Morgan stopped and reared up and threw his head back with a shout.
Her eyes widened when, she saw the stone at his neck suddenly flare to life as if struck by lightning, blinding her to everything but feeling. And what she felt now was Morgan, so very deep inside her, pulsing against the throbbing of her womb.
With a groan like that of a wounded bear, Morgan dropped his full weight to his elbows, brushing back her hair and kissing her tenderly on the nose. His heart pounded against hers. His breathing was labored. And she became aware of every steaming inch of him that touched her naked skin.
The storm returned to her consciousness. The rain continued, but the thunder was moving away now, the flashes dulling to mere hints of light. But it was enough for her to see clearly the gleam of triumph dancing in Morgan’s eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
He had one hell of an apology to make.
No better than a rutting animal, he had just taken his woman in the woods, in the middle of a damned storm. What should have been the most pleasant experience of Mercedes’ life had most likely been her greatest disaster.
She was frighteningly still but for the faint trembling he could feel coursing through her body beneath him. The apology would have to wait. He needed to get her warm, get her up and dressed and hustled back to their camp in a hurry.
As carefully as he could, Morgan lifted himself off Mercedes and rose to his knees. She immediately scrambled away, crossing her hands over her chest, frantically searching for someplace to hide.
Morgan was stricken by the sight. Much more was needed than a damned apology. He would gladly give up his sword arm for this not to have happened.
He groped on the ground until he found his shirt, shook it out, and attempted to put it on Mercedes.
She flinched, rose to her knees, and almost scrambled away before he could catch her. He wrapped one arm around her waist and hugged her to his chest, feeling her shiver. He closed his eyes and silently prayed for forgiveness, and then he whispered those same petitions to her.
“I’m sorry, lass, for what I’ve done. But you’ve got to let me get you dressed. You’re going to catch cold.”
“I can dress myself.”
Her voice was faint. Distant. And without emotion. Morgan grew alarmed. Her shivering had turned violent now, her whole body as cold as snow.
“You can rail at me tomorrow, gràineag,” he said, returning to his chore of dressing her. “You even have my permission to use my sword, if you still have the strength to lift it,” he added, hoping like hell she did have the strength, that she wouldn’t catch pneumonia.
She was amazingly strong now and fought him, trying to squirm out of his hold. But it wasn’t until he wrapped his hands around her back that Morgan fully understood why Mercedes was so frantic to escape him. She immediately twisted away and kicked out with her feet.
It was those damned scars she was trying to hide from him. Mercedes was horrified that he might see them and be disgusted.
He immediately moved away from her. “Easy, Mercedes. I’ll let you dress. Here,” he said, gathering up her soaked pants and shirt. “Here’s your clothes. They’re wet, but I’ll have you back in front of a warm fire in minutes. Just get dressed.”
Morgan then stood, shaking out his own pants and stepping into them. He shuddered as the wet cloth grated against his skin. He put on his boots and set his sword over his shoulder before he shook out his shirt and held it up to Mercedes once again.
“Here. It’s wet, too, but it’s wool. It will add some warmth to your own clothes.”
She was only half dressed. She had thrown her shirt on with haste and had buttoned it crooked. Her pants were pulled up, and she was now fighting with the zipper. Her trembling hands were making the chore nearly impossible.
Morgan lost what patience he’d been trying to hold on to. He wrapped his shirt over her shoulders and swept her into his arms.
Her first reaction was to squeak.
Her second was to take a poorly aimed swing at his head.
“You’re going to kill us both,” she grumbled. “I’m too heavy.”
He couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Ah, gràineag. When the day comes that I can’t carry you, I’ll be three years in my grave.” He hefted her slightly, settling her comfortably. “Now, be quiet and save your strength,” he added, giving her a quick kiss on her dirty forehead. “Because tomorrow, Mercedes, we are having a much-needed talk about the rules of this match.”
He was planning a lecture, most likely.
Sadie lay in the warmth of Morgan’s embrace and stared up at the ceiling of her tent, most of which Morgan MacKeage was filling.
It was quite nice, she decided, to wake up and find herself snuggled securely against a sleeping bear.
It was also a bit disconcerting.
The guy was completely naked.
It seemed she’d fallen in love with an exhibitionist. She’d probably seen Morgan naked more often than dressed.
She was just the opposite, wanting to keep herself covered up to the chin.
Hence the upcoming lecture.
She expected Morgan was planning to scold her for acting so insanely modest, even to the point of foolishness. She knew he had been worried last night that she’d been wet and cold.
So she’d shut up, let him carry her back to camp—that had been an experience in itself—and then she had washed, dressed in layers of dry clothes, and crawled into bed. She had even remained silent when Morgan had crawled into the tent and settled beside her.
Now she was staring at the dawn-lighted ceiling, wondering how she was going to extricate herself from both his embrace and the mess she’d made of their flaming affair.
But first there was the matter of her body sock. It was lost in the forest someplace, muddy and wet, along with her bra. She had other bras with her, but that was her only camisole, and she wanted it back.
