“And I don’t give a damn who you thinks you are, or what for that matter.”
It was nearly dark but he was close enough for Rachel to see the moisture beading on his long, dark lashes. To feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes bore into hers as his presence continued to soak her.
“I don’t even care how you came to be here. The truth is you are, for I’m fully sober now and you still be here. So—”
“I am not some drunken fantasy, sir!” Rachel’s chin shot up, bringing her face closer to his.
“As I’ve finally concluded. But whatever you’re doing here, this be my house and—”
“Such as it is.”
“And you be here out of the goodness of me heart.”
She said nothing to that, but the roll of her eyes heavenward conveyed what she thought the odds were that he even had a heart.
“So if you be staying here, you’ll be doing your share.”
The nerve of the man. “Share of what?”
“Chores for one.”
“Chores? I never heard of anything so ridiculous. Queen Charlotte’s ladies do not do chores. We... Are you listening to me?” But he wasn’t. She could tell that by the set of his broad shoulders. He now bent over the hearth, trying to coax the few remaining embers back to life. He’d jerked away from her, leaving Rachel wet and chilled.
Pushing to her feet Rachel took the few steps necessary to put her beside him. “Would you look at what you’ve done to me.” She brushed at the gown with her palms. “I’m cold.”
He said nothing, only continued to feed chips of wood into the fire. “Did you hear what I said?” She hovered over him as he squatted in front of the fireplace. “Answer me.” Rachel’s voice shrilled higher. She wanted to take him by his naked shoulders and shake him. She wanted to grab his head and box his ears. She wanted to—
Before Rachel could even think of the consequences she jerked her leg back and kicked him. It hurt her toes as much as it did his leg, she imagined... possibly more. But that didn’t seem to be the point.
She had a fleeting image of his face looking up at her in shock before something circled her ankle and she was sprawled on the hard, dirt floor, his damp body on top of her.
Her palms flattened against his chest, pale against sun-darkened skin, trying to push him off. But he did not budge. If anything he settled more firmly.
“I will not put up with this from you. Not in me own house. Not when I neither asked nor want you here.”
If her tongue were given free rein she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. But something in his expression warned her against it.
She lay there, staring at him, feeling the pull of his eyes to the tips of her toes. Her heart pounded and her breathing became shallow as he came closer. She could feel the heat of his breath on her mouth. And he was right. There was no scent of rum to sicken her stomach.
Rachel wasn’t certain when she realized he planned to kiss her. She only knew she should be enraged. And that for some reason she wasn’t.
And then he was pushing to his feet, pulling her up with him. Rachel grabbed for her wig but it toppled off her head, landing on the floor in a shower of white powder. They both stared at it a moment before Rachel shoved away from him and scooped it up with a flourish.
He let her go, acting as if the entire incident hadn’t happened as he tossed a log onto the revived fire. But Rachel couldn’t forget what he’d done. She slapped at the dirt on her gown with one hand, holding the wig with the other, sniffing the entire time trying to keep tears of frustration from showing. She wouldn’t let him know how much he upset her. She wouldn’t.
After all, she was here to save him. Had saved him. He should be thanking the heavens that she came when she did, rather than treating her as if she were some sort of pariah.
But he didn’t seem to care at all. Once he turned away from her, back toward the hearth, it was almost as if he forgot her existence. With his hands he scooped some manner of crushed grain from a nearby sack, dumping it into the pot. To this he added water, gave it a stir, and swung the whole over the now blazing fire.
It was warmer now. Rachel stood, holding the obscenely disheveled wig. Not knowing exactly what she should do. Which in itself was a frustration. She always knew what was expected of her. And she always managed very nicely. But now she had no idea what to do. So she did nothing. Only stood watching as the man retrieved a loose-fitting shirt of coarse material from a peg on the wall and yanked it over his head.
At least he was covered, though by no means suitably garbed. But he was covered. She found his nakedness disconcerting.
