It surprised Rachel that the creek didn’t scare her—after all, she had drowned. But it didn’t seem to affect her at all.
“Now I’ll show you how ’tis done,” he said, taking one of the shirts from the pile by his side. “You dip it in the water, like so.” He dredged it through the current a few times till it was dripping wet. “Then you work some of this soap into the fabric.” He matched action to words, scooping several fingers full of soft soap from a crock and squeezing it into the rough material till gray bubbles formed. “Rinse it and drape it over a branch to dry,” he said, handing the sodden shirt to her before leaping back into the long grass on the shore.
“That doesn’t look too hard for you, does it?”
“Of course not.” She wasn’t an imbecile. Perhaps she never did anything like this before, but that certainly didn’t mean she couldn’t. She’d always been a quick learner. Master Howard, the dancing instructor commented that she mastered the quadrille before any other young lady. She even enjoyed her lessons... sometimes. And her needlework was neat and precise if not inspired.
Of course she could perform this simple task. Yet looking down at the pile of soiled laundry, then the icy water, did not exactly make one long to begin. “Why am I washing your clothes, again?”
He grinned at her, which took Rachel completely by surprise. She was accustomed to growls from him, and scowls and even the occasional guffaw of laughter, but never a grin. His teeth looked very white against his sun-darkened skin and black whiskers. And despite his rather disheveled and straggly appearance, she had to admit his smile was captivating.
“Ah...what did you say?” Had she actually been concentrating so much on his momentary slip into good nature that she missed his response?
“I said my clothes are dirty. If you wish to scrub yours too, I won’t object.”
“That’s hardly the point,” Rachel called after him as he began striding away. He paused to look over his broad shoulder and she continued. “Since they’re your soiled linens, I think you should wash them.”
“Then who would hunt for dinner?” He arched a dark brow. “You, perhaps?”
Rachel’s lips thinned. Of course he knew she couldn’t hunt. By the looks of the long rifle she couldn’t even lift it. “I wasn’t aware one prevented the other.”
“In other words you’re of the opinion I should do both?”
“I assume you have before. Certainly you laundered your clothing before I came.”
“Occasionally. However, I wasn’t obliged to provide supper for two as I am now.” That said he lifted the rifle, cradling it in his arms, and started toward the path behind the cabin, only stopping when she called out again.
“Do you think perhaps I should go with you?” He glanced back over his shoulder, his expression questioning.
“In case I’m needed to...“ She bit her bottom lip.
“Save me?”
It did seem ridiculous, now that she heard him say it aloud. Rachel squatted, plunging the soapy shirt into the water. “Never mind.”
But she couldn’t help glancing around as he disappeared behind a copse of trees. Then she stared back at the pile of dirty laundry. How had she... she managed to get herself into a situation where she was expected to clean a man’s dirty linens? Her mind wandered back to England for a moment, to Queen’s House and the bevy of servants at call. How she’d taken for granted that her gowns were always clean, her underthings, fresh. Did someone take them to a river and pound them on a flat rock for her? Rachel laughed at the thought. The palace had a laundry... somewhere.
Rachel sighed and when she did her eyes met Henry’s. Logan left him when he went hunting and the dog sat now on his haunches, his mouth open, his dripping tongue hanging out, as if amused by her predicament.
“If you continue to laugh at me like that I shall... shall toss you into the river. We shall see how you enjoy that, Henry.”
In response the dog leaped up, bounding forward and nearly knocking Rachel over in his exuberance to dive into the water. A splashing array of sun-sparkling droplets cascaded over her as the animal dove, headlong into the current.
“Oh, my!” The chilly spray took Rachel’s breath away. Her eyes popped open and she wiped water from her face as she watched Henry frolic about. “I shall pay you in kind for that, Henry. Don’t think I won’t.” But, of course there was nothing she could do now. The dog obviously loved being in the water. Which made one of them, Rachel thought as she leaned down and picked up another shirt.
It smelled of Logan.
