“Mari! Ye are alive!”
“Jamie?” And then she could say no more for his arms enveloped her, drawing her to his solid, warm strength. Mari wrapped her arms around his neck, tears streaking down her face as she burrowed into his shoulder. Jamie smelled of fresh air, damp wool and slightly of horse and leather. She didn’t think she’d ever smelled anything so good. She clung closer and cried harder.
“Easy, lass,” Jamie said, stroking her hair. “Ye will be all right.”
“I thought…I would die,” she said finally when the tears had trickled to sniffles. She raised her head to look at him. “I am…am…so…so cold.”
“’Tis because yer clothes are wet and there is nae heat,” Jamie replied, “but I will take of that.” He removed his tartan and wrapped it around her. “I have a dry one on the horse I will get ye just as soon as I build a fire.”
“There…there is some wood there,” Mari said, pulling the second plaid tightly around her. It still held Jamie’s body heat and she felt instantly better, if not exactly warm. “I could not find matches though.”
Jamie looked around and then rose to take a tinderbox down from a shelf. Opening it, he removed a piece of flint. “This will work.”
Mari watched him in fascination as he laid the wood and then struck the flint against his sgian dubh, producing sparks that ignited the twigs and dried leaves he’d stuffed between the pieces. Small flames began to lick at the edges of the logs.
“That should catch,” he said as he rose and slipped his knife back into his boot. “I will be back in a minute.”
“Where are you going?” Mari tried to keep the panic out of her voice.
“Dinnae fash. I must take care of the horse and bring the supplies in.”
“There is a lean-to in the back,” Mari said as she edged toward the fire.
“I was wondering about that,” Jamie replied. “I should have guessed.”
Mari huddled close to the slowly fanning flames when he left and said a prayer of thanks for Jamie finding her. She would never—ever—again complain about his wanting to protect her. And she would obey his orders—or, at least, she would consider obeying them. If she had listened to him the last time, she wouldn’t be here, after all.
The door opened again, bringing in a rush of cold air, threatening the small fire that was building. Mary shivered, aware that her clothing was still wet.
Jamie must have noticed it too, for he frowned as he set the saddlebags down.
“Ye are going to have to get out of those clothes, lass, before ye catch a chill.” He looked around the room. “Did the crofters leave any clothing?”
“A pair of men’s breeches and a thin chemise with a summer overdress in the trunk,” Mari answered, “but I was too cold to change.”
Jamie opened the trunk and tossed the breeches on the bed frame. As he lifted the lightweight wool dress, it fell into tatters in his hands thanks to the activity of moths. He held up the cotton chemise. “This seems to be in one piece.”
Mari stared at him. The material was so threadbare it was practically transparent. Lord in Heaven. She could not sit around in front of him wearing that, even if the situation called for desperate measures. “I cannot wear that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ye canna ride back in the morning in wet clothes either. They need to dry in front of the fire.” He handed her the chemise and then pulled a dry plaid out of one of the saddlebags. “Ye can wrap this around ye as well.”
Mari took the plaid from him and smiled uncertainly.
Jamie gave her a puzzled look and then he shook his head. “Ye will want some privacy in changing?”
Mari nodded. “If you will just step outside—”
“Nae. Every time the door opens, it cools the room.” Jamie picked up one of the other tartans and hooked a corner of it to the rod supporting the kettle and draped another end over the back of the wooden chair. “’Tis nae as tall as a screen, but ye can change behind it. I will nae watch.”
Strangely enough, she believed him. Why had she not trusted him before? She moved behind the makeshift curtain. Thankfully, all the buttons of the riding habit’s jacket and shirt opened to the front so she did not need assistance. The thought of Jamie acting the maid almost made her laugh, and then a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room swept over her as she imagined him helping her get her clothes off. Lud!
Quickly, she slipped the chemise over her head. As thin as the material was, it would do little to warm her, but it would keep the wool tartan from scratching her skin. She wrapped the plaid around her, thankful it was dry. Looking down to make sure she was properly covered, she emerged from behind the curtain, holding her wet things.
