The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 7

7

J ulia clapped her hands over her mouth, watching the duke plunge into the ice-encrusted lake. “No!” she shrieked, not caring a fig about how she sounded.

With a dunking thud, an enormous splash splattered across the boulder. “Your Grace!” she yelled, peering over the edge, clutching her fists atop her hammering heart.

His body floated in the white-crested waves, face down and unmoving.

God, no!

In two leaps, Julia landed on the shore and plunged into the frigid swells. “Martin!” she cried as she trudged forward until she was hip-deep and grabbing him by the shoulders. Using the water’s buoyancy, she bore down, struggling to flip him onto his back. Good Lord, he was already blue. With all her strength, she dragged him onto the shore. “Your Grace!”

When he didn’t respond, she patted his face. Hard. “Please!”

With a sputtering cough, the duke’s head lolled to the side.

Thank God he’s alive!

But if she didn’t act quickly, he’d succumb to the cold, no question. She unbuttoned her great coat, shrugged it off, and covered his legs with the dry half. Next, she removed her woolen topcoat and draped it over His Grace’s torso. Dropping to her knees, she clasped his face between her palms. “I’ll fetch a horse. I can see them from here. I’ll only be a moment, you hear? Stay alive, blast you!”

Tears streamed down her face as she sprinted toward the horses slowed by wet trousers and water squishing from her boots.

This is all my fault!

Julia had feared the danger straight away. She never should have climbed up beside him. The rock was slick with a dusting of snow. But did she offer one single word of caution?

No.

She’d been too afraid of sounding like a ninny. Instead, she’d joined the duke and played along with his antics.

And now look at what has happened.

Her teeth chattered and her hand shook terribly as she unbuckled her horse’s hobble, mounted, then galloped back to where Martin lay motionless on the ground.

“Your Grace,” she called loudly, hoping to rouse him. “I need you to help me.”

Dunscaby opened his eyes but budged not an inch.

Hopping down, Julia steeled her mind against the cold as she straddled him, grasped his collar, and shook. “You need to mount the horse this instant!”

She shoved her hands under his arms, dug her heels into the snow, and tugged him to a sitting position. “Come, you must do better than that. You’re twice my size. I cannot lift you on my own.”

Grunting with the strain of his weight, she shouted. “Help me, dash you!”

When his head dropped forward. She looked toward the trees. They’d ridden nearly an hour before they reached the loch. He’d die if she left him and ran for help. Making her decision, she moved one hand to his nape and slapped the duke across the face as hard as she could. “Wake up!”

He grunted and jerked away.

“Martin,” she said in a most forceful masculine voice. “If you want to survive, you will mount the horse this minute.”

As he started to move, Julia pulled him by the hands. “That’s it. All you must to do is stand.”

Once he was on his feet, she kept one arm around his waist, reached for the reins, drew the horse beside them, and urged His Grace to place his hands on the saddle. Tightening the grasp around his waist, she helped him raise his foot and guided it into the stirrup.

“Excellent,” she said, breathless, crouching low, she moved behind him and placed both hands on his buttocks. “Pull yourself up whilst I push.”

Using both her legs and her arms, she shoved his bottom with every ounce of strength she possessed, but it wasn’t enough. Julia clenched her teeth and strained. “You will die if you do not mount this horse!”

Threatening Dunscaby with certain death seemed to do the trick as with a guttural groan, he somehow managed to add enough effort to drag his leg over the saddle.

Muttering a swift prayer of thanks, Julia grabbed her coats then quickly mounted behind him. Leaning forward to gather the reins, she spotted a slick swath of blood on her glove.

Oh, no.

The duke hunched over the horse’s withers, blood oozing from his head, staining his collar and neckcloth.

“Hold firm, Your Grace.” She kicked her heels and slapped the reins. “There’s no time to spare!”

“Mr. MacIain,” Julia roared as she pulled hard on the reins, stopping the horse outside the lodge’s entry. “MacIain!” she yelled louder.

The door swung open to the wide-eyed caretaker. “What the devil?”

“His Grace fell in the lake and struck his head. Quickly, I need your help taking him to his chamber.” Julia rapidly patted Dunscaby’s back. “Are you awake, sir?”

Not moving, the duke still hung precariously over the horse’s withers and neck.

“Martha!” MacIain called over his shoulder. “We need your help out here.”

Julia said nothing, but the man was right. She was too small to carry even half of Martin MacGalloway all the way above stairs. For heaven’s sake, she never would have been able to lever him onto the horse if he hadn’t the wits to add some effort himself.

Together the three of them struggled to somewhat-carry, somewhat-drag an unconscious Dunscaby up the narrow, winding staircase. Julia’s affinity for medieval architecture waned. The masons of eras past put no thought whatsoever into the fact that human beings were not curved and would not easily be carried through tight-walled, circular stairwells.

By the time they managed to roll the duke atop his mattress, Julia was ready to collapse. But time was still of the essence. She shook her arms and stretched to her full height. “We must remove his damp clothes and stoke the fire. We need hot water and clean cloths. He suffered a blow to his head when he fell. Moreover, his horse is still hobbled by Loch Tulla and there’s a horrible squall brewing.”

