“What the hell.” There was no place above him to grip the side of the mountain. He might as well die hanging to a nonexistent rope. If he could only make himself let go and try. Logan clamped his teeth down on his bottom lip and tasted blood. As many times as he’d thought about death—thought about taking the extra step off the cliff necessary to end it all—this should have been easy. But it wasn’t.
The vast emptiness below him seemed to beckon, to laugh at him, a mocking laugh, a victorious laugh. And even though Logan knew it was only the wind rattling through the pines, he couldn’t make himself let go. Concentrate on breathing. Pretend you’re simply reaching for a rope. “No! Don’t look down. Won’t do any good to look down. Pretend you’re somewhere with solid ground beneath your feet. Anywhere. Seven Pines. Aye. You’re at Seven Pines and someone... Raff asks you to hold this rope for him and you...” Logan jerked his hand off the rock ledge and grabbed for the rope.
Twisted hemp bit into his palm as his long fingers clutched for purchase. At first relief that he defeated his paralyzing fear overshadowed his surprise that the rope was real.
It was easier to let loose his death-grip on the rock with his other hand. Now both fists clung to the rope. And though it swayed and groaned with his weight, the rope held. At least he didn’t go swinging down into oblivion.
“Climb up, can’t you?”
Damn, she was a nag, her voice sharp and edged with impatience. If he had to conjure up a female, why couldn’t she be soft-spoken? Logan took a deep breath and inched his right hand up. Then his left. Right. Left. The muscles in his arms bulged as he pulled his weight up the rope, inch by inch.
The rope hummed, taut and straining, as Rachel clasped her hands and glanced back toward where she’d tied it about the tree. It appeared to be holding, though she couldn’t be certain. Tying ropes... tying anything was not a skill where she excelled. Why even her petticoat tapes were fastened by her lady’s maid. But she’d done her best. Now why didn’t the foolish man come along? There was more than his life at stake... a lot more.
Rachel hurried toward the side of the precipice when she heard a string of mumbled curses. Then a hand appeared groping its way over the edge. She stepped back as he hauled himself straining and puffing onto the gravely ground. He lay there sprawled out at her feet, his face pressed into the dirt, his feet dangling over the cliff. She could see little of him other than he was large, garbed in buckskin, and had long, tangled black hair. And that his breathing swelled the side of his chest like a bellows.
“Are you all right?” Her question was tentative... and went unanswered. Rachel stepped closer. “Excuse me,” she began, only to have something latch on to her foot. Before she could do more than squeal in dismay her ankle was jerked and she landed hard on the ground, amid blue silver silk and petticoats. The creature bounded up pressing her down till the pebbles dug into her shoulders and plopped on top of her.
“Who are you?” His voice was a low growl, demanding in her ear, and Rachel tried to answer. But the brute had knocked the air from her lungs and his weight kept her from taking a breath. Which shouldn’t really matter since she was already dead, but for some reason it did. Rachel wriggled against his strength, tearing at his clothing with her fingers. When he shifted, she sucked in air, now breathing near as hard as he.
“You heard me, wench. What’s your name?”
He was so close she could see the tiny flecks of gold that starred from the center of his green eyes. For a moment she just stared, fascinated. But then his rough hand wrapped around her chin, and the reality of her circumstances flooded about her. With a twist of her aristocratic head, Rachel dislodged his hold.
“I,” she said in her haughtiest voice—the one she reserved for servants who dared not anticipate her every whim—“am Lady Rachel Elliott. And you will kindly remove yourself from my person.”
Her words seemed to startle him, for he blinked, and for a moment she thought he would comply with her command. But instead he settled his long body more securely on top of her, his legs sliding between hers.
“First you will tell me what demon possessed you to near kill me.”
