Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02]

by My Heavenly Heart

  “He’s very generous, you know. Well, perhaps you don’t know, but ’tis true. The king showers Her Majesty with jewels though she doesn’t like to wear them much. Can you credit that?” From the corner of her eye, Rachel noticed Logan push to his feet. “Of course, I have stopped wearing mine.” Caroline had helped her sew them into a pocket beneath her skirts. Rachel leaned forward toward her subjects. “The diamonds simply didn’t seem appropriate on the frontier.”

  “I think a bit of fresh air might do you good, wife.”

  Rachel began to protest. She didn’t want any fresh air, which if she recalled meant cold, wet air. And she certainly wasn’t Logan’s wife. But he hustled her out of her chair and toward the door so quickly that her head whirled... which caused the most unsettling sensation in her stomach.

  She was out the door before she could open her mouth.

  Which, as it turned out, was a good thing. For when she did, it was to empty her stomach, quite unladylike on the sodden ground.

  “Oh...” she moaned. “I’m sick.”

  “You’re not sick, Your Highness. You’re drunk.”

  The voice came from very near, and Rachel realized with some embarrassment that she was bent forward and Logan was holding her up. He passed her a handkerchief, made wet from the icy needles of rain, and she used it to wipe her mouth. “Impossible,” she mumbled when she could at last stand. “Ladies don’t get drunk.”

  “Well, this one is. Now come on.”

  Rachel let out a whimper when he pulled on her arm. “I’m ill, I tell you. Don’t.” Then, “Where are we going?” as she realized he was hustling them away from the cabin.

  “We’re leaving,” was all he said.

  “But it’s raining and dark.” She could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone him. But she felt his presence as he bent his face down close to hers.

  “Listen to me, you little fool. Those men might not believe you part of King George’s court but their greedy little eyes lit like torches when you mentioned jewels. And the younger one, hell, both of them, watched you as if you were a tasty morsel they couldn’t wait to gobble up.”

  “Oh! How silly you are. Why those men are my—” The word subjects died on her lips as the door to the cabin flew open.

  Light spilled out, giving an eerie glow to the falling rain.

  “Pa and I think ye need to come back inside.”

  Logan inched his hand back toward the musket he’d slung over his shoulder before dragging Rachel from the cabin until he remembered the wet powder would do no good. He tried to appear relaxed. “My wife insists we start off toward Charles Town tonight.” With his left hand he gave her a shove, trying to push her out of the light. She resisted and before he could stop her, stepped toward the doorway.

  “Actually, I wish to come in out of the rain.”

  Logan lunged for her the same time Wallace did. He would have had her, too, if the father hadn’t leaped forward. The blade of his hunting knife glistened as it pressed toward her throat.

  Logan heard Rachel’s gasp; felt his own heart stop.

  “Now get yourself in here.” By this time the son had produced the ancient musket Logan noticed earlier leaning by the door. The notion struck him that he could probably disappear into the darkness before Wallace could get off a shot, but then he caught a glimpse of Rachel’s stricken face as she was dragged inside.

  “Come on with ye!” Oscar yelled. But the sound didn’t drown out Rachel’s fervent plea for Logan to run and save himself.

  “Get in here, or I’ll take a slice out of yer woman.”

  When Logan stepped through the doorway she seemed genuinely annoyed that he was there.

  “Let her go.” Logan tried not to flinch when Wallace shoved the barrel of the musket into his back. “Now I don’t think we will, will we, Pa?”

  His father didn’t answer. He stood behind Rachel, still holding the knife to her throat, but his free hand began inching down her chest, his dirty finger juxtaposed grotesquely against her pale wet skin.

  “Ye said I could have at her first, Pa,” Wallace complained.

  The downward motion of his hand stopped momentarily. “Shut yer trap. We’ll both have our turn. Now get rid ’a that one.”

  “No!” Rachel’s scream seemed to come from the depths of her soul. “No, no. Don’t kill him. You can’t! I was sent to save him.” Tears ran down her face, mingling with the icy rain. “You can’t. I’m an angel. An angel, do you hear me?”

  “She’s a mad woman.”