Holding her breath, Sadie carefully lifted Morgan’s arm off her waist and gently set it beside her. With painstaking care, she pulled the zipper on her sleeping bag down, cringing at every metallic click it made. She moved first one leg and then the other one free of the bag and silently rolled to her knees and backed her way to the door.
She stopped, though, caught by what she was seeing. The man was lying on his stomach, completely naked. His entire body was tanned, sprinkled with a downy coat of sun-bleached hair. There was a wicked-looking scar just above his right buttock, crossing his waist in a six-inch raised welt of light-colored skin. And another one on his right shoulder, not as long but obviously just as old.
His feet were dirty, thick-skinned with calluses. He apparently didn’t wear boots any more often than he wore clothes. And at his side, almost as tall as he was, lay his sword. Sadie stifled a snort. Why wasn’t she surprised he slept with the thing?
She continued her study.
His hand rested relaxed on the spot where she’d been lying. It was a large hand, strong-looking, blunt. His huge body took up most of the tent, his feet touching the door and his head all but touching the end. He had to be nearly six and a half feet tall. Beautiful. Magnificent. Completely naked but for the leather cord he always wore around his neck.
Sadie shook off her lusty thoughts, turned, and slid down the tent zipper just enough to crawl through. She continued to crawl all the way to the now smoldering fire Morgan had rekindled last night. She stood, only to realize that she wore only socks and that her boots were someplace in the woods with the rest of her clothes.
Damn. She walked to her dry packs sitting beside her tent and picked up one of the bags and carried it back to the fire. Then she pulled out her spare sneakers and slipped them on. One minute later she was back on her feet and running through the forest, trying to remember where in these woods she might have left her most intimate clothing.
Morgan took his time dressing. He was pretty sure he knew where Mercedes was going, and he suspected it would take her some time to find her way. She hadn’t b
een paying much attention last night to where in the woods they had made love.
She’d been too busy being appalled.
He would set Mercedes down today, once he got her back to camp and filled her belly with food, and have a nice little talk with her about this new and hopefully peaceful life they had begun last night.
He would be understanding but firm.
Patient but insistent.
Calm but determined.
She would get over her modesty.
She would respect his authority.
Morgan snorted to himself. Aye. Mercedes would accept his dictates with all the grace of a grâineag.
With that thought lifting the corner of his mouth, Morgan set his sword over his back and headed into the woods at a trot. In less than a minute he picked up her trail and followed its aimless wanderings for nearly a mile.
He heard her sneeze before he actually saw her.
Dammit. She was catching a cold.
He stopped a good twenty paces away and watched as Mercedes scattered leaves with the toe of her shoe. She’d already gathered her boots, their socks, and both of their underwear into a pile. She was now pushing at the leaves and sticks littering the ground but stopped suddenly and reached down to pick up a thin shirt that looked more like a rag than clothes.
She suddenly stiffened and whirled toward him, hiding both her hands behind her back like a guilty child. Morgan pulled away from the tree and walked toward her.
She took a quick step back, realized what she’d done, and stepped forward again, her chin lifted at him. Morgan made sure his smile didn’t show what he thought of her actions.
“What’s so important that you felt the need to sneak off this morning and come here?” he asked.
Her chin went up another notch, and her beautiful blue eyes narrowed. “Nothing. I didn’t sneak off, I walked.”
“Then what was that you picked up from the ground just now?”
Her entire face flushed red, and her chin lowered slightly. “That’s my business. I came here alone because I wanted some privacy.”
He slowly shook his head at her. “Privacy no longer exists between us, Mercedes,” he said, stepping closer. “It ended last night.” He reached out a hand. “Show me what you’re holding.”
She took two steps back. “You don’t understand!”
Ah, but he was quite sure that he did. “My hands covered every inch of you last night, woman. I know exactly what you look like under your clothes. And exactly how you feel.”
Her eyes widened, and her blush paled—and Morgan continued with a determination grounded in truth. “I also know that you have no reason to feel vulnerable with me, Mercedes. Because I don’t see scars when I look at you. I don’t feel them when I touch you. I only experience your beauty.”
He pounced on her then, before she had time to realize his intent. He had to tackle her to the ground to keep his shins from being bruised, and he had to grab her hands before she pummeled him to death. In the end, he was a bit muddy but victorious. He turned them both until he was sitting on the ground, Mercedes was on his lap, and the rag she’d been hiding was in her hands being held by his.
And seeing it close up, he was also quite sure what it was.
Morgan sighed and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. Damn. They were going to have their talk on an empty belly.
“This has to stop, Mercedes. There is no room for modesty or shyness between us.” He pointed at the finely knit shirt she usually wore like a second skin, now clutched in her hand. “And it is a sin for a wife to keep secrets from her husband.”
Her gasp was expected.
Her sharp little elbow driving into his ribs was not.
Before he could catch her, Mercedes was off his lap and standing over him, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her eyes snapping fire, and her complexion so red it was a wonder she didn’t explode.
“That’s a sick joke, MacKeage.”
He slowly stood up and carefully brushed the mud from his pants, not once taking his gaze off her indignant face. “Joke? What are you talking about, a joke?”
