Winter Heat Page 4

  “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.

  As she worked, Logan studied her hair, her face, the way her lips pursed in concentration. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. A wee freckle near her left eyebrow disappeared in the crease between her brows when she frowned.

  “There!” Rocking back on her heels, she tossed the soiled rag back into the pot. “Now we must give it a few moments to dry, and then I’ll wrap it.”

  He began to rise, but she placed her hand flat on his chest, pushing him back to the bed. She scowled down at him. “What do you think you are doing?”

  He gave her a sheepish look. “I could use some of that whisky now, I think.”

  “You stay right there. I’ll fetch it.”

&nb
sp; She retrieved the bottle from the floor and went to the table to pour some into a cup. He studied her profile. The rounded shape of her jaw, the gently sloping nose. Her unruly hair fell across her face, and she shoved it out of the way as she turned to bring him the cup.

  “Thank you.” His lips curved up as he took it from her. It was such a rare expression for him, it felt odd, as if he were forced to crack through a thin layer of ice over his face before the smile could form.

  She sat beside him and prodded his leg. “Good. It’s dry. I’ll wrap it, then.” Taking a strip of linen from the pile at the bottom of the bed, she began to wind it round his leg.

  Logan set his cup on the floor and eased onto his back, lifting his leg from the blanket so she could wrap beneath it. He nearly smiled again as he watched her, for she assiduously kept her eyes on his wound, not allowing them to travel higher to peek beneath his plaid, where his wayward cock, revived after its respite during the wound cleaning, grew more insistent by the second.

  She finished wrapping his leg in silence, then went to tend the fire. She was so beautiful. Unconscious, she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, but from the moment she’d opened those blue eyes and faced him without any semblance of fear, he’d been entranced.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas, isn’t it?” she said quietly, still facing the flames.

  Logan frowned. The days had melded together since he had begun to walk north, but he tried to keep count. “Aye, I think so.”

  “Today, then, is Christmas Eve, and we don’t have a Yule log to burn through the night.” She turned to him, her eyes bright. “Nevertheless, we must keep the peat burning until dawn. My mother always insisted upon it when I was a lass, for she said the elves are out this night, and a strong fire is the only way to keep them away.”

  The way she smiled at him, slightly pensive, slightly wry, made Logan’s body tighten all over.

  When he’d first brought her in from the cold, he’d stripped her naked. Then, the need to save her had kept his baser impulses in check. As he worked, he’d resisted reacting to the curve of her hip, her narrow waist, the creamy mounds of her breasts. He’d kept his focus on warming her. Nevertheless, as he’d tried to infuse his body heat into her, he couldn’t help but revel in the smooth softness of her skin, in her utter femininity. She was soft where he was hard, smooth where he was rough, narrow where he was wide, delicate where he was large.

  Now, despite the bruises, she was whole and healthy, and as vibrant as anyone he’d ever seen. Just looking upon her, even clothed as she was in a shapeless plaid, made his blood heat to a boil. And right now, as she gazed up at him, the firelight haloing her head, a light flush drifted across her pale cheekbones and her eyes shone with some emotion—was it longing?

  Was it possible she wanted him, too?

  Logan nodded gravely. “Aye, we’ll keep the fire going. Wouldn’t want elves filching the whisky.”

  She grinned, and blood roared through his veins. Every inch of his skin burned with the urge to touch her.

  Tearing his gaze away, he rose and yanked on his jacket, then gathered his plaid over his shoulder without returning his focus to her. If he looked, he didn’t know what he might feel compelled to do. He had to get away from her, even for just a few minutes, to soothe the edginess crawling beneath his skin. The perfect excuse came to him as he worked the row of buttons on his jacket. “I must search for your brooch.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. I didn’t know about your leg when I agreed—”

  “I told you I would search today, and I will,” he interrupted her. “Stay inside, and I’ll be back before dark.”

  “No!”

  He turned to her, raising a brow.

  “I . . . I’ll go with you.”

  “It’s too dangerous. It’s going to storm again.”

  She shrugged. “You said the place where you found me wasn’t far away.”

  “It’s far too cold to risk it. And your clothes—”

  “—are completely dry,” she announced, smugly victorious. She yanked her stockings from the ceiling and pulled them on.

  Sighing in resignation, he went to bank the fire. By the time he finished, she’d secured her stockings and dropped her shift over her head. Clearly she’d had much practice in dressing before others, for he only caught a glimpse of pale flesh as the plaid fell to the floor and the shift covered her nakedness. She retrieved the plaid and wrapped it around her body, finishing by fastening it with the borrowed pin. Then she strode to the trunk and removed the too-large men’s leather boots.

