Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02]

by My Heavenly Heart

  “Head east,” he began, “once you cross the mountains you shouldn’t have too difficult a time... till you reach the sea.”

  “The sea?”

  “Aye, the Atlantic Ocean stands between you and London but—”

  “That’s impossible.” Rachel clenched her hands together and twirled away, her skirts floating out about her ankles. But it only took a moment before she twisted back. “Where am I?” When he didn’t answer immediately Rachel lurched forward, catching the front of his buckskin shirt in her fists. Shaking did more to dislodge herself than him, but that didn’t stop her. “Tell me where I am.” But though she demanded to know, the knowledge seemed to fill her with despair.

  “The colony of South Carolina...” she repeated his answer. As her voice trailed off she let loose of his shirt. She paced the cabin again before facing him. “Then I was obviously mistaken about finding my own way home. They will come for me.”

  “They?”

  Rachel expelled her breath in an unladylike sigh. Discussing this with him was becoming a bore. She would just tell him and be done with it. Mayhaps then he would leave her alone to await... She wasn’t certain what would happen, or when. But she did know something must. No fate could be as cruel as leaving her here.

  “I was sent to save you,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “By angels.”

  If she expected him to be awestruck by her announcement, she was sadly disappointed. His first reaction was a booming laugh that tightened her lips. The next was to grab her shoulders in his crushing grip.

  “I’ve had enough of your lies, wench. It will be the truth you’ll be telling me.”

  “You doubt heaven exists?” For the first time she was frightened of him. His anger seemed a palatable thing.

  “Nay. I’ve no doubt there be a heaven... and a hell.”

  “Then why must you mistrust me?”

  He yanked her up against his hard chest. “An angel you might resemble, but I know better. For if someone sent you to me ’twould be no messenger from God. ’Twould be the devil himself.”

  Rachel stared into the hard green eyes and nearly believed him.

  Chapter Two

  “What is madness? To have erroneous perceptions and to reason correctly from them.”

  — Voltaire

  Philosophical Dictionary

  No amount of drink made her disappear.

  Logan lowered the jug from his lips, and swallowed before backhanding his mouth. He sat in the corner where the stones of the hearth met the south wall, his long legs stretched out on the earthen floor. And he watched the woman as she slept.

  Last evening after she insisted she was tired and he offered her the only bed in the cabin—the one where she now lay—he walked outside. Though night was upon them, the sky was clear and bright beneath a canopy of moon and stars. The kind of cool, crisp night that Logan relished. But it wasn’t the heavens that was on his mind. At least not that bit of it he could see overhead.

  What in the hell was going on? He didn’t believe her for one minute. She was no angel. Hell, he didn’t even credit that she was Lady what’s-her-name. Despite the diamonds. Logan kicked at a clump of winter dry grass. As if some high and mighty member of King George’s court would show up on the Carolina frontier.

  “As if I’d be wanting them here,” he mumbled. He might not have been old enough to fight for the Bonnie Prince like his brother, James, but he never forgave the British crown their role at Culloden.

  All of which was irrelevant anyway. For there was obviously not a parcel of truth in anything she’d said. Either she was mad. Or he was. And since he’d been told as much before, not to mention wondering often enough himself, Logan was willing to admit he’d imagined the entire incident.

  Until he wandered back into the smoky cabin and saw her sound asleep on a pallet of furs. She lay on her side, fully dressed, her cheek pillowed on curled fingers like a child. But it was not a child’s body clad in that riotously adorned gown. Logan stared a moment at the breasts nearly tumbling from the lacy décolletage, then swallowed and reached for the nearest jug.

  If he wasn’t mad, then she was.

  ~ ~ ~

  The caress was continuous. Rachel smiled, though she did her best to remain in the netherlands of slumber. But she couldn’t ignore the touch. It was warm and... and wet? Rachel’s eyes popped open, only to meet the droopy gaze staring at her from both sides of a black, moist nose.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She skittered up and back, knocking her wig further askew in the process. She didn’t care for dogs... animals in general for that matter. And this one was practically plastered against her side, its big pink tongue dangling out of an open mouth.