  Rachel’s head twisted toward Logan. “I am not! How dare you say that! I’m an angel, blast you, Logan MacQuaid. An angel. Sent from heaven above.”

  She raised her hands, ignoring the knife held threateningly close to her neck. Her face lifted toward the smoke-darkened ceiling as if calling on all the heavenly hosts. And in that moment, Logan wouldn’t have been surprised if the Lord God Almighty sent lightning bolts flashing down to smite his enemies.

  She was magnificent.

  She was believable.

  And Logan was not the only one thrown under her spell.

  Oscar stood transformed—Logan had a sudden vision of him turned to a pillar of salt—his thick-lipped mouth open, the knife dangling loosely by his side. His son, too, though still aiming the musket toward Logan, had eyes that bulged toward Rachel.

  “Get down, Your Highness!”

  Logan roared the command as he lurched toward Wallace, chopping the gun from his hand with one downward sweep of his arm. The musket clattered to the packed dirt floor. He kicked it away, diving into Wallace, fighting the overwhelming urge to look around toward Rachel. Was she still alive or had the knife held so negligently by Oscar sliced through her delicate flesh?

  Had his timing been off? Had he committed yet another mistake in a lifetime of them?

  Wallace’s bony fist connected with his jaw before Logan sent him sprawling, his nose billowing blood. He landed arms spread on top of the rickety table. It collapsed, sending the stub of candle flying into a pile of animal pelts.

  Logan whirled around just as Oscar shoved Rachel to the ground. She fell hard, then didn’t move, lying like a fallen angel.

  Logan forced his eyes from her, though the vision remained, forcing his attention on Oscar, on the man who hurt her. Ignoring the blade pointed toward him, Logan lunged. The older man croaked out a blast of air when Logan’s head plowed into his stomach. He flew backward onto the dirt, Logan on top of him.

  With one hand Logan searched for the knife and sucked in his breath when the blade found him instead. Blood poured from the slice in his ribs, but he ignored the pain as he grappled with Oscar.

  From the corner of his eye Logan caught movement. Rachel. He saw her moving, groping to her feet. A swift surge of relief flashed through him that she was alive.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he ordered.

  The heavy smell of smoke, of burning fur, hung in the air. Someone coughed. Was it Rachel? He couldn’t be sure. For the wiry man slashed again with the blade. This time Logan caught hold of his arm. Strong fingers manacled his wrist, slamming it toward the packed earth. Oscar gripped the bone-handled knife as if his life depended on it. Rising up, Logan straddled him, jerking the hand up and slapping it down once again... as hard as he could. This time the knife slipped from Oscar’s limp fingers.

  A backhand across the fleshy lips had Oscar begging for mercy. But Logan had none to give. Grabbing handfuls of grimy shirt he hauled him to his feet, jerking him around to face the yawning muzzle of the musket.

  Wallace stepped forward, out of a cloud of smoke. Let my pa go.” Blood streamed from his matted hair into one eye. He blinked, lifting his shoulder to wipe it away, but kept the gun steady.

  “Give me the musket, Wallace.”

  Before Logan could do more than shriek out a strangled, “Nay,” Rachel issued her command and faced the son. She reached out when he shifted his aim from Logan to her.

  “Stay back!” h
e yelled when she moved closer. “Stay away from me.” Wallace’s voice quivered.

  “It won’t do any good to shoot me. I told you I’m an—”

  “Rachel, for God’s sake.”

  The barrel jerked back toward Logan when he took a step, dragging the semiconscious father with him.

  “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot. Damn if I won’t.”

  “No you won’t, Wallace. For if you do I shall see to it that you go straight to hell.”

  The bulging eyes, so like his father’s, opened wider, and sweat mixed with the blood to flow down his cheek. Around him smoldering furs sent noxious smoke billowing into the air, looking enough like hell to give the threat credibility.

  “You know about hell, don’t you, Wallace?” Rachel inched closer. “It’s burning fire and brimstone and the tortuous pain is constant. And there’s no way out. Not for the rest of eternity.”

  “Shut up.”

