Chapter Twenty-One
Helene awoke feeling groggy and disoriented.
The dimly lit space around her carried a mixture of scents: burning wood, herbs, and grass.
She heard the crack and pop of a fire and the gentle simmer of what smelled like broth.
Above her, she studied a grey stone canopy, not the usual umbrella of stars and treetops to which she’d become accustomed.
Soft bedding lay between her back and the ground, and a blanket covered her clothed body from the chest down.
Gradually, she pieced together the clues to place her in the present. Memories of being set upon hit with the ferocity of the attack, and she sat bolt upright. ‘Lachlan!’
His arms came swiftly about her before she’d called out his name.
‘Hush now. Ye’re safe, mo ghràdh.’
She went limp with relief in his arms, and in moments, the shock of the afternoon’s events took its toll.
She shivered as if in the thick of winter snow, her breathing erratic.
Lachlan drew her onto his lap where he sat on the floor of the old church, his back against the wall, and held her, talking to her in soothing sounds of Gaelic.
The low dulcet tones of his native tongue washed over Helene like a lullaby.
There she stayed until her body no longer trembled and her breathing evened out.
Lachlan. Her anchor, her shelter, her saviour.
She clutched him tight, inhaling the scent of his skin through his linen shirt.
There was no doubt this man, the laird of Clan MacLanoch, would remain her sworn and devout protector until delivering her safely home.
Already, she mourned being separated from him.
Despair and loss added weight to her sorrows.
How would she get through each day without him?
‘Those men. Their bodies?’ Asking the question left the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.
‘Disposed of.’
‘I’m sorry you had to do it on your own.’
‘’Tis not something I’d have asked ye to do. I worry only for ye.’
Dare she hope his worry for her equated to a deeper connection, and that he yearned for her as she did him?
A futile and fanciful wish. She reminded herself for the umpteenth time it could never be.
Despite efforts to quash intensifying feelings for him, there was nothing to be done but resign herself to silently bewail the anguish of missed opportunities and unrequited affection.
‘I’ll be all right, but had you not found me when you did . . .’
His arms firmed about her. ‘Aye. That those curs so much as laid a finger on ye unleashed in me blind fury such as I’ve ne’er ken, and to see that man atop ye, and to ken what he was about to do . . . I wanted to rip his heart out with my bare hands.’
His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, the hammer of his heart loud against her ear. His laboured breathing and raw rage told Helene just how much her near rape affected him. She leaned into the hand he used to gently cup her cheek.
‘I’m sorry I didnae get to ye before he struck ye.’
Helene lifted her head from his chest to look Lachlan in the eye. ‘It’s done and over with. Those men are dead! A threat to no one, and I hope they burn in the deepest, darkest depths of hell.’ Her words carried the venom of her conviction.
‘Aye. That they will.’ His thumb caressed her jawline.
They eyed each other in silence for a time.
He raised a brow. ‘Ye’re quite the feisty warrior, ye ken? Any Highlander would be proud to fight alongside ye.’
She smiled up at him. ‘I learned from the best.’
He stared at her with curious intensity. In the next instant, as if remembering himself, he removed her from his lap to seat her on the bedding. ‘Best ye cover yersel’ with this,’ he said, handing her the blanket.
Helene took it from him and looked down to see her shirt agape, with her breasts almost completely exposed. She shuddered with the memory of her attacker having ripped her shirt open. She hastily tucked the blanket beneath her armpits and accepted the bowl of broth Lachlan offered her.
‘’Tis slim pickings tonight. I didnae want to go out and hunt and leave ye here on yer own.’
‘Whatever this is, it smells delicious.’ She brought the bowl to her lips and sipped. Her eyes closed and she hummed a sound of appreciation. ‘Delicious. Thank you.’
‘Yer shirt will need fixing, but I’ll deal with that when ye’re done eating.’
Helene sent him a quizzical look. ‘Fix it? With what?’
He winked and patted the pouch on his belt. ‘’Tis not just tinder and flint in here, ye ken?’
‘You mean, you have buttons, a needle, and thread in there?’
‘Aye. Bone buttons. And ’tis nae always clothes that need stitching, but flesh wounds.’
Helene gave an approving nod. ‘Resourceful.’
‘Practical.’
The man never ceased to impress Helene. She sipped the broth, taking in all the preparations Lachlan had made for their night’s stay inside the church.
