Winter Heat Page 2

  He howled. Dropping his hand from her breast, he slapped it to his crotch, simultaneously jerking on the reins. The horse reared its head back in discomfort and skidded to a stop.

  Maggie yanked her brooch from Innes and scrambled awkwardly off the animal, falling on her face in the snow. She commanded her body to straighten by sheer force of will, for her leg—Innes had kicked her thigh earlier when she’d tried to slip off the horse and run away—protested vehemently.

  Keeping her bound hands before her, she ran. Only a few seconds passed before she heard the sound of Innes and the horse advancing on her. She dove into the shelter of a snow-covered cluster of evergreen bushes, praying Innes was too drunk to heed her deep footprints in the snow.

  The horse thundered past, but then Innes shouted, “Whoa!” and Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, willing her footsteps invisible as horse and rider turned and once again drew near.

  “Maggie!” Innes shouted, his crusty voice raw with pain. “Damn you to hell, where are you, you bloody witch?”

  She gripped her brooch in her shaking fists, prepared to use it as a makeshift weapon again.

  He circled the area over and over, shouting, threatening her with everything from rape to disembowelment. Then he stopped the horse directly in front of the bushes she cowered under. The animal nickered, and Maggie clenched her teeth to prevent them from chattering.

  “Don’t be stupid, lass.” Innes sounded somewhat levelheaded for the first time all night. “You’ll catch your death. You don’t want to die out here tonight, do you? It’s going to be a mean storm, Maggie girl. Already you can scarcely see your hand before your face. I’ll take you somewhere nice and warm.”

  Over her dead body, she thought grimly. She’d gladly freeze to death before returning to that bastard.

  “Come on now,” he crooned in his grating voice.

  She remained still, resolute. She would find shelter on her own, find a way down the mountain, back to the village. She would not go to Innes Munroe. She’d be damned if she’d sacrifice her pride and be raped. No matter how slim they were, she’d take her chances with the storm.

  Innes dismounted nearby, and she heard the streaming sound as he pissed in the snow on the opposite side of the bush. Mumbling to himself about crazy women not being worth the effort, he returned to his horse.

  “Very well then, Maggie,” he shouted, trying to regain control of the animal, who tossed its head and whickered in a mild complaint. “I offered you a warm bed with me tonight, but since you’d rather die in the snow, so be it.” He gave a long-suffering, dramatic sigh and flicked the reins. “Goodbye, then. I’m going to Malmuirie’s, where the lasses know how to treat a man like a king.”

  Malmuirie was the madam of the nearest brothel, and as Innes turned his horse, Maggie pressed her lips together to prevent herself from wishing him luck getting it up after what she’d done to his testicles. She remained motionless until the sound of retreating hoofbeats faded, leaving the world in silence save the whisper of the falling snow.

  Using her teeth, she worked at the twine binding her wrists. Innes was ultimately a stupid man, for he’d tied her tightly but not expertly, and slowly, surely, she worked the knot loose.

  The loop suddenly went slack, and she shook off the twine. Finally free, she flexed her stiff, cold fingers and rubbed her raw wrists.

  Rising from her hiding place behind the bush, Maggie turned the way they had come, marveling at the fact that her footsteps had nearly disappeared. She could barely make out the path they’d taken, but that didn’t matter. She knew what direction to go: downhill, where she’d find the village, protection, warmth. Home.

  She covered her head with her plaid and pulled it tight around her, thanking Providence for her second pair of stockings and for their ability to keep out some of the wetness of the snow.

  Sometime later, as the first gray light of dawn edged through the thick cloud cover, Maggie’s weak legs could hardly drag her through the snow. She knew she hadn’t been walking for long, but she’d lost the ability to distinguish uphill from down. Each stride took her up to her ankles in snow, and sometimes she stepped into deep drifts and sank to her thighs. She was so tired. So very, very tired. The pale white snowdrifts called to her like warm, downy beds, and she craved nothing more than to lie down upon one of them and have a rest.

