Cursing the lumbering weight of his loaded canoe, Morgan dug his oar deeply into the river and tried to power his way against the current, out of the path of the charging bull. The hit, when it came, struck with enough force to send the boat backward, splintering wood and knocking the oar out of his hand. Morgan grabbed the gunnels for balance and rode the storm of choppy water.
The bull reared again and charged a second time. Morgan dove for his sword, rolling in the bottom of the boat as he scrambled to unsheathe it. Mercedes’ cry of alarm came to him over the sound of more splintering wood and the snorting of the enraged moose.
He was getting a little enraged himself.
A large antler appeared over him, just as two large hooves smashed down on the gunnel. The damned moose was trying to climb into the boat and kill him.
Morgan lifted his sword, grabbed the antler, and pushed it away. He drove his weapon deep into its neck. The bull jerked violently and bellowed in anger. His wife’s shout ended abruptly and turned to a blood-curdling scream.
The bull kicked out, slashing a razor-sharp hoof into his thigh. Morgan twisted his sword, driving it deeper, feeling it slip past the shoulder blade until it found the animal’s heart.
Now in its death throes, the shuddering, heavy moose slowly slipped into the water, its only triumph that of finishing the destruction of his canoe. The boat snapped in half and rolled over, pulling Morgan and all his gear into the river.
Still holding the hilt of his sword, Morgan kicked his feet and pushed at the now dead moose, guiding them both toward the river bank. His feet touched bottom, and he turned, dragging the moose by the antlers. Once the animal scraped gravel, he let it go, pulled his sword from its body, and threw himself onto dry ground.
He lay on his back with his eyes closed, exhausted, breathing heavily, his muscles still quivering with battle-tense energy, reciting a list of curses that might have God striking him dead. He suddenly felt the coolness of a shadow fall over his face. Still he kept his eyes closed, loath to look up, not wishing to see the accusing glare of his obviously tender-hearted wife.
A warm tongue suddenly licked the side of his face, lapping the river water dripping from his hair. Morgan snapped his eyes open and sat up, shoving Faol away with another curse, this one out loud. The wolf backed off and went instead to inspect the kill.
Morgan looked around for Mercedes. She had beached her boat and was standing beside it, staring at him with eyes wide and her face completely drained of color.
Morgan closed his own eyes and cursed again out loud. His woman had just witnessed a violence that she didn’t understand and might never be able to forgive.
“I cannot show mercy to anything bent on destroying me,” he said across the twenty paces separating them.
She continued to stare in silence.
Morgan wanted to howl.
But it was Faol who lifted his nose into the air and let out a primeval cry that echoed up the sides of the valley.
Morgan looked back at Mercedes, only to find her suddenly standing just two feet away. Her dark blue eyes still huge and unblinking, her face drawn and pale, she continued to stare in silence. He followed the direction of her gaze to the bloody sword he still held in his right hand.
He opened his fingers and let it drop to the ground as he looked up at her. She took a step back. He rolled and stood up, and Mercedes quickly took another step back.
He wiped the blood from his hands on his wet pants as he moved toward her, matching her every retreating step with one of his own. He reached out and took her shoulders, ignoring her flinch, and held her firmly.
“Say what you’re thinking, Mercedes,” he instructed. “Give voice to your thoughts, so I can respond.”
He watched her swallow and saw her eyes move to the carcass of the moose. He shook her, making her look back at him.
“When God gave man intelligence and free will,” he told her, “he was giving us the means to survive in this world. Killing an animal for food or in self-defense is an act of nature, Mercedes, not malice.”
Unable to look at her stricken expression any longer, Morgan pulled her into his embrace and hugged her fiercely. “That bull acted according to his own law, lass, set down by the blood of his ancestors,” he continued more gently. “That the two of us clashed today was nothing more than the journey of life playing itself out.”
He squeezed her tightly when he felt her begin to tremble. “Say something, Mercedes,” he entreated once again. “Give me either your anger or your hurt.”