  “Shoo. Go away,” she implored while glancing about. Memory and realization that she was still someplace in the wilds of the New World assaulted her simultaneously. She nearly groaned. Last night she was so sure as she fell asleep on the disgusting pile of animal pelts that she’d awaken in her own luxurious bed beneath a canopy of gilt and brocaded silk. Yet here she was... still.

  And now to make matters worse, there was this dog. A large black-and-white spaniel. And he seemed unable to understand the simplest of directions.

  Keeping her eye on it Rachel gingerly pushed to her feet. Her gown was intolerably wrinkled, the silver tarnished in spots and the hemline ragged. And it had been such a beautiful gown.

  Rachel sighed and caught the spaniel’s eye again. “Where is he?” she demanded before crossing her arms and tramping across the furs, kicking at one that tangled with her foot. The fire was long cold, which accounted for the gooseflesh covering her arms. But she glanced hopefully in the hanging iron pot anyway.

  “He’s gone hunting, has he,” Rachel said, toeing a puff of dirt toward the burned-out ashes in the hearth. “’Tis a good thing, for I am hungry.” The glance she tossed the dog over her shoulder showed her indifference. “What does it matter how hungry you are? You’re nothing but a—”

  The rest of her words along with the sudden realization that she was having a conversation—of sorts—with a dog were interrupted as the man pounded into the cabin. He was dressed as yesterday in a buckskin jacket, long dark hair tangled about his shoulders, and an extra day’s worth of whiskers shadowing his lower face.

  “’Tis awake ye are.” When Rachel said nothing he glanced from her to the gray ashes in the hearth and back. “I’d of thought ye might start a fire while I was gone.”

  Start a fire? Was the creature mad? “I, sir, do not start fires. Servants start fires.”

  “Ah.” He lifted a straight dark brow and stared at her a moment longer before tossing something her way. Reflexes had Rachel catching the furry bundle. He turned toward the stack of wood piled to the side of the fireplace. “We seem to have misplaced all the servants for the moment.”

  Rachel raised her chin. “Then I suppose you will have to do it.”

  “This time,” was all he said before bending over and exposing a few smoldering coals beneath the ashes. He added a bit of kindling, then blew on it gently, coaxing a tiny flame to life. Rachel watched until she grew bored, but it wasn’t until she decided to cross her arms to ward off the chill that she realized what she held.

  Her squeal caused the man to jerk around and the dog to bark.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” Logan settled hands on knees and pushed to his feet. “Down, Dog,” he yelled as he scooped up the rabbit she’d dropped to the floor.

  “’Tis dead.”

  He gave her a look out of sea-green eyes that seemed to say he found her amazingly stupid. But all he did was yell at the dog who ran around the tiny cabin, yelping with excitement. With a sigh Rachel turned her back on the scene. But when his owner’s shouted commands had no effect on the spaniel, Rachel caught the dog’s eye as he bounded past her.

  “Oh, do be quiet,” was all she said, but it seemed to calm the animal. The spaniel stopped in its tracks, then, as if deciding it had enoug
h activity for one day, pranced to the center of the furs spread over the floor and plopped down.

  “Lazy bag ’a bones.”

  The man’s words brought her attention back to him as he strode through the open door. Rachel watched as he placed the rabbit on a stump, then arced a small ax down, severing the rabbit’s head from his body. Rachel found it difficult to swallow. He quickly skinned the small animal, removing its entrails. Then he reentered the cabin and tossed the rest into the pot. He splashed water from a rope-handled pail over the meat, before swinging the iron pot over the now crackling fire.

  Then he turned to face her.

  At first he said nothing, and Rachel had to force herself not to squirm under his steady gaze. Which was ridiculous. She was an intimate of the queen, enamored by the king’s brother. There was no reason to be intimidated by a man more beast than human. Yet she was the first to glance away.