  Just a short break, she thought. Blocked on three sides by a shoulder-h igh granite bluff that would keep her safe from the elements, a high rise of snow just ahead looked like the perfect bed. It would be like sleeping on a cloud. Her brooch slipped from her fingers as she stumbled to the drift and fell to her knees. She’d just have a short rest; then she’d retrieve her brooch and continue on her way.

  Pulling her plaid tightly over her shoulders and wrapping it around her hands, she lay on the snow, curled her body into a ball, and embraced the warmth of slumber.

  Logan woke before dawn, as was his habit. Quickly and efficiently, he boiled a pot of water, cooked some of the porridge from his small bundle of possessions, and ate. He left the cottage as he’d found it, silently thanking its unknown owner for his hospitality.

  Snow fell tranquilly now, for the wind had calmed. The going was more difficult this morning, however, for deep snowdrifts had gathered over the terrain. The thick cloud cover had broken, and Logan hoped it would stop snowing soon. He was still a few days’ journey from home, and though he would if he must, he’d rather not trudge through waist-deep snow to get there.

  Sweat broke over Logan’s brow as he made his way downhill. Given the location of the cottage, he guessed there would be a village at the valley floor where he might find shelter tonight.

  Something caught his eye—a shimmer in the gray light. All his senses on alert, Logan drew himself to a stop. Silently raising his musket, he turned toward it.

  The small object lay half buried in the snow, but a rainbow of glittering light cascaded around it. Following behind the barrel of his gun, Logan approached it cautiously. When he had drawn close, he flicked it with the butt of the weapon, revealing a long silver pin in the shape of a sword. On the blade stood some kind of bird perched upon the largest clear multifaceted gem he’d ever seen. He’d be damned if that wasn’t a diamond.

  A soft groan drew his attention from the bauble. Tucked beneath a cleft of a short ridge of granite, a figure lay half covered in snow. A pale white cheek offset by black hair, lashes, and brows. A red plaid covered the slight body.

  Holy hell, what was a woman doing out here? A tiny, harmless woman, huddled beneath a plaid, with nothing covering her head? Rage swelled through him. Whoever had allowed this to happen should be shot.

  He’d have thought she was dead if he hadn’t just heard her. He took two angry steps toward her. “Lass?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Nothing. Her eyes didn’t so much as flutter.

  He sank to one knee beside her. She was beautiful, exquisite, with a fall of raven curls cascading around her pale oval face. Logan’s fury deepened when he noticed the red, swollen area around one of her eyes and the bit of dried blood caking her lower lip. She looked like a fragile porcelain doll, utterly serene, utterly helpless. Used and tossed away.

  An emotion he’d thought dead roared to life deep within him, caught in his chest, and sent the blood raging through his veins. Gently, he pushed aside her stiff, frozen plaid. His breath caught. Christ . . . she wore nothing but a shift beneath, its neckline stained with blood. He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her before gathering her pale limp body in his arms. Her skin was cold as ice.

  As lifeless as she appeared, though, he knew she lived. As he cradled her in his arms and bent his face down to her, he felt the soft whisper of her breath against his cheek.

  “Come, lass,” he murmured gruffly, wondering if she heard him at all. “I will warm you.”

  Chapter Two

  Warmth washed through Maggie. It pushed through her mus
cles, combating the frozen knots in her shoulders and neck.

  “Mmm.” She shifted her body, turning beneath comfortable, heavy blankets. Seductive heat pressed in on her from all sides. Warm air brushed over her cheeks, and she opened her eyes to find herself gazing into a peat fire.

  But the fire wasn’t the source of her warmth—a solid source of a heat hotter than any fire pressed into her back, its earthy male scent mingling with the peat. Bare skin cradled her bare skin.

  Awareness slammed into her.

  Someone—a man—lay behind her. And she was utterly naked.

  Her languid muscles tensed. A strangled cry emerged from her throat. With her heart pattering like a frightened rabbit’s, she lunged away, falling from the bed, then scrambling to an upright position on a hard-packed dirt floor.

  He was faster than her. As graceful as a cat, he leaped to his feet, trapping her between his body and the hearth.