“Will you be just as ruthless when you protect this valley from me?” she asked into his shoulder, her voice void of emotion.
Morgan closed his eyes on the realization that this woman knew him more than he cared for her to, that she now understood he would never compromise when it came to protecting his home.
He tugged on her hair, forcing her to look at him. “When the time comes, wife, I will do what I must to keep this valley safe. And also to keep you safe,” he quickly added when she tried to pull away. “Because you and this land are all that is important to me now. Without either, I am nothing.”
“Who are you, Morgan MacKeage?”
“Your husband.”
She tried to pull away again, but he held her firm. “I’m also your greatest ally, Mercedes. Give me your trust now, and we will find a way through this.”
Well, it seemed she needed to think about that for at least a minute. And in that time Morgan saw emotions flash in her eyes that ranged from hope to suspicion—before anger finally won the battle.
“Dam—”
He kissed her before she got the curse out, canting her head and covering her lips with his, swallowing her words as he swept his tongue inside. She made a mewling noise, and he couldn’t decide if she was welcoming him or protesting. Nor did he care, as he found himself spiraling downward, deeper into the magic of her spell.
She tasted sweet, fresh, and so wonderfully alive. She felt vibrant in his arms, strong enough to possess his heart, solid enough to anchor his wandering soul.
He had traveled eight hundred years to find her, and he would let nothing come between them.
His spirit soared when she suddenly melted against him, raised her arms, and tugged on his hair to deepen their kiss.
Morgan flinched as pain suddenly shot through his body.
They pulled away at the same time, Mercedes with a gasp of surprise, Morgan with a groan. He shot a hand to his leg, covering the gaping hole in his jeans.
“You’re hurt,” she said, pulling his hand out of the way. She gasped again. “You’re bleeding.”
In a frenzy of movement, Morgan suddenly found himself sitting on the ground, Mercedes unfastening his pants at the waist. Unable to keep from smiling, he leaned back on his elbows and let his now distraught wife tend to his wound. He lifted himself up enough that she could pull his wet pants down to his boots, where she suddenly stopped and frowned. She grabbed his hand, making him fall completely flat, and slapped it over his bleeding thigh.
“Keep pressure on it,” she hissed, now beginning to work on the laces of his boots.
It took her a few minutes to strip his legs bare, and then she carefully lifted his fingers and examined his wound. She looked up at him then, her eyes dark with concern against her pale complexion.
“It…it needs stitches,” she whispered, as if the news might undo him.
He wanted to laugh but didn’t dare. Mercedes was the one beginning to panic. Her hand covering his was shaking, her quivering jaw was making her teeth chatter, and her eyes were glistening again with unshed tears.
“Do you have a needle and thread, then?” he asked, stilling her jaw by clasping it with his hand, into which she slowly nodded.
He nodded back and gave her a reassuring smile. “I promise not to howl like the wolf, lass, when you sew me up. Now, do you think you can find my pack before you go looking for your thread? There’s a nice bottle of Scotch in it that just might make t
he job a bit easier.”
“I have painkillers in my first aid kit,” she said. “But you can’t mix them with alcohol.”
Morgan lifted a brow. “The Scotch is for you, wife. I prefer your hands steady when you take a needle to my flesh.”
He gave a grunt of surprise when she suddenly pushed herself to her feet, and another grunt—this time of approval—when she balled her fists on her hips and glared down at him.
“It’s not funny, Morgan. Stitching a wound like that is nothing to joke about. You belong in a hospital.”
He scanned the river bank they were on and let his gaze stop on their one remaining boat before he looked back at her. “Any suggestions on how we get to this hospital?” he asked.
“My cell phone,” she said, suddenly brightening. “I can call my mother to come get us.”
She ran to her kayak and rummaged around in the front hatch. She straightened with her cell phone in her hand, but her smile suddenly disappeared.