  It was then that he spoke. “I don’t know who you are or how you came to be here—”

  “I thought I made myself clear—” Rachel began but he lifted his hand, palm out, and she clamped her mouth shut.

  “Since you chose to be here for the winter—”

  Now it was her turn to interrupt. “I did not choose any such thing. I was...” Rachel paused. It didn’t seem worth the effort to repeat the circumstances surrounding her arrival. He did not believe her last night, nor did it seem as if the morning made him more receptive. He should know one thing however. “I shall not be remaining here for the winter.”

  He continued on as if she hadn’t spoken. “There are a few things I’m believing should be made clear. First being that be my bed.” His chin jerked toward the pile of skins where the dog lay sleeping. “If you be wanting to share it with me, I’m willing but—”

  “Share it!” Rachel could hardly believe her ears. “Are you daft?”

  “More than likely,” he admitted. “But that ’tis not the issue. Sleeping arrangements are. And I would like my bed back.”

  “Well you may have it.” Rachel whirled around, eager to leave this man’s odious company only to realize there was no place for her to go. The cabin was so small. All she could do was stand there, impotent anger welling up like an underground spring. But it seemed he wasn’t finished.

  “Since we’ll be sharing the food and lodging—”

  “I shan’t be staying,” Rachel threw over her shoulder, though, in truth she had no idea when she would leave or how.

  He seemed to have the same misgivings for he paid her interruption no mind. “I think ’tis fair you do the cooking.”

  Cooking! Rachel twisted back around. Who did he think he was? And more importantly didn’t he realize who she was? Rachel opened her mouth to tell him... again, but he had already gathered up his rifle and was striding through the door. All she managed to do was yell at his retreating form. “I do not cook. Servants cook.” He ignored her, walking with a steady gait toward the woods.

  Rachel slammed the door only to jerk it open again. “Wait.” Whether it was the word itself or her frantic tone, Rachel wasn’t sure. But he did stop, glancing back, his brow raised.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve some traps to see to.”

  “Oh.” Rachel’s hand tightened on the latch. “I have need of...” She took a deep breath and tried again. “Where is your necessary?” She thought she noticed the ghost of a smile curve his lips, but before she could become indignant it was gone.

  He simply made a sweeping motion with his hand. “’Tis all about you, Your Highness.”

  “Your Highness, indeed!” Rachel gave the door a push, then kicked it for good measure. “And what does he mean, all about you?” Rachel asked the question, yet she feared the answer was obvious. “Oh, I know what he means,” she said as the dog lifted his head, opening sleepy eyes to her. “I’ve... well, I’ve relieved myself in the woods before... as a child. It’s just that civilized people... never mind.”

  She paced the length of the cabin twice before grabbing hold of the latch and yanking open the door. Once outside she hurried on her way, shivering from the morning chill. Had it been this cold yesterday? Rachel couldn’t remember. But by the time she rushed back into the cabin her teeth were chattering.

  Maneuvering the only chair in the cabin closer to the fire took more effort than Rachel wished to expend, but for the sake of warmth, she did it. Then she settled down, spreading her skirts, and waited. She couldn’t exactly call the aroma wafting from the iron pot pleasant, but it did remind her that she was hungry. How long had it been since she ate? Rachel tried to recall but the memory became all tangled with Liz’s and Geoffrey’s deaths and the reason she was here.

  To save this worthless creature’s life.

  Which she had done... and not without considerable sacrifice, so why wasn’t she—

  Her question came to a sudden halt when the object of her lament pushed open the door. He glanced at her once, almost as if he were checking to see if she was still there, before leaning his rifle in its usual spot. He crossed to the hearth and gingerly picked up a metal plate that had grown hot from the fire. With a spoon he scooped some of the rabbit out of the pot. To his credit he looked up, silently offering her the plate.

  Rachel shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  It was an obvious lie, but he simply shrugged and began to eat. She expected his manners to be deplorable... after all, he was, but he ate with some decorum, though he stood the entire time. It wasn’t until he was nearly finished that Rachel realized the reason. She sat in his chair.

