Then he let her go and with one deep thrust had her gasping for breath. Rachel’s head lolled back, her hair streaming around her shoulders as he arched his hips, sending his staff deeper. Her knees tightened, his fingers dug into her buttocks and the rhythm increased, the tension growing higher... higher.
She could feel him straining inside her, feel the pressure as he grew, expanded with each powerful thrust. He was a part of her, and she of him. She was so akin to him she knew not where his pleasure ended and hers began. They knew the soaring, spiraling rapture as one.
His thoughts were only of her, of the pleasure she gave him, as hers were flooded with him. It was all they knew. The cabin, the rough bedstead, the world outside themselves disappeared, leaving only the two of them. The one entity they’d become.
Their bodies moved now without thought, ruled by sensation. By the need to share the most intimate of ecstasies. Rachel plunged and writhed. Logan thrust deep, spinning them both out of control.
Whirling them off toward the heavens.
~ ~ ~
She fell asleep almost at once, nestled in the cocooning embrace of his arms. But Logan could not. He was tired and spent and the slash across his ribs was beginning to smart. But slumber was beyond him.
The woman he cradled was warm and inviting and he cared for her... more than he ever had any woman. More than he wished to admit.
But she needed help, protection, which he obviously couldn’t provide. She thought she was an angel. She thought she was sent to save him. And because of that, she was dangerous... to others... to herself. Because of him, she almost was killed.
His arms tightened and she sighed, mumbling in her sleep. He had to do something with her. And soon. He had no doubt of that now.
The only question was what.
Chapter Seventeen
“Angels are spirits, but it is not because they are spirits that they are angels. They become angels when they are sent.”
— Saint Augustine
The city had changed since he was last in Charles Town.
Logan leaned forward, patting his horse’s sleek neck, wondering if the animal felt as skittish as he did surrounded by all these people. Not that the hustle and bustle really bothered him. It had just been so long.
He didn’t realize how... content wasn’t the word. How settled into his life in the mountains he’d become. How much he’d divorced himself from everything, from everyone.
At the time, those years on the mountain, he hadn’t thought of himself as lonely... simply alone. He told himself it was best that way. Because of his father. Because of Mary. Because of the drink. He had needed solitude. The mountain was his sanctuary.
A sign swung overhead, caught in the breeze drifting off the bay, and Logan read the ornately painted lettering. THE SIGN OF BACCHUS.
He was tired, and hungry. And the thought of a soothing mug of rum was tempting. With a squeeze of his thighs, Logan urged the stallion forward.
Glancing around to see if Rachel was as awed as he by the people and activity, Logan stared. She sat on her horse, her back straight, her head high, that arrogant little chin lifted just enough to make her appear a princess. Even though she wore a borrowed gown and a cape made of patched-together buckskin, she looked regal. Which was a silly thing to think.
But then no sillier than the sensation he felt in the pit of his stomach when she caught his eyes on her and smiled.
“Do you know where your brother lives?” she asked, sidling her horse closer to his. They were on Queen Street, near the New Theater, and all around them the sounds of sawing and hammering filled the humid air.
“Aye, but Wolf seemed to think it more likely to find him on his wharf this time of day.” Which was where they were heading. Logan still had trouble believing the brother he idolized as a lad was really alive. He could remember so vividly, almost as if it was happening now, how he felt when his father told him of James’s death.
He was in the library of MacQuaid House... to his Father’s everlasting displeasure, Logan’s favorite room in the drafty old structure. He often thanked Providence that though his father cared little for the written word, some faceless ancestor did. The paneled room was lined with leather-bound volumes covering such diverse topics as husbandry and ancient poetry.
But Logan’s favorite reading centered on philosophy and studies of the mind. Books such as Descartes’s Les Passions de l’Ame and Berkeley’s New Theory of Vision along with an occasional foray into a medical book kept him occupied for hours. He was contemplating Hobbes’s theory that all action is preceded by thought or idea when his father stormed into the room.
Guiltily Logan slammed the book shut, sending a cloud of dust motes dancing in the stream of sunshine pouring through the mullioned window. But for once Robert MacQuaid didn’t appear to notice his son’s choice of reading material or his unease. He simply strode to the mantel, slapping his palm rhythmically with a riding quirt.
Logan tried not to flinch as the hard leather snapped against his father’s palm... tried not to remember the feel of it against his own flesh. His father stood a moment staring into the flames, then turned, Logan wondered if the unhealthy red hue of his father’s skin was caused only by the fire’s reflection.
“You are heir now,” he announced, his tone steeped in disappointment.
At first ’twas that disappointment that wedged its way into Logan’s consciousness. At twelve he had already constructed a wall around his emotions where his father was concerned. But it seemed no matter how thick he made it, there was always a tiny crack in the mortar. A crack his father found with unerring accuracy.
James always told him to ignore “the old bastard.” “He only needles because he knows ’twill upset ye,” his older brother said. But at seventeen James was bigger and stronger, with an outgoing charm, that even Robert found difficult to resist.
Thoughts of his brother brought Logan back to concentrate on his father’s words. You are heir now.
