Winter Heat (5 page)

A renewed shudder rushed through her. “I was asleep, and he and his man kicked in and splintered my door. I tried to fight him, but I . . . couldn’t. He was drunk. He took me from my bed, threw me on his horse, and started riding like a madman up the mountain. I”—she sucked in a breath—“I think he intended to bring me here.”

She glanced at Logan to gauge his reaction. He scowled down at her, his forehead creased. “Haven’t you any men in your clan? To care for you? To look out for your safety?”

“I don’t require a man to protect me.”

“Of course you do.”

She huffed out a breath. “Well, there are men in my family, of course. The MacDonald of Beauly is Torean, my first cousin. However, I’ve never asked—”

“Why didn’t your laird protect you from this Munroe?” The growling threat had returned to Logan’s voice.

“He believes I should accept Innes.” She shrugged, thrusting away the dark feeling of betrayal that admission brought with it. “At least, that’s what Innes said. He said my cousin approved of him abducting me from my home. That it—” Maggie swallowed the bitter taste of bile. “That it was Torean’s suggestion.”

Logan made a low, menacing sound, and his shoulder muscles bunched.

She shook her head in bemusement. Though it probably should have roused her independent nature and raised her hackles, she found herself lapping up Logan’s attention like a starving kitten would a bowl of sweet cream. No one had ever been so protective of her—even Duneghall had left her to her own devices upon sensing her capability to care for herself.

“Why does that distress you, Logan Douglas?” She raised her hand and touched it to the solid bulk of his arm.

“I don’t enjoy seeing a woman ill used.”

“But you don’t know me.”

Logan’s hard fingers pressed beneath her chin and lifted it until she faced him. “I know you, Maggie. I’ve lain beside you, flesh against flesh. I’d say I know you well.” He lowered his head until their noses were inches apart, and his warm breath washed over her cheek. He stared at her with those deep black eyes, searching, studying. His pupils were dilated, his lips parted. Lord, what beautiful lips he had.

She’d lost every impulse to push him away. In fact, she wanted him close.
Closer
. Her lids descended, heavy from the anticipation of his kiss. As he drew nearer, she leaned into it. They were so close she could all but feel those lips on her. Taking her. Possessing her.

For the first time since she became a widow, she craved a man’s kiss. That intimate sharing. That carnal embrace . . .

He dropped her chin. Then he rose and turned toward the fire.

“Porridge is ready,” he said gruffly.

Logan was no good with women. His mother had died when he was a babe, and he’d been raised among men. Women had always been vague, ambiguous creatures to him, mysterious as the kelpies that prowled the depths of the Highland lochs.

Maggie MacDonald wrought all kinds of strange sensations on him. It went beyond his regular befuddlement with her sex. Whenever he set eyes upon her slight frame, a violent protectiveness overcame him. Yet whenever he tried to act on those impulses, she thrust him away. Outwardly, she was as frail and delicate as a flower, but inwardly she was fiercely independent.

He didn’t know what to do with her. The more he remained in close quarters with her, the more he wanted to touch her. Beyond that, to tame her. His self-control grew more tenuous by the minute. If he spent much more time in this cottage with Maggie MacDonald, he was going to crawl out of his skin.

Maggie certainly didn’t supply any assistance in soothing his tormented thoughts, not with her hot and cold behavior. One moment, she’d brush her fingers over his arm or his shoulders, murmuring how warm he was—and arousing him nearly beyond endurance—and the next, she’d catch herself and put as much distance between them as she could in the small space they shared.

The blizzard raged on, and they sat near the fire through the day, sharing food and ale, and talking. She seemed cured of the effects of exposure to the cold, but bruises had deepened on her face and leg, and a scab had crusted over the area where Munroe had nicked her with a dagger—constant reminders that she’d been wronged. Just a glance at the black smudges circling the delicate skin of her eye was enough to make Logan itch to hunt down Munroe and drive him through with his sword.