“His musket?” asked MacIain as if the gun were almost as important as His Grace.

Julia shrugged. “Most likely doused in the lake. I must have left mine nearby as well, and I’ll doubt you’ll be able to find the deer he felled.”

“If you can remove his clothing, Mr. Smallwood, I’ll fetch the horse and see what I can do about finding those muskets—especially Dunscaby’s. ’Twas His Grace’s great-grandfather’s, used in the ’45,” MacIain said, turning toward his wife. “Boil water and bring up some cloths.”

“Do you have a salve to ward off infection?” Julia asked.

The woman started away. “Aye. With eight MacGalloway children, there’s always a need for a medicine bundle. I’ll bring it as well.”

Though the chamber seemed warm compared to the air outdoors, Julia added two sticks of wood to the fire. After brushing off her hands, the realization dawned…the MacIain’s were gone and left her alone to remove His Grace’s wet garments. Her gaze darted to the bed while awareness swirled in the pit of her stomach—awareness and trepidation.

She must undress Dunscaby quickly. The problem was she’d never actually disrobed a man before. Certainly, she was supposed to be a man and had removed her clothing, but if the duke ever discovered her ruse he’d be mortified.

Or she’d be mortified.

Regardless, he’d never forgive her. Of that there was absolutely no question.

Mortification aside, she mustn’t waste one more minute. What had to be done, must be done. The duke’s lips were blue and if he remained in those damp clothes, he’d catch his death.

Julia started with his boots and hose. “We’ll have you warm in no time, Your Grace,” she said, tugging his boot with all her might while Dunscaby offered no reply.

“Bless it, are these monstrosities fused to your feet?” Julia widened her stance as she twisted and heaved until the blasted boot finally dislodged. She did the same with the other and removed his hose, finding his feet stark white, wrinkled, and icy cold.

Rather than attack his buckskins next, she moved to his collar and untied his neckcloth. Then made quick work of unbuttoning his greatcoat, coat, waistcoat, and shirt. It took no effort at all to spread them open.

And then she staggered backward.

Lord have mercy.

Julia tried not to look, she truly did, but what young woman could avert her eyes from such a display of masculinity? She’d never seen such a chest—square and powerful, peppered with blond ringlets and tipped with succulent nipples. Unable to resist, she tiptoed forward and lightly brushed her fingertip over a tiny peak.

Snapping her hand away, she gasped.

’Tis as taut as mine when I’m cold.

Something warm fluttered low in her belly, something very low, indeed. So strong the pull, it made her breathing more labored, made her want to kiss him as well. She shifted her gaze to his mouth—pink, slightly parted in repose. Before she thought, her tongue grew a mind of its own and ran across her bottom lip.

No!

No matter how much she wanted to kiss this man, he wasn’t hers. He could never be hers regardless of the fact that she was the daughter of an earl. She’d donned her father’s clothing and thus had ended her days as a marriageable woman.

Shaking her head, she set to the arduous task of rolling him from side to side and fully removing his coats and shirt. When at last his upper half was bare, she covered his chest with a blanket and unbuttoned his falls.

“Do you need some help?” asked Mrs. MacIain, entering with a kettle in one hand and a basket in the other. “I’ve brought everything you asked for.”

Julia straightened. “If we can pull off his buckskins, we’ll be able to move him beneath the bedclothes and he’ll be all the warmer.”

Together they managed to inch the trousers away, revealing only a paper-thin pair of damp smalls which left nothing to the imagination and Julia unable to breathe.

Mrs. MacIain smiled as if she’d just won a prize. “Och, MacGalloway men make fine specimens, they do.”

Julia’s face burned and she quickly grabbed the bedclothes and covered him. “I beg your pardon, madam.”

“Nothing I havena seen afore.” Mrs. MacIain stepped away, sighing. “He’ll make some woman happy. That’s for certain.”

Julia didn’t want to think about Martin— er —the Duke of Dunscaby making any person of the female persuasion happy. Especially since he would never be able to make her happy. The idea positively made her shoulders tenser than they already were. She must put the idea out of her mind until the day came when she had to face the inevitable reality. Besides, her plans were to avoid His Grace’s presence as much as possible, leaving him to be a wife-seeking duke and her to be a content and efficient steward, not some simpering, swooning waif.

She reached for a clean cloth and doused it in the water. “Did you say you brought a salve?”

Mrs. MacIain pulled a pot out of the basket and set it on the bedside table. “This is my own recipe. Nothing better.”

“Excellent.” Julia gently turned the duke’s head to the side and dabbed the wound with gentle brushes. “Thank you.”

“Would you like me to tend him?” asked the matron.

As she shook her head, Julia’s stomach clenched. There was no chance she would step aside and leave Martin’s care in the hands of a woman she hardly knew. “I ought to do it. After all, I feel responsible.”

“Verra well, then. I’ll bring you a bite to eat and?—”

“I’d love a pot of tea if it is not too much trouble.”

“’Tis no trouble at all. But once you have His Grace set to rights, you’d best don some warm clothes of your own, else there’ll be two of you abed.”