Not heady with perfume as the men of her acquaintance in London. But of the outdoors and sweat, and a certain fragrance that seemed to be his alone. She was smiling when she brought the shirt to her face and inhaled; frowning when she realized what she was doing.
“For heaven’s sake,” she squealed, bending over and splashing the linen into the water. It was barely wet when she scooped a handful of soft soap and spread it over the shirt. The water was frigid. The lye in the soap burned her hands. She couldn’t seem to work up any suds. And she didn’t much care.
Holding the shirt between her finger and thumb she swirled it once through the water, then leaped onto shore and carried it dripping wet and soapy to toss over a bramble of rhododendron branches. The next shirt she washed much the same way, and the next. By the time she was down to her last piece of dirty laundry, Rachel was nearly as soaked as her wash.
Henry had long since climbed from the river and lay drying himself in a patch of golden sunshine. Rachel scowled at the animal. Straightening, Rachel spread her palms on the small of her back, stretching. “Perhaps I should let him call you simply dog.
“Oh, I know this isn’t your fault,” she admitted but her voice sounded peevish. “He is the one I blame, believe me. But you could at least be sympathetic, you know.” She scooped up the final shirt, bending forward and grumbling at the same time. “This water is so cold. And I hate this—”
The word soap never crossed her lips for as she reached around for the crock her feet slipped on the wet and sudsy surface. With a windmilling of arms that did nothing to stop her fall Rachel splashed into the bone-chilling water. Her scream ended with a gulp of icy liquid and Rachel was living her death again.
~ ~ ~
Logan held his breath, as his finger slowly squeezed back the trigger. He’d caught sight of the buck’s tracks over the ridge and trailed him for over a mile, finally catching sight of the fine animal after it had circled back toward the cabin. His mouth watered at the prospect of venison steaks as he drew a bead on the buck. In just a moment he would fire and—
“What the hell?” Logan and the deer heard the scream simultaneously. The buck reacted instantly, lifting his antlered head and galloping off into the woods. Logan raced toward his cabin just as quickly.
My God, what had she done now? Logan leaped across a trickling stream, his feet trampling the undergrowth of moss on the other side. She could hardly catch herself on fire while washing his clothes, and she knew better than to approach the edge of the ravine. Didn’t she?
Damn! He climbed over a boulder and thought of Ostenaco. Swift Fox had said he was far away in Kaintukee, but perhaps he’d returned. Perhaps he had come, looking for Logan and finding Rachel.
Logan’s lungs burned as he burst into the clearing. The dog was at the edge of the river, barking his fool head off and Logan headed there on the run. It wasn’t till he passed the border of hollies that he saw what the commotion was about.
He waded into the water, mentally bracing himself against the cold and reached down, yanking her up by her shoulders. She was soaked and sputtering and nearly blue from the cold. “What the hell are you doing, Rachel?” Logan scooped her up without waiting for an answer. He strode toward the cabin, kicking open the door and settling his shivering bundle by the hearth.
It was stone cold.
Logan muttered an oath hot enough to sear Rachel’s ears, but that was the only part of her that was warm.
“I told you to toss some logs on the fire before you came out.”
He had, too. Rachel could clearly remember sitting in the chair earlier today as he spoke to her. He stood leaning against the door, one foot resting on a keg and he was telling her that he no longer intended to play her servant. “As long as you’re to be living here for a while you will earn your keep,” he’d said and Rachel had visions of him lying atop her, kissing her.
But he quickly dispelled that notion before she could conjure up a decent degree of indignation. He wanted her to work... to do her share. She sat listening to him in disbelief, wondering just who he thought he was talking to as he listed several chores that were to be hers.
“Keeping the fire going is partly your concern. I shall chop the wood, but you’re to throw logs on the flames when need be.”
She said nothing.
“And I think you can do the wash, too.”
“I’m to be your servant then?” she asked with a lift of her chin.
“Nay. We’ll work together. Now I’ll be in the barn. Make sure the fire’s going strong before you come out.”