“How did you become so wet?” The heavy length of dark hair dampened the shirt.
“’Tis my habit to bathe when the need arises.” The look he slanted over his shoulder suggested she might consider the possibility.
The idea of soaking in hot, fragrant water was so appealing Rachel failed to take offense. “A bath would be heavenly. If you’d prepare the tub, I think I can manage the rest on my own.” At least she assumed she could. Of course she was used to being pampered and waited on, but she certainly didn’t want him assisting her.
Rachel was so enthralled with the idea of being clean she didn’t notice his reaction till he loomed over her. “You spend your day doing naught but warming your backside on my chair... my chair. You fail to fix even the basest of suppers. You allow the fire to die out so ’tis freezing when I come back from a soaking in the creek, and you think ’tis my duty to prepare your bath?”
It obviously wasn’t a question he expected her to answer, for with an expression of contempt he turned back toward the fire. And Rachel decided a bath was not in the offing. Not that she wished for a “soaking in the creek” as he put it. She would simply wait until she returned to Queen’s House.
If only she could wait till then to eat. Unfortunately Rachel was near faint from hunger. It had been so long since she’d eaten, she couldn’t remember what her last bite of earthly food was. But she knew it must have smelled a bit more tempting than the odors coming from the pot. Still, she wanted nothing more than to behave like a charwoman and devour every last bite.
She watched, her mouth watering as he spooned the cooked meal into a shallow wooden bowl. And waited for him to hand it to her. Then watched in shock as he settled himself on the floor, crossing his legs and using a spoon to shovel the food into his mouth. It was only after several bites—bites that Rachel could almost taste—that he glanced up.
“Help yourself,” he said, inclining his head toward the pot.
Help herself? She’d never helped herself in her life. The very thought. But it seemed unlikely that he would wait upon her. And memories of her earlier fare being fed to the dog were still vivid.
Rachel’s sigh of resignation was heartfelt. There were several shallow scooped bowls stacked on a crude shelf, along with a few bent and dented spoons. Rachel chose one of each, then moved with as much dignity as she could toward the caldron of bubbling gruel. The pot was hot, which she should have known, of course, but she could tell he watched her and that made her nervous. Leaning forward she managed to scoop several spoonfuls into her bowl without touching the pot before a new odor struck her.
At nearly the same instant she was knocked from the side and tumbled onto the floor in what was becoming an all too familiar way.
But this time he was rolling her and slapping at her legs, and Rachel couldn’t keep from screaming. When he stopped her cheek was pressed to the dirt, her nose inches from her spilled bowl of gruel, and she could not suppress her anger. Jerking around, she pushed up on her elbows, her eyes blazing.
“What do you think you’re—”
Rachel’s mouth clamped shut, then opened on a shriek. “I’m on fire!” Smoke curled up from her skirt hem and she realized it was burning silk that she smelled. “Help me!”
But even Rachel realized her pleas were unnecessary. He’d already smothered the flames and was plucking at the scor
ched fabric, mumbling a string of curses under his breath.
“For God’s sake, woman, don’t you know enough not to catch yourself afire?”
“Of course, I do. It’s just that I never—What are you doing?” Rachel struggled to shove what was left of her overpetticoat down as he flipped it up.
“Would you stop?” With one hand he pinioned her ankles, stopping her from kicking at him. “I’m only checking to see if you’re burned.” His eyes met hers. “Hold yourself still.”
His tone was low, almost gentle, and seemed to brook no argument. At least Rachel couldn’t seem to form one as his hands and gaze roamed over her legs. He removed her shoes, her dainty silver and blue shoes that were now dirt-caked and singed. Then his long fingers felt beneath her skirts, untying her garters. Her stockings were silk, white, with decorative clockwork of pale blue. At least they had been before... before everything that had happened to her. Now they were dirt smudged and scorched, with holes the size of half crowns burned through revealing reddened skin.
Rachel held her breath as he rolled the stockings down her leg.