“Kill you?” It was disgraceful the way he lay there looking at her. But Rachel refused to enter into a contest of strength with him. For one thing she would most certainly lose. For another, as uncomfortable as she was, none of this really mattered. She saved his wretched life, though by the looks of him she couldn’t understand why anyone cared that she should. She would soon be gone, back to where she belonged. “It was I who saved you from leaping into the abyss. And I assure you, t’was no demon that possessed me.”
“Mortal man then?” He pushed up on his elbows enough to glance around the clearing. “Who’s with you?”
Rachel’s eyes were focused on his taut, sun-darkened neck. “No one.” She tried to sigh—this was all becoming very tedious—but his chest was in the way. “I came alone. Now would you kindly—”
But she never was able to finish her request for before she knew what he was about there was a knife near as long as Prince William’s sword poised beside her cheek.
“Don’t be lying to me wench.”
“I am not lying.”
The blade inched closer. “You think I don’t know how steep the path to get up here is? How out of the way it be?”
Rachel admitted to a moment of fear. The kiss of steel along her face seemed very real. But she didn’t imagine a person died more than once, at least not two times in as many days. She looked him straight in his strange light eyes. “It matters naught what you do to me.”
“Oh?” He lifted a dark brow. “And why might that be?”
Rachel pursed her lips. Should she bother explaining herself to the brute? The slight pressure of the blade skimming her skin decided it. “I’m not... well, I’m not what I appear to be.”
He pushed further up on his elbows, giving her an insolent stare. “You appear to be a woman.”
Heated blood rushed to her face and Rachel’s lips thinned. Blushes were something she could prettily fake. They were not something caused by men garbed in animal skins. “I am not real,” she managed to say between clenched teeth. But the last word was cut off as she sucked in her breath. He’d covered the exposed curve of her breast with his free hand. His palm was rough and hot, heating her flesh.
“You feel real enough.” His fingers dipped beneath the lace-trimmed bodice.
Rachel could only sputter. Which wasn’t like her at all, she who was known for her sparkling wit and clever conversation. She who was rumored to have captured the heart of the king’s brother. “Stop it this instant,” she finally managed, but could have saved her breath. He seemed to have tired of the diversion and with a swiftness and grace she never expected pushed to his feet. His hand manacled her wrist, dragging her up with him.
He glanced about the clearing again as if he expected someone to come leaping out at him, then seemingly satisfied, sheathed the knife down the side of his soft boots. “I’ll have an honest answer from you now, woman,” he said, his grip tightening around her arm. Without waiting for her to speak he pulled her toward a rough log dwelling.
She’d barely noticed it before when she was looking for the rope. At the time her mind was filled with what might happen to her if she failed to save him. Now she studied the structure with a somewhat detached interest.
The building was small and crude, the wood not even planed but still covered by thick bark. These logs were piled one atop the other to form the walls, though one side was almost entirely covered by a stone chimney. Facing the cliff was a door made of naught but a few planks of wood. It stood ajar.
Without ceremony he yanked her through the portal, giving her a shove that sent her sprawling onto a thick pile of furs. Dust puffed into the air and Rachel sneezed delicately.
The creature didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy checking the charge in the flintlock rifle he grabbed up from beside the door. He turned toward her and Rac
hel almost laughed. Did he honestly think to frighten her with a gun? She who had already drowned in the lake behind Queen’s House? It was Liz who’d been shot, Liz and Geoffrey. The smile that played at the corners of her mouth disappeared as the explosive sounds echoed through her memory.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
The sharp edge to his question filtered through to Rachel and she blinked, taken aback by his nearness. For now he squatted in front of her, close enough for her to notice his eyes again, to feel the warmth of his rum-laced breath. The rifle lay at an angle across the buckskin molded over his thighs. His hands clasped her shoulders and though they were still now, Rachel had a feeling they’d been shaking her moments ago.
She reached up to straighten her wig and her fingers brushed the slope of her cheek. It surprised her to find the smooth skin wet with tears. Rachel took a deep breath. “There’s nothing amiss with me that leaving your odious company wouldn’t cure.”
