Chapter Seven #2
They reached the edge of the village and the widow’s ramshackle hut.
Thank the Lord. He looked forward to silencing her tongue for a while.
He did, indeed, taking little pleasure in conversing with her, not when every word forced him to question himself, his past, his current existence.
He had been perfectly satisfied until she had arrived at Kilcree.
He knocked on the door and grimaced when it nearly fell from its support. A wee child, no older than six summers, he reckoned, dragged open the door and his dark eyes grew wide. He said nothing.
“Is yer mamaidh home?”
The child nodded and thrust a finger toward the inside of the hut. Logan ducked in to see the woman abed, huddled under thin blankets.
She scrambled to sitting as she spied them. Several children huddled around her. He knew the widow had many offspring but he hadn’t realised it was this many.
“Forgive me, sir, I didnae know ye were here.”
The woman, her features disguised beneath a film of dirt and her dark hair mostly tucked under a coif, bundled the children into her as if he were some raging beast they needed protection from. He let his lips thin.
“My lady!” she declared, when her gaze fell on Lorna.
“Good day, Eleanor. Are ye unwell?”
“Nay, my lady, just a wee bit tired.” Her distraction did not last, her gaze fell fearfully on Logan. “If yer here about the taxes...”
Logan held up a hand. “The villagers have made arrangements, dinnae fear.”
“They have? But Gordon didnae say—”
“I spoke with him and ye dinnae need to worry. I wished to stop by to make that clear.”
Eleanor nodded and even in the gloom of the hut, he saw her eyes mist. “Thank ye, sir. May the Lord bless ye.”
He nodded stiffly, an uncomfortable sensation in his chest and spun on his heel. Once more, Lorna scurried behind him and his regret that he brought her doubled. What had he been thinking bringing this inquisitive woman with him?
Untying the reins of the horse, he stowed the coin in the saddlebag and went to aid Lorna on but she pushed his hands away.
“Why did ye do that?”
“Do what?”
“Help her. The chief didnae pay her taxes, ye know that well enough.”
He lifted a shoulder, the unpleasant tightness in his chest increasing. He did not need this woman questioning his every action. “I didnae see the need in creating more work for the laird,” he said coolly.
“And how shall ye explain the lack of payment?” Lorna gripped his arm and her fingers practically singed through his shirt.
He glanced down at her hand and back up to her eyes. Hope shone bright in them, and he groaned inwardly. Did she think because he showed the tiniest bit of charity, he might take pity on her?
“I shallnae have to explain it,” was all he said in response. Before she could argue, he clamped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the horse. It was either flail and fall or grip the saddle and climb on, so she did.
Once he was mounted behind her, she eased into his chest a little and he tightened his muscles.
“Ye intend to pay it yerself, do ye not?” she asked smugly.
Raising his gaze to the heavens and begging for a respite from this frustrating lass, he ignored her comment—and the accuracy of it—and prodded the horse to begin their journey back to the castle. The sooner he had her out of his arms and locked away, safe and sound, the better.
***
Excitement buzzed through Lorna’s veins, making her fidgety.
Her arm ached where more bruises were likely coming up from his rough handling of her—visible proof of his change in character—yet she did not regret being dragged along.
For one, she got to speak with several of the villagers whom she had not seen since she had escaped the castle and secondly, Logan’s charitable act renewed her hope that she might just reach the man he used to be.
The men she had spoken to had all expressed dismay in Logan’s vicious temperament.
Many were scared of him and had never had the courage to speak up.
It seemed most believed that when she left, it broke him.
Was it possible she contributed to the loss of his memory?
Surely it was more likely a strike to the head that had done it.
She had heard of such occurrences but never such long term memory loss.
The temptation to beg them to help her—to hide her or try to convince Logan of the truth had been strong—but seeing the poverty stricken state of the settlement had prevented her from asking such liberties.
If she hid out in the village or it became known they had aided her, Gillean would surely wreak revenge upon them.
Drawing in a breath, she pondered the rugged horizon. Should she try to make an escape now? And how? Logan pushed the horse hard and his grip around her was firm. She doubted she had any chance of escaping him.
She wriggled again and heard him grunt. When she shifted back, she became aware of his hard body flush against hers, his strong thighs framing her.
While their night together had been brief, she was thoroughly aware of the muscled body beneath the plaid.
Many times during the years together, she had seen him shirtless.