“It doesn’t matter, Mercedes,” he quickly assured her. “I’m not needing a hospital. Sew me up and bandage my thigh, and I’ll be good as new in a few days.”
She still refused to look at him. She bent over and rummaged around in the hatch again. She straightened, a small red bag in her hand, and finally returned to him.
And, like the idiot he was, Morgan just couldn’t seem to keep himself from asking, “What’s wrong with the phone?”
“The battery is dead.”
Morgan started undoing the buttons of his soggy shirt. He stripped himself bare, except for his wet and now muddy boxers, keeping them on only because he didn’t want his wife distracted when she sewed him up.
She handed him two small pills. She looked up and down his now nearly naked body, then suddenly reached into her bag, took out one more pill, and placed it in his hand with the others.
“These are for pain?” he asked, examining them.
“They will dull it.”
“And my head? Will they dull my thinking, too?”
“If I’m lucky.”
He handed them back to her. “Keep them, then. I can’t afford to be slow-witted right now.”
She tried to give them back. “You need these. I can’t sew you up without them.” She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “Afraid I’ll take advantage of you?”
He tapped the end of her insolent nose. “Nay, lass. That worry never crossed my mind.” He looked upriver and then back at her, suddenly serious. “We’re not alone in this valley, Mercedes. The Dolan brothers are here, looking for the gold. And I have no wish to be drugged should they suddenly appear.”
“They’re harmless,” she said, waving his concern away. “They’ve been searching for Plum’s gold as long as I have. It’s a hobby for them. Almost a game.”
“They’re also armed with powerful rifles,” he countered. “And last I knew, gold was not a dangerous prey to hunt.”
“How do you know they’ve got guns?”
“I’ve seen them.”
“You’ve met Harry and Dwayne?”
“In a way,” he said, nodding. “I met them, but they didn’t meet me.”
“You spied on them?”
“I thought they might be poachers,” he said. “That day I asked you to stay out of the woods, I was trying to learn their purpose here.”
“Did it ever occur to you just to ask?”
Morgan gave her a broad grin. “What fun is there in that?” He reached up and ran his finger down the side of her cheek. “Why don’t you go find my gear before it floats any farther downriver?” he told her. “I really could use a drink of that Scotch.”
She hesitated, looking torn between getting him a drink and wanting to stab the needle she was holding into his thigh.
“I’ll be fine, Mercedes. I’ll keep pressure on it until you return.”
She finally stood up, started for her kayak, but stopped and looked back. “I’m sorry you got hurt, Morgan. I thought the moose would just bump your boat and run off.”
“I know, lass. I expected that, too. And don’t worry about my hurt, Mercedes. I’ve had worse. I’ll be fine in a few days.”
Her expression suddenly brightened, and her eyes sparkled. “You stay put,” she said, pointing a threatening finger at him. “Or I’ll come up with some consequences of my own.”
He solemnly nodded, then waved her on her way, watching her climb into her odd little boat and expertly guide it into the current.
He leaned back on his elbows again, letting the weak autumn sun warm up his skin as he watched Mercedes slowly disappear past the bend in the river. He couldn’t quit grinning. He liked that she wasn’t afraid to throw his words back at him. He liked her sassiness and her determination to match both wit and will against him.
But mostly he liked her ass. Mercedes had the nicest, firmest, most delectable bum—and the longest legs he’d ever seen on a woman. Aye, she pleased him in all ways, with her body as well as her spirit.
They’d make great babies together. She’d give him strong sons who would grow to love and cherish this land as much as their parents did. He was glad now that the old priest had talked him into building a home here. He was also glad that Grey had had the foresight to banish Daar’s cane into the pond.
Because, like his brother, Morgan was now decided that he never wanted to leave this suddenly interesting new world.
When Mercedes finally disappeared around the river bend, Morgan set the needle and thread to his flesh and quickly repaired his wound—before his wife could return and make a mess of the job.
Chapter Fifteen
You need to stay off your leg.”