  Logan stood tensed, ready to leap forward, ready to push her aside. The weight of the father dragged down on his hands and Logan finally realized he still held Oscar up. Releasing the crumpled handhold of shirt the man fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  His son didn’t seem to notice.

  Wisps of smoke twisted up around him, but his eyes were fixed on Rachel. He didn’t protest—though Logan did—when she took another step toward him. Then another.

  “Rachel.” Logan barely whispered the warning, afraid to startle the youth into doing what any true evil-hearted creature would do... should do. But even though she stood no more than a hair’s breadth from the end of the muzzle, Wallace did not pull the trigger.

  He only stared at Rachel, his skin pallid and sweaty, his hands shaking.

  Her next step pressed the muzzle into her chest. She reached up, folding her soft, delicate fingers around the rusted iron, and Logan thought his head would explode. Blood pounded in his ears and he knew if he didn’t take a breath soon he might pass out.

  But he couldn’t.

  Not until Wallace let loose of the stock and wilted into a puddle of slobbering tears at Rachel’s feet. He clung to her skirts wailing and blubbering about eternal damnation and repenting his list of myriad sins, some of which Logan was certain Rachel couldn’t even begin to understand.

  Logan leaped forward, snatching the musket, then feeling a bit foolish for his action. It was obvious the pitiful creature kneeling in the dirt had no use for it. He continued to clutch at Rachel, his dirty hands groping at her hem, but when Logan bent to drag him off her, she stayed him with a look.

  “It’s all right,” she said, even deigning to let her hand flutter to graze the greasy and no doubt vermin-infected head. Logan could only gape, his mouth open in disbelief as the force of Wallace’s wailing diminished.

  “Logan.” Rachel said his name twice before his gaze met hers. She coughed, then wiped her streaming eyes. “Those furs are putting out a good bit of smoke. Do you suppose you could do something?”

  “Oh, aye. “ He felt foolish for not thinking of it before. Now, as quickly as he could... and still keeping a wary eye on Wallace, he jerked open the door, barely sidestepping Henry as he bounded into the cabin. The dog was soaked, his black and white fur matted and he appeared primed for action, his teeth bared, a low growl rumbling through his body. Henry skidded to a stop. Seemed to assess the situation, then to Logan’s amazement trotted toward the hearth and, after turning about a few times to pick his spot, plopped down.

  Logan dragged the smoldering pelts out into the rain, leaving the door open to air out the cabin. In the small barn he found enough rope to tie father and son and hurried back to Rachel. He found her hunched over, adding more split wood to the fire. She glanced around and smiled and Logan felt warm inside, despite the icy rain that soaked through his clothing.

  He blinked, then let out his breath, relieved to see the radiant circlet he thought he saw hovering above her head was gone. A trick of the freshly caught flames, he assured himself.

  The woman wasn’t really an angel.

  Angels didn’t exist. At least not in Logan MacQuaid’s life.

  Besides, if he hadn’t believed in her madness before, this incident proved it. Logan’s blood ran cold when he thought of her facing down an armed man. A crazed armed man. Hell, if she didn’t belong in Bedlam, he didn’t know who did.

  And to make matters worse, it was obvious she believed every word she told the man who still sat huddled and sniveling on the floor.

  Logan jerked Wallace to his feet, receiving no resistance at all. He made no attempt to be gentle as he twisted Wallace’s hands behind his back. When he was securely tied, Logan did the same to his father who, sputtering, was regaining consciousness. Without a word, Logan dragged both men from the cabin.

  When he returned the cabin was aired out enough to shut the door. Rachel had found a piece of toweling and was leaning toward the hearth calmly drying her hair. Golden curls escaped from the linen, shimmering in the oscillating light when she turned toward him.

  “What did you do with them?”

  “They’re tied in the barn... which is better than they deserve,” he said defiantly.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Rachel sighed. “I do feel a bit sorry for Wallace though.”

  “Because he was feebleminded enough to swallow your angel story?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she shot him a harsh look before turning back to her task. At that moment she appeared anything but angelic. But that didn’t keep Logan from regretting his words. She merely shrugged when he apologized.