Once she had even spied him bathing. The sight of firm muscles and a little crisp hair scattered across his chest lingered with her even now.
Like sun melting wax she felt herself soften into him and heard his sharp intake of breath.
Whatever had occurred between them throughout the years, she could never deny they had always been attracted to one another and in spite of the change in him, she still hungered for him.
Regret swirled in her stomach, heavy and bitter. If she had accepted him, had not pushed him away, would things be different now? But if things had gone differently, would she still have a son? Lorna could never regret Ewan.
She swallowed and moved in an attempt to ease the ache gathering inside. Logan deserved to know of his son but she doubted he’d believe her now. If he saw him, he would not doubt her word. The babe looked more like his father every day.
“We are nearly there. Can ye no’ keep still for a few moments?” he snapped, breaking her thoughts.
“I’ve been confined in irons and hauled around for the past few days. My muscles are stiff,” she grumbled.
“Ye’ll suffer worse if ye dinnae keep still.”
“What could be worse?” she snapped back.
He hauled the horse to a stop and Lorna squealed when he leaped off, dragging her with him. Both hands gripping her upper arms, he pinned her in one spot and eyed her gravely from under his brow. Something echoed in the dark depths of his eyes—a flash of remembrance?
“If ye’ll insist on rubbing yer body against me, ye can expect far worse than being held in irons.”
The grating texture to his voice increased and she gaped up at him. Did he intend to throw her down and take her here, in the middle of the Highlands?
Part of her longed for him to. To feel his touch again, to stroke his skin.
But this was not Logan. He might have Logan’s handsome, rugged looks—that not even the large scar on his neck could vanquish—and his strong, muscular body, but there the similarities ended.
Her heart grieved once again for what she had lost, but her head counselled her against such sorrow.
There had to be hope he would return to her.
There had to be, and Lorna refused to give up on him.
“Logan,” she whispered—a plea.
His grip softened on her, confusion flitted over his face. The gentle touch of the breeze around her did not cool the heat that flushed through her as he held her close, close enough so that her breasts brushed his chest and her thighs touched his.
“Is it so hard to believe that I might speak the truth?”
His expression hardened briefly but when his gaze fell back to her lips, a smile tugged his lips. “Yer a temptress, lass. Ye lead me to my doom. Do ye believe me such a fool to succumb to yer tricks? ”
“I dinnae believe yer a fool. Ye’ve always been far from dim-witted, but if ye are no fool, why will ye no’ question what ye’ve been told? Why will ye no’ give me a chance?”
He shook his head. “What chance do ye ask? Should I do what yer eyes beg me to do and lift yer skirts and take ye here? Me—a mere peasant. Am I to believe ye let me sully yer noble skin with my kisses once before.”
She sucked in a sharp breath at his coarse words. Logan had always spoken softly to her with the exception of when she had sent him away from her after their night together. But in spite of the bitterness behind the tone, thrills shot to her lower belly.
“If I thought it would help ye remember, I’d do as much.”
His lips curled as if he had eaten something sour. “Like a chore mayhap? Sacrifice yerself in the hopes yer feminine wiles might persuade me to let ye loose?”
“Ye think me some kind of whore?”
“I think yer a canny woman, willing to do anything to be free.”
In some way, he was correct. After Walter’s death, she had done everything in her power to maintain her independence.
It wouldn’t last, she knew that. Someone would want her hand and dowry eventually, but not even the love of Logan could persuade her to give herself up willingly. What a fool she had been.
But at present, she hardly knew what drove her. Desire? Desperation? How could she be so strongly attracted to a man who only bore resemblance to the man she loved? Bitterness had eaten into him and twisted him into an entirely different man.
Her chest ached for the man who had vanished from her life.
He might not be dead but he might as well be.
Lorna lifted a hand and he jerked back but did not stop her when she brushed a hand down the side of his face.
His mouth softened, the lines in his face diminished.
He felt it too, the ancient connection between them, she was sure, but he refused to listen to his heart.
Whatever lies Gillean had fed him were too deeply ingrained.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly.
“What for?”
“For leaving ye. For being too scared.”
“Scared of what?”
Lorna gulped, the noose of fear knotting her throat. She had endured beatings and survived battles but nothing scared her as much as the vulnerability she had felt that came with loving Logan.
She stroked her fingers down the rough hair covering the scar on his neck. “Scared of loving ye,” she finally admitted.