  She stared up at him in openmouthed horror. This wasn’t Innes Munroe. This man was harder, taller, darker. Even more frightening in appearance. His face was untainted masculinity, with a high forehead; wide, lush lips; a blade of a nose; and narrow, dark eyes topped by menacing brows. Midnight black hair descended in silky waves to brush broad shoulders. Other than the plaid he wrapped around his waist as he rose, he was naked too.

  Maggie flattened her bare feet on the floor, tightened her fists at her sides, and looked up at him in brazen challenge. Though her insides had turned to jelly—no man had seen her unclothed since her husband died—she refused to show him her fear. She was no weakling.

  In any case, she thought with an inward flinch, she needn’t hide her body from him. Clearly the man had already familiarized himself with it. Without moving, she rapidly assessed herself. The only pain she felt radiated from the places Innes had hurt her—her chest, her leg, her wrists, and her face.

  Still, that didn’t necessarily mean this man hadn’t touched her, hadn’t violated her. Why on earth else would they both be naked?

  She tried to control her fear while squelching the shivers that built just beneath her skin. She’d been warm a moment ago, but now the cold prickled over her skin like tiny knives, painful in its intensity.

  Glaring up at the tall stranger, she couldn’t determine whether she was more or less appalled than if she’d found herself in bed with Innes. At least with Innes she knew her enemy. This man was an unknown entity, intimidating in both size and demeanor. Everything else in the room seemed diminutive and unimportant when compared to him.

  “I found you in the snow.” His voice was a low, rumbling growl that sent a tremble crawling down her spine. “Come back to bed. It’s still storming outside, and you’re chilled.”

  “What did you do to me?” she demanded.

  His lips thinned. “Nothing.”

  She raised a brow.

  “I brought you here.”

  “Naked?”

  He shrugged. “Your clothing was wet.”

  She glared at him. “What have you done to my clothes?”

  “Wet.” With a swift movement of his arm, the stranger motioned behind him. Beyond the bed, her shift, plaid, and stockings dangled from the rafters.

  “Now come back to bed.” His hard voice sent renewed shivers through her. The cold seized her body, gripped at her with painful talons. Raising her hands, she flexed her stiff fingers, staring in fascination at the disconnected way in which they moved.

  Beyond her fingers, she saw something flash in his dark eyes. Something dangerous.

  Slowly, she lowered her hands, curling her fists at her sides. She must gather her wits, keep them close. Despite the compulsion to study her whereabouts, Maggie kept her focus solely on the stranger. Wind rustled the eaves outside, but the peat fire sighed behind her, warm and inviting. It took every ounce of her will not to collapse to her knees and crawl close enough to it to singe her hair in the flames.

  Struggling to keep her voice even, she asked, “Who are you?”

  “Logan Douglas,” he replied shortly. He held out his hand. “Return to bed. It is too cold.”

  She held her ground, curling her toes into the frigid, hard-packed dirt. “Where are we?”

  “In the mountains.”

  She swallowed down the surging panic. The man just stood there, stiff and unyielding, blocking the path to the exit. She was at this big stranger’s mercy. As much as she tried not to show it, she was afraid.

  “Who are you? ” she pushed out.

  “I told you . . .”

  She shook her head. “I know everyone within miles of Lub fearn. Where did you come from, Logan Douglas?”

  “Far from here.”

  Slowly, the recollection of what had happened to her drifted into Maggie’s mind. A drunken Innes Munroe had abducted her from her cottage. He’d tied her wrists and carried her up the mountain on his horse. She’d escaped, Innes had abandoned his search for her and headed to Malmuirie’s, and she’d started the long walk home. After that, her memory faded to a blur.

  “Where did you find me?” she asked hoarsely.

  “Less than a mile from here,” Logan said. “You were unconscious.”

  “When?” Maggie’s voice wavered.

  “This morning.”

