The Lost Baroness

by Judith B. Glad

  Aside from the early darkness of a January day, he knew he'd be a damned fool to tackle a wet trail in his condition, unless it was a matter of life and death.

  "Siri, you lived in the house. Is there anyplace we could take shelter where we'd not be likely to be seen?"

  "Shelter? But we must go back--"

  "Not tonight. Now, tell me, is there a pantry, or some other room at the back of the house, with no windows?"

  She looked doubtful, but didn't argue. "There is a cook's room. It is small, with a door to the outside."

  "Good. We'll go there." He hoped there was a fireplace. Unless the skies cleared, a small smoke would be invisible to anyone a dozen feet from the house, as long as they covered any windows. He'd contrive something, just to be warm and dry. "Now if we can just find dry firewood."

  "The woodshed is behind the stables. I will go."

  Before he could object, she was gone. While he waited, Buff tried to pin down his most recent memory. There was a long walk through dripping woods, a woman on the trail ahead of him, tall and slim, wearing a tan slicker incongruously belted with a sash of Black Watch plaid. A big house with wide brick steps and empty rooms. Not a trace of...

  Damn, it was gone again. Siri came around the corner with an armload of wood. "It is dry. Come." She headed toward the house.

  Scrunching his head down between his shoulders, Buff followed.

  * * *

  The cook's room was little more than a shed attached to the back of the house. A crude fireplace, built of river rock, stood in one corner. There was no window. Against the far wall was a pole bedframe, strung with rope. A section of log, two feet high and about that much across, sat next to it. The faint odor of mildew lingered, as if the damp had never been entirely banished.

  Siri led Mr. Lachlan to the log seat. "I will go get the wood," she said. Halfway here she had let it drop to the ground when he staggered. He would have fallen had she not caught him with a shoulder under one arm.

  "Thanks, Siri. I feel so damn..."

  "You were hurt," she told him. "I was not. Stay. I will be back in a minute."

  She brought three more armfuls of dry wood. I hope they will last the night. It is much colder than this morning. When she brought the last load in, Mr. Lachlan was kneeling before the fireplace, blowing on a tiny blaze.

  "You should not be doing that," she told him as she pulled the sodden scarf from her head and shook the rain from it. "I will take care--"

  "I'm fine. Well, almost, anyhow." He continued to blow on the flames until the smaller of the logs above them caught. Then he sat back on his heels and looked around the room. "Did I have a pack?"

  "A pack? Ah, a ryggsäck. Ja. It is..." She bit her lip. How could she have forgotten. "I will fetch it."

  Although the distance to the barn was only as far as across two streets, she was drenched before she found his knapsack. The dim light of day had changed to near-darkness, and only because she could feel her way along the stable wall was she able to locate it. Fortunately she also found the umbrella she'd left propped against the wall, so she had it for protection on the walk back.

  The knapsack yielded amazing treasures. A pot with a bail handle, its bottom soot-blackened, a large spoon, and packets of coffee, dried meat, sugar and salt. Twists of rope, both thin and fat, and a small hatchet. Even a tiny sliver of soap. When Mr. Lachlan pulled out a pair of thick wool socks, she smiled. "You are ready for anything. How did you know our feet would be so wet?"

  "Forgone conclusion," he told her. "I've been in rainy country before. And I hate wet feet." He strung the thin line across the corner opposite the fireplace. "Take your stockings off and hang 'em up."

  He followed his own advice, replacing socks with slippers similar to footwear she had seen Indians wear. "You can have these," he told her, holding out the socks. "My moccasins are way too big for you."

  "Nej. I cannot take your socks."

  "Sure you can." He continued to hold them out.

  Siri took them. Despite the shivers that shook her, she felt warmer with them on. She huddled into a small ball on the floor, as close to the fire as she could. Her clothing was so wet it did little good, because the side of her away from the fire remained icy cold.

  "You're freezing," he said a few minutes later.

  "N-n-ej. I am only a l-l-little bit c-c-c-cold." No amount of will would stop her teeth from chattering.

  "Come here." He reached out and tugged her toward him.

