Rogue of the Isles (31 page)

“Mari! Ye are alive!”

“Jamie?” And then she could say no more for his arms enveloped her, drawing her to his solid, warm strength. Mari wrapped her arms around his neck, tears streaking down her face as she burrowed into his shoulder. Jamie smelled of fresh air, damp wool and slightly of horse and leather. She didn’t think she’d ever smelled anything so good. She clung closer and cried harder.

“Easy, lass,” Jamie said, stroking her hair. “Ye will be all right.”

“I thought…I would die,” she said finally when the tears had trickled to sniffles. She raised her head to look at him. “I am…am…so…so cold.”

“’Tis because yer clothes are wet and there is nae heat,” Jamie replied, “but I will take of that.” He removed his tartan and wrapped it around her. “I have a dry one on the horse I will get ye just as soon as I build a fire.”

“There…there is some wood there,” Mari said, pulling the second plaid tightly around her. It still held Jamie’s body heat and she felt instantly better, if not exactly warm. “I could not find matches though.”

Jamie looked around and then rose to take a tinderbox down from a shelf. Opening it, he removed a piece of flint. “This will work.”

Mari watched him in fascination as he laid the wood and then struck the flint against his
sgian dubh
, producing sparks that ignited the twigs and dried leaves he’d stuffed between the pieces. Small flames began to lick at the edges of the logs.

“That should catch,” he said as he rose and slipped his knife back into his boot. “I will be back in a minute.”

“Where are you going?” Mari tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

“Dinnae fash. I must take care of the horse and bring the supplies in.”

“There is a lean-to in the back,” Mari said as she edged toward the fire.

“I was wondering about that,” Jamie replied. “I should have guessed.”

Mari huddled close to the slowly fanning flames when he left and said a prayer of thanks for Jamie finding her. She would never—
ever
—again complain about his wanting to protect her. And she would obey his orders—or, at least, she would
consider
obeying them. If she had listened to him the last time, she wouldn’t be here, after all.

The door opened again, bringing in a rush of cold air, threatening the small fire that was building. Mary shivered, aware that her clothing was still wet.

Jamie must have noticed it too, for he frowned as he set the saddlebags down.

“Ye are going to have to get out of those clothes, lass, before ye catch a chill.” He looked around the room. “Did the crofters leave any clothing?”

“A pair of men’s breeches and a thin chemise with a summer overdress in the trunk,” Mari answered, “but I was too cold to change.”

Jamie opened the trunk and tossed the breeches on the bed frame. As he lifted the lightweight wool dress, it fell into tatters in his hands thanks to the activity of moths. He held up the cotton chemise. “This seems to be in one piece.”

Mari stared at him. The material was so threadbare it was practically transparent. Lord in Heaven. She could not sit around in front of him wearing that, even if the situation called for desperate measures. “I cannot wear that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ye canna ride back in the morning in wet clothes either. They need to dry in front of the fire.” He handed her the chemise and then pulled a dry plaid out of one of the saddlebags. “Ye can wrap this around ye as well.”

Mari took the plaid from him and smiled uncertainly.

Jamie gave her a puzzled look and then he shook his head. “Ye will want some privacy in changing?”

Mari nodded. “If you will just step outside—”

“Nae. Every time the door opens, it cools the room.” Jamie picked up one of the other tartans and hooked a corner of it to the rod supporting the kettle and draped another end over the back of the wooden chair. “’Tis nae as tall as a screen, but ye can change behind it. I will nae watch.”

Strangely enough, she believed him. Why had she not trusted him before? She moved behind the makeshift curtain. Thankfully, all the buttons of the riding habit’s jacket and shirt opened to the front so she did not need assistance. The thought of Jamie acting the maid almost made her laugh, and then a rush of heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room swept over her as she imagined him helping her get her clothes off. Lud!

Quickly, she slipped the chemise over her head. As thin as the material was, it would do little to warm her, but it would keep the wool tartan from scratching her skin. She wrapped the plaid around her, thankful it was dry. Looking down to make sure she was properly covered, she emerged from behind the curtain, holding her wet things.

And then nearly dropped them.

Jamie was tending the fire, wearing nothing but the borrowed breeches.

She must have emitted some kind of sound because he turned to look at her. “Let me have those,” he said as though nothing were wrong.

Mari swallowed, unable to take her eyes off his bare chest. In the dimly lit room, the flickering flames caught every nuance of his sculpted shoulders and hard-ridged belly. The fire cast his skin in bronze. He could have been chiseled out of stone, like one of those statues in Abigail’s art books. Mari was beginning to develop an appreciation for those books herself.

And then her statue grinned, the golden glow in his eyes matching his skin as he held out his hand. She wondered if he meant for her to take it—and why—but she stood stupefied, watching the light reflect on the smooth curves of his well-developed biceps. She’d known how truly muscular Jamie was, but she’d never been this close to him in his present state of undress. The tartan suddenly felt too warm, but she could hardly remove it wearing only the flimsy chemise.

“Your clothes, lass,” Jamie said in a tone she’d heard him use when calming a skittish horse. “Let me hang yer wet things by the fire.”

His words snapped her out of her reverie. “Why are you not wearing your clothes?”

A look of amusement swept his face, and he gestured to where his things already hung. “Mine were wet too.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense.” Mari handed him the riding habit and tried to focus on something other than the fact Jamie was practically naked. Dear Lord.

He took her things and turned, the muscles in his back flexing as he bent to drape the clothing over the other chair and table. She must have made another sound because he looked back at her.

“Did ye say something?”

“Nae. I mean, no.” When he straightened, the illumination from the hearth caught the ripples over his broad shoulders again. Mari licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “You really should put something on.”