He studied her a few moments, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched beneath a layer of dark whiskers. Pushing himself up, he strode toward the door, glancing back only long enough to say, “I don’t recall inviting you for a visit.” Then he peered outside, cradling the rifle loosely in the crook of his arm. But Rachel didn’t doubt he could bring the weapon to his shoulder and pull the trigger faster than she could snap open a fan. At least he wasn’t aiming her way. He seemed intent upon watching for someone outside.
Foolish man.
If there was anyone out and about, they had nothing to do with her. She’d arrived here... Rachel tried to remember exactly how she did get here, wherever here was. She could recall the light and the angels telling her to save a lost soul, then a whirling vortex of sound and colors. There was never any doubt in her mind that the man by the door was the one she was to rescue.
Though to be sure, she couldn’t imagine why he was worth the bother. He was hardly a prince or even a man of any consequence. His manner of dress was strange to her, animal skins wrapped tightly about his feet and legs, more skins forming a loosely draped shirt. Certainly not the trappings of a gentleman.
Nor did his manners show signs of breeding. His voice had neither the soft melodic cadence nor the ease of speech she was used to. He was gruff and unappreciative of her sacrifice for him.
Rachel took a deep breath and wrapped her arms about her waist. She was cold and uncomfortable. The low burning fire in the hearth gave off more smoke than heat, filling the small cabin with a haze that burned her eyes. She was more than ready to leave.
But how?
She had saved his miserable life. Why wasn’t she gone from this place? Rachel sucked in her cheeks and looked up toward the ceiling. Ignoring the blackened rafters hung with more animal skins, she whispered under her breath. “Take me back... please.”
“What be you mumbling about?”
Rachel’s head snapped down, her eyes locking with his. “I don’t mumble.”
“Nay, of course you don’t.”
“I don’t.” Rachel turned her face away, then looked back quickly. “Where are you going?” He opened the door wider and stepped through, still carrying the rifle.
“I’ll be taking a look about for your friends,” he said, ignoring her assurance that she came alone.
At least he was gone.
Rachel took a deep breath and, gathering her skirts, stood. Now all she had to do was... Hugging herself, Rachel pursed her lips. Whatever was she supposed to do? Certainly God knew her task was complete. He knew all, didn’t He? Then why wasn’t He putting her back in her real life? Or at least returning her to those two meddlesome spirits?
The cabin was small. No more than ten paces took her from end to end, from hearth to window. She measured the dwelling several times before inspiration struck her. “Of course.” With a sigh of relief Rachel returned to the disheveled pile of furs and dropped to her knees. She took a moment to spread her silver and blue skirt about her.
How could she be so foolish... so irreverent to think she could speak with God or His angels standing up. Piously she folded her hands. Her wig cocked forward over one brow as she bowed her head.
“Blast this—” Rachel bit off her blasphemous words, glancing nervously toward the crude ceiling before impatiently setting her hairpiece to rights. Then she lowered her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to clear her mind of all but the purest thoughts.
“God in Heaven, hear my humble prayer.” She paused, waiting for the Heavenly Spirit to flow through her. It didn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary. After all, she was one of God’s instruments. An angel herself. An angel returned to earth to do God’s work. Buoyed by that thought, Rachel continued. “I have done what you asked of me.” And not without considerable hardship and—Perhaps she shouldn’t complain of the inconvenience. “I have rescued your... your... lamb.” Somehow she found it difficult to describe the man she saved as a lamb. A bull, perhaps. Or a bear. Rachel choked down a giggle, deciding it didn’t matter how she referred to him. The Lord knew whom she meant.
“As you can tell, I have completed the task described to me and wish to return home.” She paused. “To Queen’s House, if you please.” A smile curved her lips. That appeared to be everything. But her “amen” was drowned out when the aforementioned lamb burst through the door.