  Once she’d finished lacing the boots on as tightly as possible, she rose and smiled at him. “Are you ready, then?”

  Logan opened the door and turned his face up into the gently falling snow, allowing the coldness to collide with the heat boiling through him.

  Closing his eyes, he prayed for temperance.

  The place where Logan had found her looked different in daylight, but from the recesses of her mind, Maggie dredged up the memory of the small, sheer rock bluff that she’d believed would shelter her from the storm.

  She stared at the outcropping and shook her head in disbelief. “I must have been mad to think I’d be safe here.”

  Logan stood a few steps away from her, carrying the shovel he’d found leaning on the outside wall of the cottage. “The cold addled your head.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body, and Logan turned to her. His expression was guarded. Shuttered. “But you’re safe now.”

  The realization struck her like a brick in the stomach. If it hadn’t been for him, she would have died in the snow. She hadn’t truly believed it until this moment. She blinked hard. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head, and a muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I lost your brooch.”

  “But you saved me.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I suppose that’s more important.”

  She was human, after all. She’d never felt so vulnerable as she did at this moment, staring at the place she might have died if not for the stranger standing nearby.

  She studied Logan’s stiff, hardened features, tight lips, and dark eyes. He wasn’t a stranger anymore. He’d saved her life. He’d suffered war, capture, injury, grief, and imprisonment in the past few weeks, but he’d rescued her from certain death and made certain she recovered from her ordeal. All along he’d listened to her. He’d treated her with respect.

  She trusted him.

  As she stared at him, she realized she was shaking. It was a deep shiver that originated in her bones.

  Logan released a harsh breath, dropped the shovel, and in two long strides, he stood in front of her. Reaching out, he pulled her tightly against his warm, hard body.

  She couldn’t resist his touch anymore. She didn’t want to. His powerful embrace was so welcome, so comforting. She wanted to crawl right into his heat and stay there.

  Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he murmured, “You’re more important than anything, Maggie.”

  She stiffened in shock. His words sucked the breath from her, leaving her unable to speak.

  Abruptly, he pulled away, taking a step back. A light flush darkened his cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “We should search. Do you remember where you dropped it?”

  “No,” she murmured, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Do you remember where you saw it?”

  “I was distracted. I forgot it completely once I saw you,” he replied.

  “All right. You take the area near the rocks; I’ll look here.”

  Maggie knelt down and began to sift through snow until her fingers were red and numb with cold. She clomped back and forth in the too-l arge boots, combing the entire area before the bluff. Then she found a stick and dug. After an hour had passed, clouds muted the dull remains of sunlight, and the snow came down in thick flurries. She could hardly see beyond the ridge. Frustrated, she straightened and tramped over to Logan. “This is ridiculous.”

  He looked up from the deep groove he’d sh
oveled in the snow. He’d been working hard, and sweat beaded his brow despite the cold. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll catch our deaths if we continue. It’s hopeless.” She clamped her jaw tight, but her lip trembled and a tear slipped from her eye. “Damn it.” Angrily, she brushed the moisture away with the back of her hand.

  “Ah, Maggie.”

  She’d never known how much that brooch meant to her, but losing it felt like she was losing her mother all over again. Emotion welled up within her, and then it overflowed. She buried her face in the woolen lapels of Logan’s jacket. He dropped the shovel and wrapped his arms around her, enclosing her body in a protective cocoon, and she clung to him and sobbed.

  Finally, exhaustion crept through her bones, and she brushed away the last of her tears. Darkness had chased away the last vestiges of daylight, and all was silent in the snowy gloom.

  Wrung dry, she looked up at him. “Take me back to the cottage, please, Logan. Let’s leave this place.”

  Chapter Four

  Damn it—he’d wanted to find her brooch. With Maggie at his side, Logan strode through the snow in rising frustration, his wounded thigh throbbing. He’d return, search again. It was imperative he find it. The pin was important to Maggie, and therefore it was important to him. He wanted her to have it.

  Through the flurries of snow, the cottage came into view, their tiny haven in a dismal, charcoal world. The idea of returning at dusk to a warm cottage and food appealed to him, but the idea of returning with Maggie at his side made an odd feeling flutter in his chest.

  “Juniper!” she suddenly announced.

  “Juniper?”

  “Aye.” She gestured at a clump of trees just beyond the cottage. “Every year for Christmas and Hogmanay, we decorate the laird’s castle with wreaths of juniper and mistletoe.” She glanced up at him. “May I borrow your dirk? I’ll cut one small branch to hang from the rafters. Just to remind us it’s Christmas.”

  “Of course. I’ll cut one for you.”