when she spoke. “I doubt we’ll be attacked between here and Seven Pines, if that’s what you mean.”
“It isn’t, and you know it.”
He started walking before she finished speaking and Rachel hurried to catch up with him.
“Mind the cow,” was all he said when she did.
Of course, the cow. He gave her the chore of urging her along the trail, herding her as if Rachel were some milkmaid. He even gave her a switch from a poplar to help with her task. Rachel considered using it on Logan, in the end deciding it wasn’t one of her better ideas. Before twisting her head round to see what the cow was doing, she dropped the branch on the trail.
“Do come along, Mistress Ellen.” she said, adding an encouraging, “That’s a good girl. Yes, I know you’re tired, but we shall rest soon,” when the cow complied.
Logan pretended not to notice the exchange. No one could communicate with a cow. Or a dog either for that matter. He slanted a look at his dog... Henry, and shook his head.
“You didn’t answer my question, you know.”
“I know.” He tramped on along the trail, finally glancing down at her and letting out a gust of air. “Nay, no more mortal enemies... that I’m aware of.”
That was good... she guessed, though it left open the question of how she was going to save his life, yet another time. As if he read her mind his gaze caught hers. For the first time since Ostenaco captured her, Rachel saw a glimmer of humor in the emerald depths.
“You can consider your assignment complete.”
He was teasing her. Rachel knew that. He didn’t believe she was sent to save his life any more than she believed the job was finished. But talking to him—even enduring his bedevilment—was better than trudging along in silence. Or listening to Henry complain about missing his nap.
“Is your brother like you?”
Again he glanced at her, merriment showing about his eyes. There were even hints of the dimples on either side of his mouth. “How exactly do you mean that?”
“I wasn’t asking if he was a taciturn hermit. You already mentioned he has a wife and children.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a hermit.”
“Really?” She arched her brows as if to say he’d be wrong. “In any case tell me about your brother,”
“He’s the Indian agent for the area. Very dedicated to his work. Equally dedicated to his wife and children.”
“He’s interested in the Cherokee?”
“Aye, his mother was one.” Logan motioned behind him with his chin.
Sighing, Rachel called out to the cow. “You really must keep up, Mistress Ellen.” She hesitated, then turned back to Logan. “Do you think we could rest for a while?”
“Is that your request or the cow’s?”
Her lips thinned but she didn’t respond. With a shrug, Logan stepped off the trail into a small clearing where a slow-moving stream reflected the color of the surrounding hills. It was as good a time as any to take a break. They’d been walking for hours and he had to admit Her Highness hadn’t complained... much.
“Is your brother’s wife a Cherokee also?” Rachel dabbed at her lips delicately after drinking from Logan’s water pouch. She passed it back to him, glad to find out that it did contain water and not some of his rum.
“Caroline? Nay.” He took a drink and backhanded his mouth. She’s from England.”
“Really?” Rachel sat straighter. “Where in England?”
“I’m not sure.” Logan pulled at a tuft of dried grass. “I think Wolf told me her father was an earl.”
“An earl?” Rachel leaned forward. “What was his name?” Perhaps Logan’s sister-in-law would turn out to be someone she knew. The notion brought a wave of excitement. But Logan could only tell her the woman’s name.
“Lady Caroline Simmons,” Rachel repeated, tapping her finger against her chin. “I don’t believe I know her.”
“Hmm.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“By what?”
Rachel crossed her arms. “I know what you think of me.”
“Well, I’m glad you do, for I haven’t a clue what to make of yon.” Logan pushed to his feet. “We need to get moving.”
“You think I made up everything I’ve told you.” Rachel scurried to stand, turning to brush debris from her skirt, deciding it wasn’t worth the bother. “Well?” she continued when he said nothing. “Isn’t that true?” She grabbed hold of his arm.
“Listen, Rachel. You tell me you’re a friend of King George, and that you died in some lake in London, and that you...” He glanced toward the cow busily chewing her cud. “And you pretend to talk to dogs and cows, and want to save me from untold threats of death.” He picked up the gun and turned on his heel.
“What do you want me to say? Would you prefer I made up some lie?”
He didn’t answer, only stared pointedly at the animals who were her responsibility. Neither of them had moved. “Henry. Mistress Ellen,” Rachel snapped. “I shan’t want to tell you again.”
Logan gritted his teeth when the dog and cow immediately ambled after them.
She shouldn’t let him bother her so. Rachel stared at Logan’s broad back and shook her head. What did it matter if he believed any of what she said? She should never have told him anything. Perhaps if she’d pretended to be a... what? What could she have been? Surely not someone used to living on the frontier. He would have seen through that ruse in an instant. Yet he wouldn’t believe the truth.