But of course she hadn’t and now she was freezing to death and all because the awful man made her wash his shirts. Rachel stood on the dirt floor, dripping wet and watched as he coaxed what was left of that morning’s fire back to life.
“Grab up a fur and wrap it about you,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “And I’d get out of those wet clothes if I were you. You’ll be coming down with a fever again.”
He acted as if this were her fault, Rachel thought. She still stood where he put her, too taken with shivers to follow any of his directives. It wasn’t until he had flames licking around several logs that he glanced back again and then it was with a scowl on his face.
“Can you do nothing for yourself then?” He pushed to his feet and approached, looking as if he did plan to play the part of lady’s maid again. Thoughts of him helping her out of her gown were enough to spur Rachel to action. She twisted away, scurrying behind the curtain he’d hung for her privacy. Her fingers felt like shards of ice as she tried to unfasten the hooks on her bodice.
“I could have drowned, you know.” She had thought she was drowning... again.
She could hear him moving about in the room. Could hear his amused chuckle. “I seriously doubt that Your Highness.”
“I don’t swim.” Rachel managed to untie the tabs of her petticoat.
“But I assume you can stand.”
“Stand?”
“Aye. Which is all ’twas necessary to rise above the water.”
Rachel felt the heat of embarrassment seep up her neck. She was so agitated when the water closed in over her head, remembering the other time... the time she died... that she’d panicked. She stepped from behind the curtain wrapped from chin to toes in a fur blanket. She still shivered, but could feel a bit of warmth permeating the cabin.
That is until she met his stare and noticed the chill of his light green eyes.
He didn’t say anything but she could feel what he was thinking. Disappointment. In her. And a very real regret that he was forced to offer her hospitality until they visited the Cherokee town.
Rachel took a deep breath and stepped closer to the flames. “I will attempt to be more diligent with the fire.” She slanted him a look up through her lashes, hoping to see an expression of belief on his face. She glanced down quickly. The devil take him. She didn’t give a fig what he thought.
~ ~ ~
The afternoon brought a new revelation. He expected her to milk the cow.
Rachel stood in the doorway of the barn, staring at the cud-chewing cow. This really was more than she could tolerate. Dust motes danced in the slant of late afternoon sun that shone through the slit of a window. The air smelled strongly of straw and animals, and for an instant she seemed carried back to the stables at Queen’s House.
She always enjoyed riding.
Rachel sighed. There was no horse to have saddled. Nothing but a pie-eyed cow. She could refuse to do it, of course. Rachel didn’t think Logan MacQuaid would hurt her, or even try to force her. But she couldn’t help recalling his face when he noticed the fire was out. And the memory of how cold she was wouldn’t go away either.
“Well, Mistress Ellen it is but you and me.” Rachel wasn’t sure what made her call the cow that, but the creature seemed pleased. She shifted her head around, staring at Rachel with large, liquid brown eyes. Patting her neck seemed as natural as flirting over the fringe of her fan. “I really don’t know how to do this. Oh, I realize he showed me this morning, but...” Rachel let the rest of her sentence drift off as she reached for the small three-legged stool.
She settled down as Logan did this morning, between the cow’s front and back legs, prepared to be repulsed—surprised when she wasn’t. Rachel edged the pail beneath the swollen udder and took a deep breath. “You do realize I’ve never done this before, don’t you, Mistress Ellen? Yes, I imagine it is rather simple, however... Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She reached out, tentatively touching, then squeezing the cow’s teats. She was rewarded with a squirt of sweet-smelling milk splashing into the bucket.
She couldn’t help laughing. “What a wonderful creature you are, Mistress Ellen.” Her fingers tightened again. By the time she’d found a rhythm of sorts the pail was full of frothy liquid with a canopy of steam rising above it, and Rachel’s forehead was pressed against the cow’s hide.
“This is one of Logan MacQuaid’s chores I shall gladly do,” Rachel said as she lifted the rope handle, placing the milk near the door. Before she left she gave the cow a small curtsey. “It was my pleasure to meet you, Mistress Ellen.