“Am I hurting you?” His gaze met hers again, the green now as dark as a holly leaf.
“No.” There was some pain to be sure. Now that the initial fright was gone, she was aware that several areas on her skin felt hot. But that wasn’t what made her throat tight.
He lowered his gaze, and Rachel watched the shadow of his lashes as he examined her legs. She expected his touch to be rough, but it wasn’t, and when he placed hands on knees to push to his feet, she wondered at the lack of warmth his departure brought.
“What are you doing?” Rachel twisted, shifting about to see him pull a few dried leaves from a sack. These he crumbled into a small earthen bowl. He added a glob of a whitish-gray substance and stirred with the tip of his finger. “What is that?” Rachel tried to scoot back as he knelt again in front of her.
“’Tis naught but a bit of bear fat.” His palm cupped and lifted one of her legs.
“What did you put in it?”
“Something that will make your burns feel better,” That green stare seemed to bore into her. “I won’t hurt you.”
With two fingers he rubbed the mixture onto her flesh, making sure to cover all the areas reddened by the flames. Rachel couldn’t tell if it lessened the pain or not. She was too entranced by the circular motion of his fingers, long and dark from the sun, and seeming more so when juxtaposed on her pale skin.
After he finished Rachel expected he would stand, but he only leaned back on his heels, his hands hanging loosely between his knees, his stare still on her exposed legs. Then he lifted his gaze. It met hers. And time seemed to stop. It was almost as if they shared a trance.
Which was foolish for in the next instant he grabbed up the bowl and pushed to his feet. “In the future try not to be catching yourself afire.” He paused on his way to put the bowl back on the shelf. “Wearing something with a few less ruffles might help.”
“The king found no fault with my gown.” How dare this... this man criticize her clothing. He who wore either animal skins or nearly nothing at all.
“The king.”
Rachel couldn’t tell if the contempt in his voice came from a dislike of his sovereign, or that he didn’t believe her. Whichever, he simply shook his head, then called for his dog. “Get yourself up you lazy mongrel.”
Despite the order, the dog seemed in no hurry to comply. Yawning, it stretched and shook. By the time it headed for the door, the man had shrugged into his jacket and grabbed up his gun.
“There should be a serving or two left in the pot.” He glanced over his shoulder. “If you think you can manage.”
Rachel stood as gracefully as she could, turning on him with her head held high and her dignity intact... despite her appearance. “I shall be quite all right.”
He inclined his head, a motion that made his dark hair tumble forward. “I’ll be back in a bit. Oh, and there be some furs in the corner you can use to make a pallet.”
With that he turned and followed the dog out the door.
It hurt her legs to walk, but then she didn’t have a choice. Ever mindful of the flames Rachel scraped what food was left in the pot into a bowl. The mixture was lumpy and scorched and Rachel was glad the man wasn’t here to see her stoop so low as to eat it. But she was hungrier than she’d ever been, and it didn’t taste that bad.
After she filled her stomach all she could think of was lying down to rest. But she was afraid of what he might do if he came back to find her in his bed. She glanced at the bed of furs which, despite being on a dirt floor in this hovel, looked inviting, then toward the pile in the corner.
Clenching her teeth she stepped gingerly toward the heap. “Why can’t he make another bed?” she mumbled. “After all, this is his house.” She held one of the furs up and examined it contemptuously. “And his bedding. I don’t see why I—”
The cold draft sent gooseflesh across her skin. She turned to see why he didn’t close the door, a sharp retort on her lips.
But it was the echo of her scream that rang through the cabin.
Chapter Three
“Of all the passions, fear weakens judgment most.”
— Cardinal de Retz
Mémoires
It hit her like a bolt of lightning. Why she hadn’t returned to her own life. What she had to do.
She wasn’t sent just to save the man from jumping off the cliff. She was sent to save him from the painted heathen standing in the doorway.
But how?