  Grateful for the offer of his warmth, she scooted across and sat between his knees. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her even closer. The hoped-for warmth was not there, for his clothing was as wet as hers.

  His arms gave her a sense of safety that was worth any amount of warmth.

  "This isn't working. Take off your dress."

  Siri jerked around and stared up at him. He had risen, and was unbuttoning his wool shirt. "We're both wet to the skin," he said. "We're not going to get any warmer as long as we've got all these layers to dry." He pulled the shirt off over his head and hung it on a nail in the wall. When his hands went to the buttons of his britches, she averted her suddenly hot face.

  "Siri, you're not going to get warm until you get dry. You've got a shift on, don't you?"

  She shook her head. Under her dress and petticoat she wore an old Union suit of Valter's, far too big for her, but made of fine wool and warmer than any shift. "Turn your back," she said.

  Back to back they undressed. She knew when he took off his britches because she heard the scrape of the heavy fabric on the floor. Once she was shed of her dress, she realized her petticoat was even damper, the hem almost sodden. He was right, though. Her clothing would dry faster hanging up, and she would be much warmer without the layers of wet cotton clinging to her body.

  Even the Union suit was wet, but it was thin and would dry quickly. She looked down at it, the crotch sagging almost to her knees, now that the petticoat no longer held it in place. The scarf that had served as a belt for her slicker was hanging next to her stockings. Grabbing it, she quickly tied it around her waist, pulling the excess fabric of the Union suit up to blouse over it.

  When she turned back to the fire, she saw him. He had unbuttoned his own underwear, so that his chest was all but bare. Tall he stood, with wide shoulders and strong legs. Although his face was in shadow, his halo of golden curls shone in the flickering firelight. The light knit of his Union suit clung to every angle and curve of his body, showing the breadth of his chest, narrowness of his waist, the unmistakable evidence of his sex.

  Breath caught in Siri's throat, for she had never seen a man so comely. The long, sighing breath that escaped her lips spoke of her enchantment. She could look at him all the rest of her life, and never tire.

  "Skön," she whispered. "Så skön!" She reached out to him.

  For a moment he stared at her, then he took one step forward. His hand cupped her chin, lifting it so she looked straight into his eyes. "No, Siri, it's you who are beautiful. Your eyes..." He touched her cheek, a fleeting pressure no heavier than a butterfly's caress. "They remind me of glacier ice, cool, yet flashing with blue fire. And your mouth..." His thumb drifted across her lips. "Your mouth is an invitation to sin. I've wanted to taste you since the first time I saw you." With both hands framing her face, he dipped his head and brushed his lips across hers.

  Siri felt tears rise to choke her. So tender, so gentle. No man--no person--had every touched her with such sweetness. She caught her lip between her teeth, lest he see it quiver.

  "Afraid?" His voice was low, vibrant. Again that brush of thumb across her lips.

  This time she let her tongue dart out to taste it. "No," she whispered. "Not afraid..."

  "Oh, God, Siri, you should be!" He pulled her to him, crushing her breasts against the hard muscles of his chest, surrounding her with the strength of his arms.

  He kissed her eyelids, her temples, her cheeks. His mouth left a burning trail from eyebrow to chin
to earlobe, and down her neck. When he reached the hollow at the base of her throat, she felt the hot moisture of his tongue as he tasted her, laved her suddenly tender skin.

  The tears overcame her, Silently she let them stream down her cheeks, knew herself to be trembling in his embrace. When his hands skimmed her ribs and lightly settled on the sides of her breasts, she sighed and leaned into him.

  He swept her off her feet. With an arm under her knees he carried her to the log stool and sat, holding her across his knees. "Why are you crying?" he said, as he wiped away the moist track from her cheek. "Do I frighten you?"

  "Ah, nej." She gulped, burying her face against his shoulder. The knit of his Union suit was warm and scented with woodsmoke and sweat, a totally masculine odor, yet not acrid and sour as Valter's had often been. "I...I...you are så god, so kind. So gentle. No one..." She gulped again. Her father had been a good man, but undemonstrative. Her mother had demanded perfect behavior, and punished with a heavy hand when Siri had fallen short of her high standards. Valter had never touched her with anything but hot desire or anger. His kisses had been rough and eager, never tender and loving.