And then nearly dropped them.
Jamie was tending the fire, wearing nothing but the borrowed breeches.
She must have emitted some kind of sound because he turned to look at her. “Let me have those,” he said as though nothing were wrong.
Mari swallowed, unable to take her eyes off his bare chest. In the dimly lit room, the flickering flames caught every nuance of his sculpted shoulders and hard-ridged belly. The fire cast his skin in bronze. He could have been chiseled out of stone, like one of those statues in Abigail’s art books. Mari was beginning to develop an appreciation for those books herself.
And then her statue grinned, the golden glow in his eyes matching his skin as he held out his hand. She wondered if he meant for her to take it—and why—but she stood stupefied, watching the light reflect on the smooth curves of his well-developed biceps. She’d known how truly muscular Jamie was, but she’d never been this close to him in his present state of undress. The tartan suddenly felt too warm, but she could hardly remove it wearing only the flimsy chemise.
“Your clothes, lass,” Jamie said in a tone she’d heard him use when calming a skittish horse. “Let me hang yer wet things by the fire.”
His words snapped her out of her reverie. “Why are you not wearing your clothes?”
A look of amusement swept his face, and he gestured to where his things already hung. “Mine were wet too.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense.” Mari handed him the riding habit and tried to focus on something other than the fact Jamie was practically naked. Dear Lord.
He took her things and turned, the muscles in his back flexing as he bent to drape the clothing over the other chair and table. She must have made another sound because he looked back at her.
“Did ye say something?”
“Nae. I mean, no.” When he straightened, the illumination from the hearth caught the ripples over his broad shoulders again. Mari licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “You really should put something on.”
His brow rose again. “What would ye like me to don? The other plaids are damp as well and, if ye noticed, I draped the second one to form a wall of sorts to keep the warmth closer to the fire. ’Twill be a cold night.”
She managed to force herself to look where Jamie pointed. He had pulled the old bed frame with its high metal posts and bulky trunk closer and hung the second plaid over those. Along with the first plaid he’d placed for her curtain, the two did indeed form cozy walls holding the heat in.
“I would not have thought to do that,” she said, hoping the topic was safer than talking about Jamie’s clothes—or lack of them.
He shrugged and sat down on the floor. “We learn to make do.”
“I am obviously not good at survival,” Mari said as she joined him. “I want to thank you for finding me. If you had not—”
“Dinnae fash. ’Tis over,” Jamie said quickly as he began taking food out of the other bag.
“Just the same. When I was reading Malory to Jillian the other day, she mentioned you reminded her of Sir Gawain. I think she may be right.”
The tips of his ears turned pink—or at least she thought they did. It was hard to determine in the firelight, but she thought it was rather attractive. “And you even brought
food like a truly gallant knight.”
“Bridget reminded me to take it,” Jamie muttered, busying himself with laying out the dried venison, hard cheese and a loaf of oat bread on the towel it had all been wrapped in.
“’Tis nae fancy, but ’twill fill yer stomach,” he said.
“It looks delicious,” Mari replied and realized she meant it. She had not eaten since the morning, and now she was ravenous. She bit into the bread Jamie had torn off for her as he removed a small knife from his sporran lying nearby. The knife looked almost delicate in his powerful hands, and she watched in fascination as those calloused fingers handled it with precision, slicing the meat and cheese into small, even pieces. His regular sgian dubh lay near where his boots were drying by the fire. Mari smiled. Trust him to have more than one knife.
“What are ye smiling about?” he asked as he removed a wineskin and two tin cups from the sack.
“Just you and your weapons,” she answered as she accepted a cup of wine, “although I do not suppose you consider that one to be of much consequence.”
Jamie held up the small knife. “’Tis interesting what a wee knife like this can do, especially if a mon is nae expecting ye to be carrying it. ’Tis sharp as a razor.” He laid it down. “I always carry an extra blade or two.”