“I’m talking about what you just said. A wife not having secrets from her husband, as if that pertained to us. Well, damn you, when I find a husband, I’ll be sure to remember your advice.”
It hit him then, like the blow of a mace, that this spitting-mad woman was actually the confused one here. Morgan rubbed his forehead again and closed his eyes while he prayed for strength—and plenty of patience.
“Mercedes,” he finally said, in as calm a voice as he could manage when he looked at her again. “I wasn’t making a joke to you just now, because you already are my wife.”
“I am not.”
He nodded. Curtly. “Aye, you are. The ceremony took place right here,” he explained, waving his hand at the ground. “I remember asking you, quite clearly, if you took me. And,” he continued more forcefully when she opened her mouth to protest, “you quite clearly said that you did.”
“I wasn’t marrying you! I was trying to get an affair started between us.”
“It’s done. We’re husband and wife.”
“But there was no minister. No witnesses, for crying out loud! It won’t hold up in a court of law.”
“It will damn well hold up to God’s law. You’re my wife, Mercedes. You are no longer a Quill but a MacKeage. And God save anyone who thinks different.”
He stepped forward and firmly took hold of her chin, getting close enough so she would feel the finality of his words all the way down to her toes. “And that includes you, wife. Because this will not be one of your modern-day marriages. You will defer to your husband and respect my word. And to that end we will have a peaceful union if I have to take the flat of my sword to your backside.”
That said, Morgan pivoted on his heel and strode away from the scene of his dictate, leaving Mercedes to come to terms with what she had just heard. Because, like it or not, he was holding Mercedes to her words of last night and keeping her as his wife.
And he’d even be generous, dammit, and allow her a few days to get used to the idea.
Holy spit. What had taken place here last night? How had they gone from friendship to marriage in less than a week?
And what had happened to her flaming affair?
Sadie folded her knees and sat down on the ground, clutching her camisole to her chest. The man couldn’t be serious. Married? As in setting up housekeeping and living together?
Naw. The guy must be touched in the head. He was like his cousin, Callum, a bit old-fashioned was all. Yeah. Morgan was acting like a Neanderthal, being possessive and maybe feeling guilty for last night, and he was trying to make her feel good about the whole fiasco.
Naw. That wasn’t it, either. He was just insane. Because there hadn’t been one ounce of compassion in him just now, only a menacing threat lacing his whisper-soft voice and snapping in his forest-green eyes.
Take the flat of his sword to her backside?
The man was a throwback.
Either that, or she had fallen down a rabbit hole.
Sadie suddenly realized she was being watched and looked up to find Faol sitting just ten feet away. He was holding a stick in his mouth this time, her favorite glove nowhere to be seen.
The hulking wolf whined like a puppy and stood up and stepped toward her, wagging his tail as he advanced. Sadie scrunched her knees up to her chest and held her breath. She was in no shape right now to deal with another arrogant male.
Faol stopped just in front of her, opened his mouth, and let the stick fall onto the ground at her feet. It sounded like metal striking rock, and Sadie flinched.
And she flinched again when the wolf’s tongue suddenly shot out and touched the hand she had wrapped protectively around her knees. The sensation of moist heat sent a tingle straight to her heart.
Faol stared at her, not backing off, not advancing. Tentatively, with great trepidation, Sadie slowly reached out and touched the side of h
is face. His tongue immediately shot out again and washed her hand.
He bent his head again to pick up the object he’d dropped.
It wasn’t a stick but something metal. A large spoon, it looked like. Sadie took it from him, and Faol backed up several steps, lay down, and started washing his paws.
Sadie turned the spoon over in her hands, examining it. It appeared to be an old mixing spoon with half of the bowl rusted off. She pointed it at the wolf.
“This is not a fair trade for the glove, big boy.”
He stopped his chore in mid-lick, his tongue looking stuck to his paw as he lifted his canine eyebrows at her. Satisfied that she understood that he didn’t care, he went back to washing his feet.
Sadie went back to examining his gift. Using her sleeve, she rubbed some of the rust from the spoon and squinted at what looked like initials scratched into the bowl.
J.L.
Sadie stretched out her legs and straightened her spine. J.L.? Jean Lavoie? Was this the old cook’s spoon from one of the logging camps? She looked back at the wolf.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, waving it at him again, not wanting to question the fact that she was talking to a wolf. “Can you show me?”
He stood up, wagging his tail as he stared at her. He suddenly turned, trotted down through the woods, and stopped and looked back at her. He let out a sharp bark, took several more steps, and whined.
Her worry over finding herself married suddenly forgotten, Sadie hastily folded her damp camisole and scrambled to her feet. She quickly picked up her boots and forgotten clothes and ran after the wolf.
But she slowed to a walk the moment she realized the treacherous beast had led her back to her own camp. The one where Morgan MacKeage was waiting, sitting by the now roaring fire, cooking breakfast. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and frowned at her gear sitting beside her tent. How was she going to pack her things without having to face the delusional man?
“You should have something to eat before we leave,” he said without taking his eyes off his chore.
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