  She had accepted her lot, for in many ways she had been better off than her few childhood friends. Her father had never beaten her, her mother kept a clean house and cooked nourishing meals. Her husband had only occasionally raised his hand to her. She knew that Valter had sometimes argued with his mother, who believed he was too gentle. And Valter had loved Rolf and Rosel, for all he had sometimes been cross with them.

  With a few kisses Buffalo Lachlan had shown her that her life had been bleak and barren.

  She clung to him, knowing this moment could not last, yet determined to imprint it in her memory for all time.

  After too short a time, he shifted his hold and let her legs slide to the floor. "I think the coffee's ready," he said.

  Sure enough, the rich scent of strong coffee filled the room, overpowering the odors of wet wool and mildew. Siri forced herself to think of that, rather than the cold she felt, now that he was no longer holding her.

  Out of the depths of his pack, Mr. Lachlan pulled a tin cup. He filled it from the steaming pail, then he handed it to her. "Careful. It's hot."

  Siri reached for it, craving the warmth, then drew her hands back. "Nej. You must drink first." Never had she eaten before the men in the house were fed.

  His lips thinned as he thrust the cup toward her, sloshing some of the hot coffee on his hand. "Take it," he said.

  Siri knew that tone of command. She took the cup. Even the wide metal handle was hot. She held it carefully, not even trying to drink.

  He watched her.

  Her hand shook. The cup tipped.

  "Oh, for God's sake!" he exploded. "Give me the damn cup!" He took it from her, sipped. "Okay, I had some. Now take it and drink."

  Conditioned by a lifetime of strict obedience to the man of the house, Siri lifted the cup to her lips.

  He watched her as she drank every drop. The coffee was almost too hot. She felt it all the way to her belly. Yet it warmed her, from the inside out. Energized her. When the cup was dry, she lowered it. As the heat of the coffee spread through her body, so did the heat of anger. He was not her husband, her father. Why did she let him command her?

  Perhaps the anger showed when she handed the cup back to him. He smiled down at her. "You'd like to part my hair with it, wouldn't you?"

  Puzzled over the idiom, she stared at him.

  "Hit me. Knock me silly with the cup. Maybe fill it up and throw scalding coffee over me." His grin invited her to laugh as well.

  She resisted as long as she could. "Ja," she admitted, when his smile proved irresistible. "Ja, for one moment I wanted to beat you with it. But it is our only cup, and I want more coffee."

  Once again he tipped her face up, this time with a single finger under her chin. "Siri, I think you're a fake. I don't believe you're anywhere as meek and mild as you'd like everyone to think." He bent and dropped a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. "That was the real you on Sunday, wasn't it?"

  Before she could answer, he had bent to fill the cup again.

  How could he know of the anger that often seethed inside her until she was sick with it? If she went to his bed, would he believe it gave him the right to beat her for her willfulness, her stubborn nature, as Valter sometimes had?

  Chapter Thirteen

  They gnawed on dried meat, moistened with sips of strong, hot coffee. Not enough to satisfy, but enough to stave off hunger pangs. Buff set half the jerky aside for morning. "I wonder if we'd find any berries," he said, half to himself.

  "Nej, no more until spring. What the birds and animals do not take, the rain spoils," Siri told him. "There are svampar...mushrooms. But I do not know which are good to eat."

  "Neither do I. And I'm not about to experiment." He tested his britches. Still damp. So was her cotton skirt. But the lightweight wool of her petticoat had dried. Buff pulled it from the clothesline.

  "What are you doing?" Siri caught at her petticoat, tried to tug it from his hands.

  "I'm making us a bed."

  Her eyes grew large. "Us?" she squeaked.

  "Siri, unless you want to sit up all night and feed the fire, we're going to have to sleep close to keep warm. It's getting colder. I wouldn't be surprised if the rain turned to snow before morning."

  Her cheeks took on a rosy bloom. "Of course. I did not think..."

  She looked at the stained, rough boards under her feet. "I will help. Tell me what to do."