“I know, not to mention that huge sword of yours.” She smiled again. “The one no one would notice.”
Jamie’s eyes widened as he stared at her and then he shook his head. “Och, ye mean my claymore.”
“Yes.” Mari frowned, wondering what had caused him to react like he was shocked. As if anyone could miss that huge thing sticking up behind his shoulder. She took a swallow of wine and then licked the corner of her mouth where several drops lingered. “I do not know much about swords, but I have never seen an Englishman with such a large one.”
Jamie choked, sputtering on his own wine, and Mari leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” She felt the muscles of his forearm clench, and then he withdrew it slowly.
“I am fine,” he said and began digging in the saddlebag again. A look of relief spread over his face as he withdrew a small flask. “Bless ye, Bridget,” he murmured.
“What is that?” Mari asked as Jamie unscrewed the top and tipped the flask.
“Uisge-beatha,” he answered. “’Tis the water of life.”
“Can I try some?”
“Nae. ’Tis better ye stick to the wine. It is watered down.”
Was Jamie giving her orders again? Mari bristled, forgetting her recent resolve to be more tolerant. Just when they were having a nice conversation, Jamie had to spoil it by telling her what she was allowed to drink? “Did Bridget not send the whisky for both of us?”
“Nae,” Jamie said again as he took another swallow. “’Tis a mon’s fortification.”
“Really?” Truly, it was quite rude of him to drink something in front of her that he would not share. Mari eyed the flask as he put it down and then grabbed it quickly before he could stop her.
“Ye dinnae want to try that,” Jamie said and reached for it.
Mari scooted back and managed a deep drink before Jamie took the flask away. And then he stilled, his golden eyes watching her intently.
“Mmmm,” she said as the golden liquid slid down her throat, “it feels nice and warm—” She gasped for air as her stomach turned to a fiery pit. “Oh…” Mari doubled over, coughing and trying to breathe.
Jamie pulled her up against him, pressing her head to his shoulder while he held the wine cup to her lips. “Drink this. It will help put out the fire.”
Mari did not think she could swallow anything, but she was going to incinerate on the spot if she did not try. She grasped the cup with both hands, thankful Jamie did not let go. After the first cool swallow, the wine went down better, dousing the flames she was sure had dissolved half her insides. She had just about drained the cup when Jamie set it down.
“’Tis enough for now, lass.”
She did not argue with him this time. She was still having trouble catching her breath. “How can you manage to drink that stuff?” she asked when she could finally speak again.
Jamie grinned and put the flask away. “I told ye it was a mon’s fortification. When will ye learn to trust me?”
“I do trust you.” Mari blinked at him, rather owlishly. He was a bit blurry. “I would not be here otherwise.”
He raised both brows questioningly. “And where would ye go? The storm is still blowing outside.”
The storm. Mari hiccupped. She had forgotten—for only a minute, she reminded herself—about the storm. “Well, never mind then.” She blinked again, narrowing her eyes to bring Jamie into better focus. “Can you not sit still?”
“I am nae moving.”
“Ye—you—are so. You are rocking back and forth.” Jamie grinned, his dimple showing. Had she never noticed before he had two dimples?
“I think the whisky has gone to yer brain, lass.”
“The whissh…whisshky?” She remembered the nice, warm feeling she’d had before her stomach caught on fire. That glow was spreading all over her now. “Ish quite warm in here, ish it not?” she asked and flung the tartan off, leaving her clad only in the thin chemise. Jamie made a sound that was close to a growl.
“Did you shay shh…omething?”
His eyes travelled over her slowly, and then he closed them and rubbed his temples. “Ye had best cover yerself with the plaid.”
“Why? I am hoth.” She waggled an impish finger at him as he opened his eyes. “Do you not feel the heat?”
That funny sound came from him again, and Mari decided it was rather intriguing. She inched closer, tilting her head to study him—which would be easier if he held still—and then giggled.
He gave her a wary look. “What?”
“I wanth to kissch you.”
“Ye are verra drunk.”