Logan swallowed, his narrow shoulders stiffening. James left home months ago, inflamed with zeal for the young prince, determined to fight by his side all the way to London to help place him on his rightful throne.
There were rumors the fighting was not going well for the Scots. Logan actually heard very little, for his father had forbidden discussion of the subject in the house. Apolitical himself, a man who aligned himself with the winning side whenever possible, Robert’s anger with James knew no bounds.
Yet Logan could not believe even Robert would disown the son he usually considered a worthy heir... especially compared to his bookish second offspring.
Stepping forward, steeling himself for the older man’s anger, Logan cleared his throat. “I don’t understand, sir.”
By the sharp look Robert tossed his way, ’twas obvious he’d forgotten Logan’s presence. His lips thinned. “He was hanged.”
“James?” Logan felt bile rise in his throat. “Not James?” Not the brother he loved, the only living soul other than his mother, who cared for him at all. “No.” He shook his head as if the very motion could make the words a lie.
But he knew they weren’t. His father was raging on about how foolish James was. Of how he’d been warned repeatedly about his actions. Of how the entire family would suffer for his selfishness.
“He isn’t selfish,” Logan lashed out. “He believed in the cause of the rightful heir and he fought for it. James is a hero!” Logan had begged James to take him along, to let him know too the joy of doing something brave and wonderful. To be like his brother. But James refused, slapping him on the shoulder and promising that next time, when Logan was older, he could go.
Tears stung Logan’s eyes, but not from the pain of the quirt slapping across his upper arm. His hand flew up, an involuntary reaction to his father’s whipping.
“Never! Do you hear me? Never are you to mention his name again.” Another swat with the leather. “He was not a hero. He died a coward. Aye, a coward’s death.”
The blows were steady now, but Logan didn’t seem to notice. He simply stared straight ahead and thought of his tall, dashing brother riding at the head of a glorious army.
“Logan. Logan, are you all right?”
The touch of a hand, soft and gentle, on his sleeve made Logan twist his head to the side. Rachel stared at him, her expression bewildered.
“Is this the right wharf or not?” She tilted her head in that way she had of looking indifferent. The touch of her fingers as they slid down to his hand showed that stance false.
Logan took a deep breath, trying to wash away the ghosts of the past—he hadn’t allowed himself to think of that day for years—and glanced around him. They had reached the Cooper River. The smell of salt and pluff mud mingled with tar and pitch. The forest of masts they’d spied from a distance now loomed before them, bobbing schooners and brigs lining the wharves.
The sounds of building were evident here, too, and it was obvious some of the large warehouses lining the quay were new, their wood sides freshly painted. Over the door of the one to their right, the largest in the immediate area, were the words “MacQuaid Shipping and Transport.”
“’Tis just where Wolf said ’twould be,” Logan said as he dismounted.
When he reached up to help Rachel from her sidesaddle she eyed him curiously. “I would have sworn you didn’t know where you were headed by the look on your face. You appeared to be a thousand miles away.”
Her hands on his shoulders, she slipped down in front of him. Logan was tempted to ignore her comment... he’d certainly become a man of few words over the years. And she’d posed no question. But something in the way she looked at him made him answer anyway.
“I was thinking of my brother... of the day I heard he died.”
“It was terrible for you.”
“Aye.” His hands still rested on her waist. “More than I can ever say.”
“You don’t have to.” She knew how he felt about his brother, how he felt about his death. As they’d ridden through the streets of Charles Town, Rachel could tell he was thinking of something; she assumed it was his brother. After all, in moments he would see for the first time in over twenty years the brother he thought was dead.
But it wasn’t until he told her as much that his inner thoughts flowed through her. It was like after they made love, when they were cuddled close. When she could feel what he felt, touch his thoughts in that special way. But they weren’t making love. They weren’t even standing any closer than manners dictated. His hands rested lightly at her waist, hers on his shoulders.
But they were as one.
Rachel took a deep breath. “You can never forget the past.” She shook her head. “Trying to only buries the pain in a fool’s cloak of gossamer threads.” Rachel’s laugh was self-effacing. “I’m hardly the philosopher, but I do think it true. You must face your demons before you can defeat them.”
It was too much for her.
The piercing quality of his eyes as he stared at her. The deep forging bond surging between them. His thoughts were hers, and though he was certainly no angel, she felt that he shared hers as well. It was intoxicating. It was compelling. It was overpowering.
Rachel had the unsettling feeling this force between them could consume her like the flames of a wild fire if she allowed it.
She was sent to save his life. No more.
Letting her fingers drift down his strong arms, Rachel turned away, to study the building. Anything to quell the near uncontrollable urge to throw herself at him. To profess undying love. For how could she... someone already dead... declare such a thing?
Toward the river, two large doors were spread wide, allowing a group of blackamoors to unload crates from a wagon. Even though the weather was cool, their faces were shiny with sweat. Logan tied the horses and, offering his arm, headed in that direction.