  No outside light seeped in from the cracks in the stone walls and the door, and the only light inside was the flickering gold glow cast by the fire. It was nighttime. She’d been absent from the village an entire day. By now, her servants would have informed the laird what had happened. Would he come after her? But Innes had said her cousin had approved of his abduction of Maggie. When Innes returned to the castle without her, what would he tell Torean?

  Knowing Innes, he’d stay deep within the warm carnal haven of Malmuirie’s at least until the storm had passed, which meant Torean wouldn’t come searching for her anytime soon. Her knees trembled, knocked together, and though she tried to still her body, she shook like an autumn leaf in a gale.

  She gritted her teeth. She must remain upright. But even as she commanded herself not to crumple, her legs simply melted from beneath her. Before she slammed face-f irst onto the hard-packed dirt, Logan scooped her against his chest. She tried to stiffen in his tight embrace, but her body wouldn’t obey her.

  “Put me down,” she managed to say through her chattering teeth.

  He ignored her command. “Come to bed. I’ll warm you.”

  “N -n - n o!”

  Gently, he laid her down and tucked the blankets over her. Still, her whole body shook, and the sound of her knocking teeth resonated like booming drums in her ears. She’d never be warm again, she was certain of it.

  Logan’s hand curled over her shoulder. “I’ve seen this before. I need to lie beside you. I must give you my warmth.”

  She clenched her teeth in an attempt to control them. “I need—bring me my shift.”

  “No.” A line appeared between his black brows as he hovered over her. “It is wet.”

  She groaned in frustration. “My stockings and plaid then.”

  “They won’t help you.” His voice washed over her, dark and rumbling and warm. “You require the heat of my skin.”

  “You—you’ll . . .” She wrapped her cold arms around her even colder body. “I don’t want you touching me.”

  “I must.”

  “I don’t know you!” The pitch of her voice rose to a reedy screech.

  Wearily, he sank to the edge of the bed. She saw his hand advancing, reaching toward her, but she gathered her strength and flinched away. He sighed. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “How can I know that?” She sounded shrill and panicked, but she was too frightened—and too cold—to care.

  “I don’t hurt women.”

  She shook her head. “You—you look like you’d hurt anything that stood in your way.”

  “Not you,” he said flatly.

  She blinked at him, and he turned away, busying himself by piling more plaids on her body.

  Perhaps she
was being stubborn. This Logan Douglas, as solid and intimidating as he was, seemed to have no intention of hurting her. Yet it damaged her pride to know he’d taken her clothes off, had observed her bare form, and then had lain for Lord knew how long with his body pressed against her, both of them stark naked.

  Staying in her curled-up position, Maggie forced her sluggish body to turn away from him, a clear signal of dismissal.

  “I . . .” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I wish to help you recover. That’s all.”

  She burrowed more deeply into the blankets, seeking not only their warmth but their ability to hide her body from his dark, compelling eyes. “I’m completely recovered.”

  It was a lie. Her skin prickled with pain, and shivers continued to ravage her body.

  He released a harsh breath. “No. You’re pale. Your lips are more blue than pink.”

  “I’m well,” she insisted.

  “You are frozen.”

  “I said I am well.” Her tone brooked no argument, but her eyelids felt weighted by steel. She was so, so tired. She couldn’t think straight. She needed sleep. Only sleep could warm her.

  He tried once more. “Allow me to lie beside you.”

  “No.” It was becoming difficult to speak. “You—you must sleep on . . . on the floor.” She sounded rather drunk, though she couldn’t remember drinking anything. Had she?

  Giving in to the pressure, she closed her eyes.

  “You’re exhausted.”

  Finally they could agree on something. “Will you sh-l eep on the floor?” she slurred. “Please?”

  All her strength had gone. Yet a strange man stood hovering over her. Valiantly, she struggled to open her eyes.

  He stared down at her, but instead of the frustration and anger she expected, compassion filled his face.

  “I’ll keep you safe,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “You must rest.”

  “I . . . Lord . . . so tired.” And the cold . . . it hurt.

  “You’re safe, lass. Nobody will hurt you.” The low-pitched words seemed to come from far away. “Sleep.”