Rachel sighed. In all fairness the truth was rather difficult to believe.
He must have mistaken her sigh of frustration for one of fatigue for he stopped in the middle of the path, turning to face her. ’Tisn’t long now till we reach MacLaughlin’s Mill.”
She knew that. Though this was only the third time she’d traveled this mountain trail, she was beginning to recognize some of the landmarks. The crystalline waterfall that plummeted over rocks smoothed
by untold gallons of water. The noise from it reminded her of the constant cascading of the creek over rocks at Logan’s cabin. At first she’d found the sound disturbing... annoying. But later the endless surge blended like threads of a tapestry with the chirping of birds and the whistle of the wind till it became almost soothing.
A slight frown curved her lips. Certainly she wasn’t becoming maudlin, homesick for that ramshackle cabin. It was crowded and smoky, hardly large enough for one person, let alone two. At Queen’s House such an eyesore wouldn’t be allowed to remain standing.
She sucked in air, breathing in the tangy scent of fir. Nay, if she was homesick at all it was for the manicured gardens and lofty halls of her home... her real home.
The path twisted about, climbing sharply over an outcrop of rocks and Rachel accepted the hand Logan held out to her. Instantly her pulse quickened. She studied him from beneath the fringe of her lashes as he pulled her up onto the flat ledge. What was it about him that made her heart flutter? He was as rough and rugged as the ragged peaks of the surrounding hills. Hardly the type of man she found appealing.
Yet there was no denying what he did to her, the sound of his deep voice, his touch, a flash of his moss-green eyes. He looked at her now with the same stirring sensuality as when she danced for him.
“Do you think...?” Rachel let go of his hand. “Do you think Mistress Ellen can make it up?” Henry had already scaled the rise and loped down the other side amid a scattering of loose pebbles.
“I imagine so. How do you think she came to be up there in the first place? He arched one dark brow as if to imply that the animal had a more plausible explanation than she did.
And of course after enduring the tough climb as she had, often with Logan’s assistance, it was obvious why he questioned her initial appearance at his cabin.
By late afternoon they crossed the last ridge and peeked down into the gap. The buildings of MacLaughlin’s Mill squatted at the far end beneath a canopy of chimney smoke. The harvested fields which were hacked from the pine and hardwood forest appeared like mismatched squares on a checkerboard.
Word of their arrival was out by the time they reached the outskirts of the small village. Angus, anxious to be home, left for the Mill day before yesterday, nearly as soon as Rachel and Logan crested the knoll behind his cabin. Now he ambled toward them, his gait seeming a bit lopsided by his missing arm.
“Hail to ye, Logan and Mistress Rachel,” he called. “My mother and I expected you hours ago.”
Logan grinned and Rachel was struck again by the easy relationship he had with the boy. He even reached out, ruffling the shock of coppery-colored hair. “Not all of us are as swift afoot as you Angus. Even when it is your ma’s cooking waiting at the end of the trek.”
The freckled face seemed to split open and a short chuckle erupted. Then he caught sight of the cow and his expression sobered. “You’ve brought Mistress Ellen.”
She had the boy doing it, too. Calling the cow by that silly name. Logan wondered if she’d fed Angus any nonsense about talking to the witless animal. Or it talking back. Forcing that thought from his head, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Seems as though she followed us down the trail. She must have grown enamored of you.”
Angus blotched red, then joined Logan in laughter. And Rachel stood as if rooted to the tangle of dried grass where she stood. Had Logan MacQuaid just uttered a humorous remark? True, it wasn’t near as witty as some of her gentleman friends at court, but it did have a certain appeal. As did the reticent man who said it.
Penny seemed as glad to see them as before and Rachel had the feeling again of being surrounded by a soft down comforter. It was almost bedtime before they had a moment alone together. The men, along with Angus, were out checking the stock, which now included a certain cow.
“So you’re off to Seven Pines, then.” Penny sat by the fire, straining to see the stitches she made in a pair of breeches. She glanced up and smiled shyly. “You’ll be liking Mistress Caroline.”
“Do you know her?” Rachel leaned forward, resting her idle hands on the rocker’s arms. “Logan tells me she’s the daughter of an earl.”
“Aw, I wouldn’t know anything about that. But she is sweet and quite friendly. Beautiful, too, though not so radiant as you, I should think.”
Warmth flooded into her cheeks and Rachel lowered her lashes. She, who’d heard more compliments about her appearance than she could possibly recall, was oddly moved by Penny’s unjaded observance.
They sat for a moment in companionable silence. A log shifted in the hearth sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. The accompanying crackle seemed to snag Penny’s attention for she glanced around, but then she focused again on Rachel.