He was nervous about this meeting. Rachel slanted him a look from beneath her lashes as they walked. They had stayed at a planter’s house last night and when Rachel saw Logan this morning she could hardly believe her eyes. His clothing was not fine compared to the court of St. James, but there were no animal skins today.
Logan wore a suit of dark green wool. The breeches molded well over his thighs, and she could attest that no padding was needed to shape the white stockings covering his lower legs. The snowy stock contrasted with his sun-darkened skin and black hair. The breeze caught a lock and he quickly swiped it back into the neat queue.
“You look very handsome.” The words were meant to reassure him. But when he twisted his head to stare at her she felt heated color rise to her cheeks. “I only meant... I mean in your new clothes. Your brother will be most impressed.”
She missed whatever response he might have to that stumbling explanation—and from one of the wittiest of court belles—for at that moment a man with sun-streaked golden hair stepped from the warehouse onto the quay. Rachel felt Logan’s muscles tense through the fabric of his coat.
The man carried a ledger and as each crate was carried inside he made an entry with a stub of a quill.
“Is that him?” There really was no doubt in Rachel’s mind. The two men were of the same height and build, and though the color of their hair differed, their eyes were nearly the same, except that Logan’s were a purer green.
Rachel hung back, letting her fingers slip from his sleeve as Logan moved forward. He didn’t seem to notice. He had taken perhaps half a dozen steps before the other man looked up.
“May I—”
The question seemed to freeze in mid-sentence, as his blue-green eyes narrowed. Rachel let out her breath as he thrust the ledger toward a startled blackamoor and bounded forward, catching Logan in a hug.
When they separated Rachel quickly dabbed at her eyes, but she needn’t have worried. Neither man looked her way.
“Wolf told me ye were in the colonies.” Jamie held his younger brother at arm’s length. “Living in the hills he said, though he didn’t know where exactly.” His voice sounded breathless. “I had it in my mind to take off and look for ye.” He bit his bottom lip and swung an arm around Logan’s shoulder. “Hell and damnation, ye don’t know how often I thought about ye over the years, wondered what became of ye. How ye fared.”
As yet Logan said nothing. He returned the embrace, the smile, but seemed incapable of speech. Rachel stepped forward wondering if she should say something, do something. And not having the faintest notion what. She glanced down toward Henry for some inspiration but as usual the lazy dog had found himself a puddle of sunlight in which to snooze.
But she really needn’t have worried about the silence. For all that Logan was taciturn, it appeared his brother was not. He continued to talk excitedly about his wife chancing upon Wolf’s wife, and his surprise at discovering another brother. His surprise at learning Logan was near.
“I—I thought you dead.” Logan’s voice sounded rusty. He gripped James’ elbows as if he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
And memories were surging over him in overwhelming waves.
Rachel knew, for they ripped through her as well. She spread her feet to counteract the dizziness these bombarding incidents of his life caused. She had no foundation to cement them to. They simply hurled around her, a few fond, most frightening and emotionally charged.
A man, his father, anger turning his face the color of Her Majesty’s royal cloak, coming at Logan, a riding quirt raised above his head.
A dazzling smile—James—as he took his leave, promising to return. Then an instant later the flash of teeth disappearing as he leaned down from his horse. “Stay clear of him, little brother. After Prince Charles becomes king I shall have my share of riches, and we shall set up our own household. With your mother, too, if she’ll leave him.”
A silent scream raged through her head as Rachel relived through Logan’s mind his terror at being dragged in to see his mother, covered in blood.
“... your wife?”
; Rachel snapped out of her reverie—or perhaps it was Logan who stopped thinking—when Jamie turned toward her. She didn’t know what the beginning of his sentence was, but apparently Logan did for he stumbled over his words while trying to explain her to his brother.
“She is a friend... I mean I’m accompanying her to Charles Town. I mean...” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “May I present Rachel Elliott? Mistress Elliott, my brother James MacQuaid.”
It certainly wasn’t the most courtly of introductions—especially as he’d eliminated her title—but James didn’t seem to notice. He bowed over her hand, flashing her a grin that showed dimples ran in the family.
There seemed to be no question that they would both accompany him to his home on Tradd Street. Rachel woke Henry, who was quite annoyed at the prospect of trotting along behind the horses through the busy streets. Though he did stop grumbling when Rachel promised a juicy bone at the end of the trip.
She straightened to find both brothers staring at her, their handsome faces registering different expressions. James appeared surprised and slightly amused that she would converse at such great length with a dog. Logan’s dark brows were drawn together in annoyance.
Rachel simply brushed a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt and, straightening her shoulders, pretended she was standing beside the queen, hearing the petition of some undeserving underling.
Neither brother said a thing.
The house on Tradd Street was large compared to Logan’s cabin, small in relation to Queen’s House. But Rachel admitted it was lovely in the simplicity of its design. Three stories of light-painted walls faced the street. Each window was framed by black shutters, some of them closed. A high fence, covered with the same stucco-like material as the house, surrounded the grounds, which were much more extensive than Rachel at first realized.
Logan helped her dismount and her horse’s reins were immediately grabbed up by a small towheaded boy who James called Luke.
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