  "I'm going to lay my slicker over the ropes. We'll use this and your slicker for covers."

  He grinned when she picked up the other slicker and shook it out. What a mixture of prude and siren she was. He knew she'd been as aroused as he had earlier, yet now she was acting like climbing into a bed with him was unthinkable. The way she was chewing her lip, she'd have it bleeding pretty soon.

  From what she'd told him she was about as inexperienced as a woman who'd been married could be. Once he'd tugged and smoothed the heavy oiled canvas slicker as best he could, he dropped the rest of their makeshift bedding on top of it. "Siri, would it help if I promised I won't lay a hand on you tonight?"

  She shook her head, not looking at him.

  "Hell, what do you want then? I'll be damned if I'll sleep alone. We don't have enough bedding."

  She looked at him at last. "I don't want you to," she said, so softly he barely heard the words. Her tongue darted out, licked the lip she'd been chewing. "I don't want you to promise."

  The last words were the barest whisper. Maybe he hadn't heard them at all.

  Buff stared.

  Siri stared back.

  He opened his mouth. No words emerged. He cleared his throat. "Say that again."

  "I do not want you to promise not to touch me."

  Buff liked women and enjoyed them in bed and out. He'd been solicited, propositioned, seduced, and invited, blatantly and shyly, overtly and covertly.

  Siri's simple words thrilled him as none ever had.

  "Are you sure?" he said, finding the words difficult to frame with a mouth gone dry.

  Her nod, hesitant and meek, humbled him.

  Once again he gathered her into his arms. Without her outer clothing, she felt fragile, as if he had only to tighten his arms and she would shatter. The trembling of her slim body was not from cold, he was sure.

  "You're afraid," he said into her hair. She had loosened the knot to let it dry, and now it flowed over her shoulders like a cascade of moonlight.

  He felt her nod.

  "Don't be. I won't..." He paused, wondering if she was offering herself like a sacrificial lamb, in payment for his help.

  The thought acted like a bucket of ice water in the face.

  "Ah, Siri. You don't have to sleep with me because I helped you." Because she felt so warm, so soft in his arms, he kept her there. But he loosened his embrace and held her as he would his sister.

  She murmured s
omething into his shoulder.

  He bent, to bring his ear closer to her mouth. "What was that?"

  "I did think to do that," she said clearly, "but I could not. I am no hora. I am afraid because I fear you will not find me sinnligt skön...pleasing. I have not much practice. Valter was...he..." She shook her head, pulled back.

  Looking him straight in the eye, she said, "My husband did not approve of boldness in a woman. So I do not know any of the 'tricks' Carleen told me men like." Her fingers smoothed the neckband of his Union suit. "I sometimes think about asking her to tell me what they are, but..." Once more she bit her lip. "I will do whatever you want."

  Well, hell! What am I going to do? Buff had a vision of pulling butterfly's wings off, of taking a carving knife to mice tails. How was he going to tell her that innocence was far more exciting than practiced skill? And that he didn't want a sacrificial lamb?

  He pulled her closer, tipped her chin up. "Siri, let's just not worry about who does what. We've had a long day. Right now all I want to do is crawl into that bed and rest my weary head. It's still aching..."

  It was, but nowhere near as painfully as he made out. His stratagem worked, though.

  "Oh, I forget." Pulling free of his embrace, she gave him a shove in the direction of the bed. "You must rest! Your poor head--"

  When he sat on the edge of the bed, she knelt and caught him by the ankles, lifted his feet. "There. Lie back. I will cover you."

  He slid to the middle, as the ropes stretched under his weight. The cot was too short for him by a good six inches. Drawing his knees up, he did his best to fit.

  She carefully spread her petticoat across his body, tucking it around his chest. "Are your feet warm? Do you want your socks?"

  Buff decided to relax and see what happened. He angled his hands under his head, wondered if his butt was about to hit the floor. "I'm fine. You keep the socks." The slicker she flipped over him cut off any further speech.

  When he'd dug his way out from under its stiff folds, she was back at the fireplace, efficiently banking the fire for the night. "Do you want more coffee before you sleep? Water? I can--"