“I had a talk with Malcolm, like you said.”
Her expression was so serious, Rachel hesitated to insist that she had no idea what she meant. Had she suggested Penny speak with her husband about something?
“It seems we were both festering the notion that our boy’s misfortune was our fault. Talking it out made us both feel a might better.”
“I’m glad.” Which of course she was. Rachel liked Penny, and though she didn’t know her husband well, he appeared a decent sort. But she still didn’t know why Angus’s mother gave her any credit for doing anything.
“We come to realize it was like you said. Nothing could have changed what happened. And we’re lucky to have our son. Lucky, too, that Logan MacQuaid happened by when he did.”
Had she said that? Rachel settled back in the chair.
“We’re both, Malcolm and me, grateful to you.”
“I’m...” What? Her usual glib tongue was failing her. She was truly touched by Penny’s words and still a bit confused by them. She remembered the story Penny told her about the Indian attack and their son’s wound, but failed to recall that she did or said anything other than a few words of sympathy.
Rachel was spared making a reply by the return of the three men. Angus came first, pushing open the door with his shoulder, seemingly unaware that there was no arm attached. Then came his father, sweeping off his hat and stomping toward the fire. Finally, taller than the rest and meeting Rachel’s eye for only a second, came Logan.
Rachel tried to pretend the shiver that raced through her body when he looked her way was caused by the flurry of chilled air that swept through the open portal. She knew better.
Her reaction to him was only one of the many mysteries she couldn’t explain about her present life... as she’d come to think of it. But like all the puzzles, the ability to communicate with wild creatures, the way she could sometimes look into other’s minds and hearts, she was certain her desire for Logan would vanish as soon as she accomplished her task. Whenever that might be.
Till then it seemed wiser to keep all her secrets just that. No one but the Adawehis believed her anyway. But as Rachel noticed Penny’s knowing appraisal of her, Rachel realized the other woman had read her thoughts. With a smile she inclined her head slightly toward Logan who was stripping out of his buckskin jacket, and nodded.
Rachel would have to work harder at keeping her attraction to Logan hidden.
Over the next few days her new resolve was easy to keep. They met no one on the trail. And Logan was not at his most lovable.
That was the only thing easy about those days.
The constant walking—even wearing, as she was, her new moccasins—was exhausting. “Have you never heard of a coach and four?” she complained one afternoon when it seemed as if they’d been trodding up and down over foothills forever.
“Is that what you’re used to Your Highness?”
He didn’t even glance around when he said it, a fact that made Rachel square her shoulders and pick up her pace. He’d treated her like this, with a sarcastic aloofness, since they left the Cherokee town... since Ostenaco captured her. And she was tired of it. Perhaps the Adawehis did suggest that she refrain from referring to her “other life.” But then he didn’t have to
contend with Logan MacQuaid.
Rachel grabbed his arm. Obviously surprised by her actions he whirled around. Facing her. Looking her straight in the eye.
“As a matter of fact that is the way I traveled. In a well-sprung coach with soft leather squabs and liveried footmen to see to my needs. I’ve even ridden in the king’s royal coach, though admittedly not often. But there have been—”
“Shut up, Your Highness.”
Rachel wasn’t certain if it was his words or the feel of his fingers grasping her shoulders that made her gasp.
“I don’t wish to hear any more of this foolishness. Do you hear me?” The question, if indeed that’s what it was, was accompanied by a shake of his arms that freed more golden curls from her braid.
She imagined this was his attempt to intimidate her, but she didn’t feel intimidated at all. She felt angry and frustrated, and tired of this prolonged farce.
“I will speak of what I wish.” Her chin shot up. “Without the likes of you to gainsay me.” His green eyes hardened, narrowing till they seemed no more than slits of green glass, but she continued. “I am Lady Rachel Elliott, ward of His Royal Highness, King George the third. And I do live at—”
The rest of her words were swallowed up as his mouth slammed down on hers. The kiss hurt. She could taste his anger. His frustration. His! As if his problems could possibly compare to hers.
Lifting her balled hands she prepared to push him away, to pummel him if necessary. And she would have to, if not for the faint whisper of a moan. She wasn’t even sure which of them made the noise. But the sound brought with it a flash of memory. Of lying in his arms, feeling the weight of his body on hers... in hers.
Of their own volition her fingers uncurled. Before she could even form a rational thought her hands flung about his neck and her mouth slipped open.
He hadn’t shaved since they left Cheoah and near a sennight’s worth of black whiskers roughened his face, chafed hers. But she didn’t care. He was kissing her again, touching her as she’d longed for, dreamed of since the night she danced for him.