“Perhaps.” Mari nodded—rather sagely, she thought—“but I still wanth to kissch you.”
She made a rather awkward lunge toward him. Jamie caught her, holding her arms tightly to her side with one of his while the other hand pressed her head against his shoulder, and he rocked her gently.
“Go to sleep,” he said.
When Mari woke, it took a moment to realize where she was. Embers of the banked fire glowed softly in the hearth, and the purplish haze of predawn hung in the air. The wind no longer howled like a furious pack of wolves, and she was cocooned in a blanket of warmth.
Warmth not only came from the plaid that covered her.
As her senses awakened, she became aware of a strong arm around her waist, bracing her against a hard body that radiated its own heat. Mari lay motionless, allowing herself to absorb the feeling. Her head rested on Jamie’s other arm, and his breath was soft and warm near her ear. One of his thighs was over hers as well, effectively pinning her to him. She shifted slightly and felt something thick and hard stir against her backside.
Turning onto her back, she caught Jamie’s eyes, gleaming gold in the faint light from the embers, watching her intently. She smiled sleepily. “How long have you been awake?”
“Nae long.” Jamie brushed a tangled wisp of her hair aside and propped himself up on his elbow. “How is yer head?”
“Fine. Should it not be?”
Jamie chuckled. “For a lass nae used to uisge-beatha ye have a fine, hard head.”
“A hard head? Are you telling me I am stubborn?”
The chuckle deepened. “Ye are that, but I meant ye are handling the effects of the whisky well. Or, mayhap, ye are still drunk?”
“I am nae—I am not drunk. I did not have that much.” In the near darkness, she would have missed his raised eyebrow if his face had not been mere inches from hers. “I did not,” she emphasized.
“Nae? Do ye remember what ye said?”
Thank goodness dawn had not broken or Jamie would have seen the telltale blush she felt wash over her. She remembered very well what she h
ad said—and almost done. What she still wanted to do. But if Jamie thought to bedevil her about it, she would turn the tables on him. “Perhaps you could tell me?”
His voice changed slightly, all trace of the chuckling gone. “Ye said ye wanted to kiss me.”
“I did?”
“Aye.”
“Did you take advantage of that?”
“Nae.”
“Why not?”
“I dinnae take advantage of drunk lasses.”
Mari took a deep breath and felt a slight tremor of anticipation in her tummy. “I am not drunk now.”
He looked momentarily confused, and then his eyes widened. “What are ye saying?”
Oh, Lord. Jamie was going to win this battle after all. He was going to make her ask. Maybe she should not. If she had any sense at all, she would crawl out from this precarious position on all fours, get dressed and demand to be taken home. It really was what she should do. Already, she could hear Effie scolding her, and Aunt Agnes would probably swoon if she knew what Mari was contemplating. And certainly, if she were in London, she would not even consider… Mari looked at Jamie’s full, sensual mouth so close to hers and felt his body heat under the plaid that still covered most of them. Her own body started tingling in strange places. “I want you to kiss me.”
He smiled and bent down to brush his lips across hers. “Like this?”
“No.”
“Nae?”
“No. More. I want more.”
Jamie hesitated, his eyes searching her face. “Do ye ken what ye are asking?”
Mari wasn’t sure she kenned at all, only that her body felt as though thousands of tiny needles were pricking her skin, making her itch and long to be touched. She had no words to explain it. Instead, she wrapped her hands around Jamie’s neck and tugged his head down.
He moved so suddenly, she scarce had time to draw breath before his mouth was on hers, lips firmly engaging hers while his tongue deepened the kiss, filling her mouth with his unique taste, then withdrawing to kiss her lightly, teasing her with mere brushes of his lips, causing her to mewl softly in want. Mari felt his smile against her cheek as he rained butterfly kisses across her brow and eyelids and then along the other cheek. Jamie brushed over her mouth again, then slid his tongue slowly along her upper lip and even more leisurely along her lower one before he sucked it into his mouth.
Rogue of the Isles Page 23