He’d set their belongings and saddles alongside one wall and had laid out their bedding.
She surreptitiously watched him crouch beside the fire to feed it more wood.
She assumed he’d positioned the fire just inside the church’s doorless entrance to repel and ward off any curious nocturnal animals.
‘Thank you for the broth,’ she said, setting the bowl to one side.
‘There’s more if ye’d like.’
‘No, thank you. That was ample.’ She spied and pointed to one of the full water bladders. ‘Would you mind if I were to use some water to give myself a washdown? It’s just that I feel as if my skin carries the filth of . . . of . . .’ She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
‘Ye needn’t say it, lass. I understand.’ Lachlan stood, took up the water vessel, and placed it on the floor in the derelict chancel.
‘Ye’ve enough firelight here, and I’ll turn away to give ye privacy.
In the meantime, I’ll mend yer shirt while ye tend to yersel’.
Hand it to me when ye’re ready.’ He sat down before the fire with his back to her.
Helene removed all her clothes and drew the blanket about her.
She padded over to Lachlan and gave him her shirt, then picked up her neckcloth and returned to the chancel.
She set the blanket down within easy reach and, standing naked, glanced over her shoulder to see Lachlan open the leather pouch and take from it a needle and thread.
She was surprised how comfortable and at ease she was standing naked in his presence. Perhaps because she knew him to be a man of his word and he would not turn to peek or take advantage of her in so vulnerable a state. Unabashedly, she wished he’d do so.
Multiple times she drenched the neckcloth with water, scrubbing the material over her face, neck, and washing her body all over.
As she did so, her thoughts turned inward.
Melancholic. Disconsolate. How ironic that she found herself in God’s holy house wishing to be cleansed of having been sinned against, and of committing her own sins, the worst of which was taking a life, even if it was to protect her own.
Purgatory awaited her. Of this, she was sure.
And then there was Prudence. How many times over the years, to no avail, had Helene clasped her hands in prayer, begging God’s forgiveness?
Begging Him to restore her beloved sister’s health so that Prudence might lead the life she, and not Helene, deserved.
Right now, Helene felt as empty and as abandoned as this building.
How she longed to escape this hopeless sense of despair and loneliness, if only for a brief time.
Lachlan had made her forget once before. Might he do so again?
‘Yer shirt is ready when ye are.’
Firelight cast Helene’s naked silhouette against the wall. She eyed it for a moment and, arriving at a decision, untied the leather thong binding her braid. Slender fingers combed the long wavy hair, fanning it out across her back. ‘I’m ready.’
Lachlan’s sharp gasp reached her loud and clear. The ensuing silence was punctuated by a whinny from one of their horses tethered outside, the piping notes of a common nightingale, and the hiss of a log fallen in the fire.
Helene waited in the hope he’d come to her, that he’d appease her longing for the comfort of his touch.
Another prayer went unanswered. Defeated, her chin fell to her chest only to lift again when the feel of linen touched her back.
Firm hands settled on her arms, and Lachlan’s breath on the nape of her neck sent a shiver down her spine. Helene turned her head slightly to the side and raised one hand to cover his.
His voice came in a tremulous, hoarse whisper. ‘I shall leave ye to button up yer shirt.’
‘No!’ Helene turned and slid his hand down to cup her breast. His large, warm palm seared her skin with the greatest of pleasure. ‘No,’ she repeated in softer tones.
He sucked in a breath. ‘Helene.’
She heard strained emotion in his gravelly voice, but still she held his hand firm against her, unwilling to let him go. ‘Have you forgotten my promise to you? I’m offering you your reward for taking me home.’
His gaze lifted from her breast to her eyes. ‘Lass, the promise of bedding ye is nae the reason I agreed to see ye home.’ He removed his hand from beneath hers.
‘Then why?’ The sting of rejection tinged her voice.
Lachlan bent to the blanket and concealed her modesty.
‘I dinnae ken the reason for yer father’s summons, but I daresay ye do. Bargaining away yer virtue for the sake of fast returning home made me realise how desperate ye were to oblige him. It was for that reason, and that reason only, that I agreed to make this solo journey with ye.’
The confession took Helene by surprise. She had indeed thought Lachlan to be first and foremost a libertine.
Fool! She should have known better. Shamefaced, she said, ‘My apologies. I believed it was only because of the offer to bed me that you agreed to escort me home. I’ve sorely misjudged you. Forgive me.’