“And I do appreciate your flattery about my hands.” Rachel examined her palms. “I do imagine they are smoother than Mr. MacQuaid’s.”
There was no imagining about it. She knew exactly how Logan MacQuaid’s hands felt. Each time he touched her it was obvious they were work-rough. And strong. And gentle. Rachel pushed that thought from her mind. “I’ll return tomorrow morning, Mistress Ellen.”
As she walked back to the cabin, Rachel realized she was beginning to hate her gown.
She kicked at a piece of torn silver lace tangling about her foot. And spilled some milk in the process. Why wasn’t she wearing something a bit more sensible when she drowned? Something that would hold up a bit better. Her gown was in tatters—her dip into the lake certainly hadn’t helped its appearance.
Oh well, as soon as she returned to Queen’s House, she would be able to choose from her large collection of gowns. First she’d immerse herself in a tub, with lots of delicious hot water and soap that smelled of flowers and left her skin feeling soft and smooth. She’d have her maid wash her hair and brush it dry, then dress it in the most fashionable of styles. Rachel closed her eyes reminiscing about the life she used to take for granted. Remembering also that Liz had no chance of returning to it.
No, as much as she would like a bath and clean clothes, her first duty when she returned would be to speak out against Lord Bingham. Her first duty, and her first pleasure.
Rachel started back toward the cabin with a more determined step, only to stop abruptly when the door opened and Logan appeared.
“Have a care for the milk you’re spilling Your Highness.”
Rachel righted the pail, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. “You look... different.”
He seemed not to understand her statement for a moment, then grinned rather self-deprecatingly. That’s when she first noticed his dimples. Two of them on either side of his mouth. At first they seemed out of place on such a solemn man. But the more she looked, the more taken she was by this new discovery. He was far more handsome than she’d originally thought. His beauty was as rugged as the land.
“I thought it best to rid myself of the beard before the ceremony of Ah,tawh,hung,nah.”
“Oh.” Hardly a witty comment, but Rachel couldn’t think of a thing to say. It occurred to her that she was
staring rather unabashedly and quickly averted her eyes. “I’ve milked Mistress Ellen,” she said for lack of anything better to say.
He arched a brow but made no comment about her naming his cow. He did step forward looking at the pail with some interest. Rachel thought him about to chastise her for spilling so much but instead appeared pleasantly surprised. “I see the cow tried a bit harder today.”
“What? Oh, yes.”
“I started supper. There’s bacon frying in the skillet. Pray, see that it doesn’t burn.”
Rachel nodded. She was staring at him again, wondering how it was she’d never noticed how handsome he was. He’d tied back his hair with a bit of leather and between that and the missing whiskers she could actually see his face for the first time. The wide forehead. The straight blade of nose and the full sensual lips. Combined with the startling green eyes that she’d always thought attractive, he was really very appealing to look upon.
Not like the gentlemen at court Rachel assured herself quickly as she turned and hurried into the cabin. With their silk waistcoats and powdered wigs, they were by far the better looking. Yet she couldn’t keep from peeking around the door as she went to close it.
He was going to chop more wood. He always took his shirt off to do that. Such a ghastly uncivilized habit, Rachel told herself as she lingered in the doorway. Who wanted to look on a man’s bare chest and muscled back? He yanked the linen over his head and Rachel bit her bottom lip. She tried to swallow but her mouth was dry.
He hefted the axe and sent it forging down, cleaving the block of wood and Rachel’s fingers tightened on the door. He really did have a very appealing body. She’d long suspected Prince William of using pads under his clothes and stockings to enhance his appearance. It was obvious Logan MacQuaid would not have to resort to such practices.
Rachel wasn’t certain how long she watched him at his task. Every time two chunks of wood split from one she told herself she didn’t care what he looked like. She was sent to save him and the sooner she could accomplish that, the sooner she could return to her real life. But she still stayed to let out her breath when his arms lifted high over his head.
Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] Page 8