“Where in the hell did you come from?” Logan slammed the door behind him. “You heard me wench, I want an answer.” This last was spoken in a more subdued voice as he realized what she was doing. Though certainly no saint, he drew the line at interrupting someone’s prayers. Except that he wanted some answers and he wanted them now.
She seemed to be finished anyway, for she stood, facing him, her chin raised in that haughty way she had as if she did him the most wondrous favor deigning to receive him. Except crude and primitive as it was, this cabin was his. She’d shown up on his mountain, his mountain, without so much as a by your leave, and he couldn’t find a footprint or a broken twig to indicate how she got here.
And now she looked at him as if to say he could die and shrivel up before she would answer him. All from a slip of a woman with a skirt full enough to hide a scalping party. And hair that would do any warrior proud... if he displayed it on his scalp pole.
Logan took a deep breath and tried again. “I’ve done a wee bit of tracking in my time and I can’t find any sign that you came by way of the path.”
“I didn’t.”
“There be not so much as a crushed leaf or a disturbed spiderweb in the forest.”
She merely shrugged shoulders that shone pearly white even in the dim light from the smoldering fire.
“Well now if you didn’t come up the path nor through the forest, that leaves but the face of the cliff out yonder, and we know since you pushed me—”
“I did not push you.” Rachel folded her arms. “I saved you.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Because ’tis true. You were going to jump off the edge.” Why else was she sent?
He only shook his head while he rested the rifle back against the wall, and crossed his arms in a masculine mimicry of her stance. “I was but standing there admiring the view before you came.”
Rachel paused. “I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged as if what she believed or did not believe was of little concern to him. “Now, how did you get here?”
“You tell me.” Rachel stuck out her chin. “What way is left?”
“Well, as far as I can tell there’s but to come flying down from the sky like a...” A strange light shone in her eyes and Logan could barely get the word “bird” past his lips. Then she looked away and he let out his breath on a ragged laugh. “Now you’ll not have me crediting that, wench.”
“Credit what you like.” She turned her back to him. “’Tis all the same to me.” Two could play at this game, Rachel thought with a smirk. Then she remembered where she was. Why was she still here? Why?
“Who are you?” Logan realized there was more
puzzlement than command in his question, but he couldn’t help himself. He saw something. In her eyes. In the expression on her face, that made him question his own judgment.
But then that was hardly a new predicament. Still...
She glanced at him over her shoulder, the tilt of her rounded chin still arrogant. “I told you did I not? I’m Lady Rachel Elliott. A ward of the king. One of the queen’s ladies in waiting.”
“And that would be Queen... ?”
Rachel whirled around on a sigh of exasperation. “Her Royal Majesty Queen Charlotte, of course.” Was the man such a pudding head not to know his own sovereign?
“Ah,” he said, leaning his brawny shoulder against the wall and crossing one ankle over the other. “Of course.”
She didn’t like his tone. Rachel’s body tensed and she stared at him through narrowed eyes. He was mocking her and nobody, nobody, did such a thing without chastisement. Yet there didn’t seem to be anyone about to mete out her punishment. And she certainly couldn’t do it. He loomed over her and he obviously had no respect for her station.
It was nigh time she returned to her own world.
Rachel sucked in her cheeks. Perhaps she was to find her own way home. Of course. How silly of her not to realize that before. She would have this creature take her to the Queen’s residence and all would be as it should be. His eyes widened when she gave him her most gracious smile. “If you would be so kind as to escort me to Queen’s House, I will—”
“I’ll not be going anywhere till spring, Your Highness.”
“Till spring. But... but ’tis barely autumn.” His response to that was a mere shrug. “I must return to my home.”
With a lazy motion he shifted away from the door, offering her an unobstructed exit. Rachel hesitated before pride lifted her chin. Fine. She would go alone. Her gaze drifted to the wild, untamed land framed by the open doorway. After taking a hesitant step she paused. “Would you be so kind as to direct me toward London.” She heard him laugh, a deep, booming sound, but when her eyes found his face it was sober.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 2