The revelation left her speechless. All she seemed able to do was stare at the savage. Her heart pounded and she found it difficult to swallow. Especially when he took a step toward her, and then another.
Rachel’s eyes darted about the small cabin looking for something to use against him. He carried a rifle, cradled in one arm, the same way the other man did. There was also a small axe and a knife hanging from his belt. She wouldn’t have a chance against him. But more importantly, Rachel feared the man she was sent to save wouldn’t either.
The savage moved closer and the light from the fire reflected off his coppery skin, the evil darkness of his eyes. His voice was harsh, the words guttural and incomprehensible, and he was almost upon her. He reached out a hand to touch a lock of Rachel’s hair that had escaped from its pins at the same moment her man—the lost soul whose life she was to save—appeared in the doorway.
Rachel hurled herself at the savage, knocking him backward, and yelling to the man at the same time. “Run! Save yourself!” She clawed and kicked with her bare feet, and tried to do all she could to save the man’s life.
The savage was yelling, too. Nothing she could understand, but she didn’t care. She hit and scratched and might have actually drawn blood had not something grabbed her from behind. Without warning she was hauled off the savage by a steel-like arm around her waist.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. She wriggled in the man’s clutches, trying to free herself. Couldn’t he see the danger? Was he sightless as well as stupid?
“’Tis I who should be asking you that question.” His free arm dropped down over hers, pinioning them to her sides. He held her off the floor and when she continued kicking he squeezed, pressing against her breasts. “Behave yourself,” he growled in her ear.
And all the time the savage just stood there, his face looking as if it were cast of bronze, staring at them.
The fight was gone from her. Rachel went limp in the man’s arms. Then he lowered her feet to the floor. She tried to calm her breathing, tried not to notice the way his rough shirt rubbed against the curve of her breast.
Then to Rachel’s surprise the man spoke, but it was nothing she understood, though the painted savage seemed to. He pressed his lips together and folded his arms, regarding her through eyes that glittered like jet.
“This is your woman?” he asked in broken English, each word barely more than a grunt.
“Nay.” Rac
hel was released from his hold, though he did rest his hands on her shoulders. “She is not my woman, but she is my responsibility.”
“Your responsibility?” Rachel squirmed around till she could see the square, whiskered jaw. “You don’t seem to understand, you are my res—” The tightening of his fingers on her silk-clad shoulders brought her protest to an abrupt end. Rachel listened in silence, slowly turning back to the savage.
“I welcome my friend, Swift Fox, to my home. Please sit and we will make talk.”
The expression on the savage’s face softened, though he still glanced at Rachel with apprehension. Apparently her man noticed this, too, for he turned her toward the corner, giving her a slight push, while whispering in her ear. “Off with you and sit.” He paused before adding, “And for once do as you’re told.”
“I always do,” Rachel began, only to realize he wasn’t listening to her. He and his friend were settling down by the fire. A jug was passed from one to the other, as was a pipe. Rachel stood watching as they spoke to each other in that strange, guttural language, finally accepting the fact that the savage was no threat. At least not to the man whose life she was to save.
Finally, tired and sore—the burns on her legs hurt—she huddled down on the pile of skins. They didn’t seem to notice. Actually since they began, neither had so much as glanced her way. They seemed content to take frequent swallows of whatever was in the jug. She felt ignored and cold as drafts crept through the holes between the logs. Even though she thought she should keep watch, Rachel was just as glad when sleep overcame her.
~ ~ ~
What was he to make of her? Logan stood, staring down at her curled-up form. The night was late and Swift Fox had just fallen asleep, or passed out, on Logan’s pallet. His Cherokee friend didn’t hold his liquor too well, unlike himself, Logan thought. He had as much to drink as Swift Fox and the last thing he felt like doing was sleeping. Too great a chance he’d dream.
Logan shook his head. He didn’t want to dwell on the nightmares. The woman was a safer subject to ponder... though on second thought he wouldn’t call her safe at all.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 4