His brow rose again. “What would ye like me to don? The other plaids are damp as well and, if ye noticed, I draped the second one to form a wall of sorts to keep the warmth closer to the fire. ’Twill be a cold night.”

She managed to force herself to look where Jamie pointed. He had pulled the old bed frame with its high metal posts and bulky trunk closer and hung the second plaid over those. Along with the first plaid he’d placed for her curtain, the two did indeed form cozy walls holding the heat in.

“I would not have thought to do that,” she said, hoping the topic was safer than talking about Jamie’s clothes—or lack of them.

He shrugged and sat down on the floor. “We learn to make do.”

“I am obviously not good at survival,” Mari said as she joined him. “I want to thank you for finding me. If you had not—”

“Dinnae fash. ’Tis over,” Jamie said quickly as he began taking food out of the other bag.

“Just the same. When I was reading Malory to Jillian the other day, she mentioned you reminded her of Sir Gawain. I think she may be right.”

The tips of his ears turned pink—or at least she thought they did. It was hard to determine in the firelight, but she thought it was rather attractive. “And you even brought food like a truly gallant knight.”

“Bridget reminded me to take it,” Jamie muttered, busying himself with laying out the dried venison, hard cheese and a loaf of oat bread on the towel it had all been wrapped in.

“’Tis nae fancy, but ’twill fill yer stomach,” he said.

“It looks delicious,” Mari replied and realized she meant it. She had not eaten since the morning, and now she was ravenous. She bit into the bread Jamie had torn off for her as he removed a small knife from his sporran lying nearby. The knife looked almost delicate in his powerful hands, and she watched in fascination as those calloused fingers handled it with precision, slicing the meat and cheese into small, even pieces. His regular
sgian dubh
lay near where his boots were drying by the fire. Mari smiled. Trust him to have more than one knife.

“What are ye smiling about?” he asked as he removed a wineskin and two tin cups from the sack.

“Just you and your weapons,” she answered as she accepted a cup of wine, “although I do not suppose you consider that one to be of much consequence.”

Jamie held up the small knife. “’Tis interesting what a wee knife like this can do, especially if a mon is nae expecting ye to be carrying it. ’Tis sharp as a razor.” He laid it down. “I always carry an extra blade or two.”

“I know, not to mention that huge sword of yours.” She smiled again. “The one no one would notice.”

Jamie’s eyes widened as he stared at her and then he shook his head. “Och, ye mean my claymore.”

“Yes.” Mari frowned, wondering what had caused him to react like he was shocked. As if
anyone
could miss that huge thing sticking up behind his shoulder. She took a swallow of wine and then licked the corner of her mouth where several drops lingered. “I do not know much about swords, but I have never seen an Englishman with such a large one.”

Jamie choked, sputtering on his own wine, and Mari leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” She felt the muscles of his forearm clench, and then he withdrew it slowly.

“I am fine,” he said and began digging in the saddlebag again. A look of relief spread over his face as he withdrew a small flask. “Bless ye, Bridget,” he murmured.

“What is that?” Mari asked as Jamie unscrewed the top and tipped the flask.

“
Uisge-beatha,
” he answered. “’Tis the water of life.”

“Can I try some?”

“Nae. ’Tis better ye stick to the wine. It is watered down.”

Was Jamie giving her
orders
again? Mari bristled, forgetting her recent resolve to be more tolerant. Just when they were having a nice conversation, Jamie had to spoil it by telling her what she was allowed to drink? “Did Bridget not send the whisky for both of us?”

“Nae,” Jamie said again as he took another swallow. “’Tis a mon’s fortification.”

“Really?” Truly, it was quite rude of him to drink something in front of her that he would not share. Mari eyed the flask as he put it down and then grabbed it quickly before he could stop her.

“Ye dinnae want to try that,” Jamie said and reached for it.

Mari scooted back and managed a deep drink before Jamie took the flask away. And then he stilled, his golden eyes watching her intently.

“Mmmm,” she said as the golden liquid slid down her throat, “it feels nice and warm—” She gasped for air as her stomach turned to a fiery pit. “Oh…” Mari doubled over, coughing and trying to breathe.

Jamie pulled her up against him, pressing her head to his shoulder while he held the wine cup to her lips. “Drink this. It will help put out the fire.”

Mari did not think she could swallow anything, but she was going to incinerate on the spot if she did not try. She grasped the cup with both hands, thankful Jamie did not let go. After the first cool swallow, the wine went down better, dousing the flames she was sure had dissolved half her insides. She had just about drained the cup when Jamie set it down.

“’Tis enough for now, lass.”

She did not argue with him this time. She was still having trouble catching her breath. “How can you manage to drink that stuff?” she asked when she could finally speak again.

Jamie grinned and put the flask away. “I told ye it was a mon’s fortification. When will ye learn to trust me?”

“I do trust you.” Mari blinked at him, rather owlishly. He was a bit blurry. “I would not be here otherwise.”

He raised both brows questioningly. “And where would ye go? The storm is still blowing outside.”

The storm. Mari hiccupped. She had forgotten—for only a minute, she reminded herself—about the storm. “Well, never mind then.” She blinked again, narrowing her eyes to bring Jamie into better focus. “Can you not sit still?”

“I am nae moving.”

“Ye—you—are so. You are rocking back and forth.” Jamie grinned, his dimple showing. Had she never noticed before he had
two
dimples?

“I think the whisky has gone to yer brain, lass.”

“The whissh…whisshky?” She remembered the nice, warm feeling she’d had before her stomach caught on fire. That glow was spreading all over her now. “Ish quite warm in here, ish it not?” she asked and flung the tartan off, leaving her clad only in the thin chemise. Jamie made a sound that was close to a growl.