Satisfied that she no longer required his body heat, Logan slept on the floor that night. The next morning, snow continued to fall and black tinged the clouds overhead, promising the storm would intensify yet again. The snow alone served as reason enough to stay in the cabin a while longer, yet even if the weather had cleared completely, Logan still wouldn’t have taken her home. Though she appeared healed in body, he sensed the distress of her spirit, and he had no wish to lead her into danger.

He couldn’t allow her to return to the Munroe bastard, Logan thought grimly as he pushed back from the table and took their breakfast dishes to rinse outside. He must see her home and ensure Munroe wouldn’t trouble her anymore. He didn’t relish killing, but if he had to kill the man to be certain, that was what he’d do.

Maggie didn’t seem anxious to leave the cottage, either. Not to return to her home, in any case. When he’d announced he thought the weather too unpredictable to risk the journey down the mountain, she’d only spoken wistfully of the lost dragon pin that had belonged to her mother.

“How will we ever find it?” she’d murmured sadly. “It’s probably buried under a mountain of snow.”

It seemed to be all that she was truly connected to, all that she truly cared about, and he’d promised they’d search for it once her clothes had dried.

He stepped inside and went to the fire to warm his hands. Feeling her gaze on him, he glanced back at the table. “What is it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

She sat shrouded in shadow, yet light from the fire made her curls sparkle like black gems. She wore a plaid wrapped round her body, and he’d given her the use of his plaid pin so she wouldn’t have to grip the edges to keep herself covered.

He lowered himself to the edge of the bed nearest the fire. As soon as he sat, Maggie gasped and hurried toward him, staring at his leg with wide eyes. The plaid had bunched up on his thigh, revealing the half-h ealed bayonet wound.

“Good Lord in Heaven,” she breathed.

He yanked the edge of the plaid down to cover his wound. “It is nothing.”

“You’ve been stabbed!”

“Aye.”

“Who?”

“A governmental at Sheriffmuir.”

“You are a Jacobite,” she breathed.

“Aye.” He searched her eyes, wondering whether she was a sympathizer. Many of the MacDonald clans had pledged themselves to the cause, so it didn’t seem far-f etched to think she might be for King James.

“My cousin’s men were at Preston to fight for James,” she murmured, and he released a breath of relief. Logan didn’t wish to analyze why her political bent should matter to him; it just did.

“They returned home weeks ago, though,” she mused. “That is where you’re going, isn’t it? Home?”

He nodded.

“Is it because of the wound that you didn’t return with the other men?” she asked.

“I lost consciousness during the battle and was captured by the enemy.”

“The English?”

“No. The Duke of Argyll’s men.”

“Och,” she murmured sympathetically. To be captured by the English would have been bad enough, but the sheer torture of being captured by one’s own countrymen was an experience Logan never wished to repeat.

“I escaped,” he said tonelessly. “About a fortnight ago.”

“And you have been walking all this time.”

He nodded.

Tentatively, she reached for his leg, but he captured her hand in his own. “No.”

“I might be able to help.”

“There is nothing to be done.”

Nevertheless, she lowered herself beside him, and when she reached toward him again, he allowed her to pull up the hem of his plaid. A jagged scab covered part of the wound, but another part oozed clear fluid, and the area encircling it was red, angry, and swollen.

Maggie studied it, her fingers gingerly touching the outside of the wound. “It’s going to fester, I think,” she said with an edge of horror in her voice.

“It already has.”

She didn’t answer.

“It is healing now,” he said.

She shook her head, seemingly unable to believe him.

“It is not going to kill me.”

She glanced up, her fists curling, anger lending a steely gray hue to her blue eyes. “You intend to cheat death by mere force of will, do you?”

“I’ve done it before.”

Maggie blew a coil of hair away from her face. “Foolish man. It requires washing. Then . . .” She glanced around the dim interior of the cottage, her gaze landing on the chest he’d pushed into a corner. She’d already explored its contents to search for something to wear, but had only found men’s clothing and boots. “I know what to do. My mother taught me . . .” She broke off, blinking against the shine in her eyes. “I’ll tear up some linens for a bandage.”

He shrugged as she fetched a pot of snow and hung it over the fire. Then she knelt before the chest. Before long, the room filled with the shrieking sound of tearing fabric.