  “’Tis of no matter. I do feel that Wallace was truly remorseful, though.”

  “Perhaps.” Logan moved to the hearth more drawn by her than the roaring fire. “But only after you reminded him of the rewards the devil had waiting for him.” Logan couldn’t help it. A grin deepened his dimples. “Did you see his face when you spoke of the fire and brimstone?”

  Rachel giggled, slanting him a look from under her lashes. “It was rather wan, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye, ’tis a wonder he didn’t drop over dead right then and there.”

  Rachel nodded, then tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I think I shall put in a good word for him.”

  Logan turned to warm his backside. “I doubt the authorities in Charles Town will care to do anything about father and son one way or the other.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean here.” Rachel considered keeping the rest of her thought to herself. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how annoyed he would be. But then she wasn’t too pleased with his comment about feebleminded Wallace believing her an angel. Rachel met his eyes, a guileless expression on her face. “I meant when I return to heaven.”

  ~ ~ ~

  What in the hell was wrong with him that he kept forgetting how daft she was? How many times did the fact have to slap him in the face before he accepted it? Was he so blinded by a comely face and form that he couldn’t recall the lessons of his mother?

  Illnesses of the mind were something he knew not how to handle. It wasn’t like a fever or inflammation. No amount of purging or bloodletting would heal it.

  Logan glanced at her as she dipped a cloth into the kettle of warm water. She insisted upon tending his wound, though he insisted it ’twas nothing. She smiled as she came toward him. Beautiful and serene. How very deceptive.

  He closed his eyes as she bent toward him. Moments before he stripped out of his shirt and now she made a soft soothing sound with her mouth as she touched the cloth to his wound.

  “’Tis a wonder he didn’t gut you, given the size of his knife.”

  “I dare say he tried. But as I said before ’tis but a flesh wound. The bleeding is already stopped.”

  She leaned down, a lock of her hair whispering across his belly and Logan sucked in his breath. His flesh quivered, and beneath his loincloth the proof of his desire thrust forward.

  “Does that pain you over much?” Her eyes were very blue when she gazed up at him.

>   “Nay.” He couldn’t feel the cut at all. And when she looked at him like that the part of his mind that knew her insane couldn’t seem to function.

  He only knew how smooth her skin was, like fine porcelain. And her spun gold hair. And the scent of her, soft and wild as the heather growing on the hills. She drew him with all his senses. He wanted her. And as she stared into his eyes he knew the same carnal need that strummed through him, wove invisible threads about her.

  Her fingers stilled as Logan’s gaze lowered to her mouth. Her lips were soft and pink and as he watched, her tongue peeked out to moisten them. Logan nearly moaned.

  His hands seemed to reach up, cupping her shoulders of their own accord. He pulled her toward him, wanting... needing... to taste those trembling lips. She came willingly, draping across his thighs as he sat on the side of the bed.

  “Logan.” Her breath drifted over him.

  The force of his kiss had her melding against him. Her arms wove about his neck, her fingers tangling with his hair. Logan’s tongue filled her mouth, thrusting and retreating with long, silken strokes.

  He rolled them over without breaking the seal of their lips, no mean feat considering he was also reaching beneath her petticoats, searching for the velvet-smooth skin of her thighs.

  She moaned when his fingers followed the curve of her leg, found the sensitive flesh beyond her thigh. He rubbed in circles, teasing at first, then, as if he could not control himself any longer, with more pressure.

  “Oh, Logan, please.”

  Rachel groaned as he pulled away. Her body hummed, so close to that special place, that special feeling. He loomed above her, balancing his weight on outstretched arms, watching her, his skin stretched taut across his cheekbones. Her breasts raised and lowered, with each ragged breath she took. “Come back to me,” she wanted to say. But before he could he was pulling her over, turning them both so that she straddled him.

  Now it was she who loomed above him. Ruffles and silk were thrust aside as ruthlessly as his loincloth. And then his manhood, steel swathed in satin, penetrated the dewy lips of her sex. He held her, his large hands gripping her hips beneath the layers of frothy lace, controlling her, keeping her from sliding down the long, hard length of him.