  So be it. He was well served, having but one chair to his name. Rachel folded her arms and tried not to watch him scoop the last bit into his mouth. It wasn’t the fare she usually ate, but perhaps she could force herself to partake of a bite or two.

  He spooned more onto the plate and Rachel smiled, ready to ask for it. But before she could, he set the dish on the dirt floor. “Dog.” It only took that one word for the animal to lift his head, black nose sniffing the air. Before Rachel’s startled eyes the dog stretched, stood, loped over, and wolfed down her meal.

  Rachel jumped to her feet, but it went unnoticed. The man was already back through the door taking his gun and an axe with him. “How could you?” Rachel mumbled, fighting back tears for the first time since she’d... died.

  “Yes, yes, I know you are hungry,” she sniffed, “but so am I. And cold and...” Her brimming eyes glanced down at her gown. “And dirty. And I don’t know where I am, or why I’m here.” She sucked in her breath on a sob. “Or why I’m talking to a dog, for heaven’s sake.”

  But this time she received no response. The brutish animal just continued to push the pewter plate about with his nose and tongue, savoring every last bit of meat.

  Rachel plopped back into the chair, exasperated. She stayed there until a steady thumping from outside tore her attention away from her empty stomach. At first she tried to ignore the sound, but finally she stood, straightened her wig, and moved across the room to peek through the small window of what appeared to be oiled skin. She couldn’t see anything. In annoyance she turned to the door.

  The air was warmer now, though still chilly enough for Rachel to hug her arms. But then she wasn’t doing labor. The man was. He stood near the side of the cabin, his back to her, chopping wood.

  And he was naked to the waist.

  Rachel had thought him stout or at least prone to fleshiness. Now she realized it was the padding of skins that made him seem so. Without them he was not the least fleshy. He had broad shoulders and thick upper arms, especially when he hefted the axe, but his waist was trim, as were his hips. He didn’t look like any man she’d ever seen before, and not just because of his hair and manner of dress.

  He paused, swiping his arm across his brow and just as quickly turned. As if he’d felt her looking at him. His eyes locked with hers and Rachel had an uncomfortable feeling her face was turning a bright pink.

  “I wondered what you we
re doing,” was all she could think to say.

  He said nothing, just looked at her with those green eyes till she turned away and reentered the cabin.

  ~ ~ ~

  She’d never spent a longer, more uncomfortable day. Rachel divided her time between pacing the tiny cabin and sitting in the chair. She was bored beyond measure. Back at Queen’s House there were friends to talk to. Liz. No, not Liz, anymore, Rachel reminded herself, and stopped. She didn’t want to think about what her life was... what it would be again.

  For now she was stuck in the backwoods of nowhere. With a man who seemed unable to utter more than a few words. At least that’s all he’d spoken to her today. The few times he entered the cabin today—once to call for his dog and two times carrying armfuls of chopped wood—he merely looked at her as if he wished she’d disappear.

  And in that they were of like minds.

  Except that she couldn’t.

  And she couldn’t imagine why that was.

  Actually, by the time the feeble bit of light filtering through the window was gone, Rachel had tired of thinking on it. She was dozing in the chair when a sudden burst of cold awoke her. He was standing in the open doorway, his form backdropped by twilight, and he was staring at her. Though she couldn’t clearly see his face, Rachel had no doubt of that. She also had no doubt that his expression was one of annoyance.

  She straightened the crick in her neck as he strode into the room, kicking the door shut as he moved. She wasn’t used to falling asleep in chairs. When he stood between her and the hearth he stopped.

  “You’re wet.” Rachel hastened to draw back the hem of her gown which already bore bleeding spots of dampness where he dripped on her. But he didn’t seem concerned by the fact that he was soaking her clothes... her. He leaned forward, grasping the arms of the roughly made chair with his large hands.

  Imprisoning her.

  Water streamed from his dark hair, dropping in fat, cold plops onto her bodice as Rachel arched back as far as she could. “What do you think you’re doing? I am Lady Rachel—”