Finally, she returned to him, stopping at the table to retrieve one of the bottles. She held it up. “Whisky. This bottle is one of Torean’s.” Her lips twisted wryly. “I daresay Innes Munroe single handedly keeps my cousin’s distillers busy.”

He simply watched her.

“I’m going to pour some of it over the wound. It’ll hurt like hell.”

His eyes widened at hearing such language from someone so refined and petite, but the strength of the word combined with the way she said it was enough to make him believe that she didn’t exaggerate in her prediction of the pain she would inflict.

“Too bad,” he murmured. “I thought you’d brought it for me to drink.”

Her lips curled as she turned to remove the pot from the fire. She bunched a piece of linen in her hand and dipped it into the hot water. Then she poured a generous portion of whisky into the pot, and Logan whistled out a breath, shaking his head.

“Too bad all this fine whisky must go to waste, eh?”

“Mmm, you read my mind.” Though he doubted he was as en amored of whisky as the Munroe bastard.

“It isn’t difficult. You’re a man, and you think like one.”

If she knew that so confidently, did she also know how she drove him to the brink? How hard watching her had made him? Beneath his plaid, his cock ached, begged for relief. It was enough to make him anticipate with relish the forthcoming sting of the whisky on his wound.

She raised the cloth. “You must hold still.”

“I hardly think a tiny bit of a woman wielding whisky is liable to move me,” he scoffed.

“Don’t be so certain—MacDonald spirits make a formidable weapon. But”—she leaned forward and lowered her voice—“here is the family secret: A MacDonald whisky will prevent vile ill hu mors from attacking your body.”

He raised a brow. “Is that so?”

“Aye. Now you must remain very still while I clean the wound.”

He grunted and held his leg stiff, every muscle tensed to hold it in place, no matter what she intended to do.

She held the bottle over his leg, then upended it.

“Gah!” he yelled. He managed—just barely—to keep his leg from flailing and kicking her in the face.

He clenched his teeth. Hell, that stung.

She gave him a grim smile. “I told you.”

“Just get on with it,” he said through a tight jaw.

She bent down, pressed the cloth to the wound and . . . good God . . .
scrubbed
at it. He curled his fingers, gathering fistfuls of plaids in his hands.

“Tell me about your family,” she said, as if to divert his mind from the pain.

His stomach plummeted, and he very nearly groaned aloud. She couldn’t know it, but this topic hurt worse than any physical pain she could inflict upon him.

Closing his eyes, he recited the basic information about himself. “My mother died when I was young. I was raised by my father and my older brother. My father died two years ago. My brother and I joined the rebellion this past summer.”

“Where is your brother now?”

He fought not to grimace from the pain. “Dead.”

Her hands stilled. “Oh, Logan. I’m sorry.”

“His wife and children . . .” He paused. It was now his duty to care for his sister-i n-l aw and her three daughters, just as it was his duty to manage his brother’s tacksmen and tenants. Determination to do his duty for his lands and people—and the women who were now his only family—was what drove him to first stay alive, then escape from Argyll’s men and trudge over two hundred miles north in the dead of winter.

“They are all alone now,” she finished quietly.

He should still be moving, Logan realized. He’d already delayed too long. Guilt stabbed at him—he’d scarcely thought about his driving need to rush home since he’d encountered Maggie MacDonald in the snow. For the first time since the battle, he’d let go of his single-m inded urgency.

Her brow furrowed as she focused on his leg and removed a tiny piece of gravel from his wound.

Maggie had softened him. Her presence had comforted him. Ultimately, he couldn’t regret the interruption to his journey home. Seeing to Maggie’s safety and well-being was worth the delay of a few days.

Gently, she folded the cloth over his thigh. “Did your brother die at Sheriffmuir?”

“Aye.” He closed his eyes against the memory of watching the cannonball tearing through his brother’s chest, and a shudder twisted through his body like a screw.

Maggie nodded tightly, then lapsed into silence as she painstakingly cleaned the wound, removing bits of debris he hadn’t realized had been embedded in the injury since the battle.