“No. I need to keep it from stiffening up.”
“Faol is eating your moose again.”
Morgan muttered a few Gaelic words as he threw a rock at Faol to drive him away from the moose carcass still lying on the river bank. Faol gave a snarl of protest, then trotted off into the brush.
“We need to find a game warden and report the kill,” Mercedes said from the campfire, drawing his attention. “And you need to put some clothes on. The sun’s setting.”
Morgan stopped tugging on the antler of the now gutted moose and scratched his bare chest as he looked at his clothes drying by the fire. He had pants on, but they were covered with moose blood. He had already carried the entrails far enough away that they wouldn’t be bothered by scavenging animals, and he was ready to wash up. The problem was, all his clean clothes were still wet from their dunk in the river.
He looked at Mercedes’ dry packs sitting by the tiny tent she had already erected so that it would be dry by nightfall. He needed to get himself some of those bags, since he’d likely be spending time camping with his wife and children in the future.
Mercedes seemed so at home here in the wilderness, so comfortable sitting on logs, cooking over an open fire, and sleeping on the ground. She guided her boat as if she had been born with a paddle in her hand and hiked these woods with the confidence and excitement of a wanderer determined to embrace life.
Morgan realized how lucky he was to have found such an old soul in this modern time.
“Why do we need to find a game warden?” he asked, walking over and picking up one of his still damp shirts.
“Because it’s illegal to kill a moose out of season. And even then you need a permit.”
He slipped into his shirt and sat down across from her. “But I’ll have it quartered and carried to Gu Bràth by tomorrow afternoon. No one need even know about it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That makes you a poacher.”
He didn’t care for that title any more than he cared to hear it coming from his wife’s mouth. “I am not. The animal is dead through no fault of my own. I didn’t go hunting for it. But that doesn’t mean I intend to let the meat go to waste.”
“The warden will probably let you keep the moose, once we explain what happened. He won’t want to see it go to waste, either. What’s Gu Bràth?”
“It’s my brother’s home,” he told her.
“I thought it was called TarStone Mountain Resort?”
“That’s the business name. Our home is called Gu Bràth.”
“Is it Scottish? What does it mean?”
“Forever,” he told her. “It means that we’re here now, forever.”
“But you don’t live with your brother anymore?”
“No. I built my home on Fraser Mountain just this summer.”
She scooted closer, suddenly interested. “Does your new home have a name?”
Morgan leaned back against a rock, crossed his arms over his chest, and grinned at her. “I thought I’d leave that chore up to my wife.”
She frowned and scooted away, giving her attention back to the food she was preparing. She stirred the powdered soup she had dumped out of a foil pack and added more water.
Morgan stood and picked up his sword and a few clean clothes, then took the water bottle from her. “I’m going to find a place to wash up and refill our drinking water,” he said. “Before it gets too dark.”
“You need to stay off that leg.”
He took hold of her chin and lifted her face up. “What I need is for you to spread our sleeping bag at the base of that ledge over there and stuff a thick bed of dry grass under it.”
He watched her eyes suddenly widen. “What…what’s wrong with the tent?” she whispered.
“I don’t like tents,” he said succinctly. “They keep me from seeing into the woods.”
“They keep you dry when it rains.”
He bent down and gave her a quick kiss on her arguing mouth. “Nature provides our shelter. That ledge will keep us dry tonight. Now, are you gripping my leg because you don’t want me to go or because you’re looking to leave another mark on me?”
She swatted his knee and pulled her chin free, glaring up at him. “I want you to tell me why you’re always so guarded. You act as if the entire world is out to get you.”
Morgan settled his sword over his back as he looked down at her. “I didn’t come all this way to die at the hands of fools.” He bent at the knees so he was level with her and took hold of her chin again. “And you must be on guard as well, Mercedes. There is a storm brewing in this valley, and it has nothing to do with the weather. There is danger here.”
Loving the Highlander Page 17
