Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Catriona awoke suddenly, not knowing where she was. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, looking around her. Faced by wooden plank walls and a dirt floor, it came back to her in a rush. The hut. The storm. She realized she could not hear the rain. The storm must have blown over them.
Malcolm.
With a jolt of panic, she realized he was not in the room. Rising hastily, she threw off the blanket and made for the door, intending to see if the horse was gone. She had only taken a few steps when it opened and Malcolm strode in, bringing fresh air with him.
“Ach, there ye are!” she exclaimed, relief flowing through her.
The first thing she noticed about him was that he was fully dressed. The second was his hard, closed-off expression. She blinked at him, finding it hard to equate this stern-faced man with the one who had so tenderly cuddled her and used his body to warm her enough for her to sleep.
“Where were ye?” she asked, suddenly aware of what a mess she must look, with her hair wild about her face and her dress all crumpled for sleeping in it. Her hands fluttered over her hair, trying to smooth it, though why it should matter she had no idea.
“Saddlin’ the horse,” he replied shortly. “Ye need tae get ready tae leave right away. With the storm over, Sinclair’s men will likely be out huntin’ for ye in the area. ’Tis nae safe tae linger.”
“Aye, all right.”
His abrupt change of mood unnerved her, but she decided not to challenge him on it just then. She was as keen as he was to put distance between them and Sinclair’s men.
“Well, I’ve naethin’ tae pack, so I suppose I’m ready,” she said, pretending not to have noticed the change in him.
She figured it was not important, that the sooner she got to Castle Gordon, the sooner Duncan would send for her.
Only when she was back at home with her brother and Elaina would she feel truly safe.
She rode astride behind him on his horse, forced for fear of falling off to clasp her arms around his waist. She tried to pay attention to the country they were travelling through, which showed evidence of the storm’s passing.
Broken boughs lay strewn across the track ahead of them, a few trees had been torn up by the roots and lay like dying sentinels along the route.
The rain had scoured the landscape, polishing the autumnal colors to an almost unnatural vividness.
It was beautiful, and she was glad they were heading away from danger at last. But as the miles passed, though she tried to direct her attention elsewhere, it always came back to Malcolm.
As they rode, Catriona could not help but be burningly aware that her thighs were wide open, and Malcolm was sitting between them! The situation was immodest in the extreme, scandalous even. Enough to make the Mother Superior frown if she could have seen it.
By necessity, her arms were clasped around his waist, feeling his hugeness and every ridge of muscle that flexed beneath his clothing. Her breasts rubbed against his back with every step the horse took. More shamefully still, though she knew it was positively sinful of her, she was enjoying it.
All this was made more excruciating by his withdrawn mood. He had barely spoken a word to her since leaving the hut hours ago, at dawn. She had no idea why and was not about to ask.
But by the time they arrived at a dangerous river crossing, she was almost at the point of screaming. Malcolm dismounted. Irritated by his silence, she stubbornly refused his offer to help her down, instead slithering awkwardly to the ground.
He shrugged, unconcerned. He let the horse, whose name was Warrior, feed on the green turf while he and Catriona stood side by side on the river bank, looking down at the racing torrent.
“’Tis swollen from all that rain,” Malcolm observed, raking his fingers through his hair, then rubbing the back of his neck as he considered the river. “I’ve never seen it this high up the banks before though. But we havetae cross somehow.”
“I take it there’s nay bridge,” Catriona said, looking fruitlessly up and down the bank in both directions.
He shook his head. “Nay, there’s nay bridge until the next village.”
“Wonderful,” she observed drily.
“Aye.” Silence reigned while he contemplated the water some more. Then he said, “We’ll walk down the bank a ways and see if there’s a shallower crossing point.”
Leading the horse behind them, he led her along the river bank, eventually stopping at a point where the river widened.
“This might be it,” he said, surveying the waters. “’Tis maybe nae much shallower here, but the water looks a bit less wild.”
Catriona nodded doubtfully and began to kirtle her skirts into her waistband, to keep them dry during the crossing.
He frowned down at her. “What are ye daein’?”
“What daes it look like? I’m gettin’ ready tae wade across,” she replied sharply.
He shook his head. “Ye’re nae goin’ across by yersel’. ’Tis too dangerous.”
She sighed loudly and put her hands on her hips, facing him. “The how d’ye propose I get over? I dinnae see any boats hereabouts, d’ye?”
He ignored her facetious question. “I’ll take the horse across and then come back for ye. I’ll carry ye across.”
She bridled. “That willnae be necessary. I can dae it by mesel’.”
“If ye wantae drown.” He took up the horse’s reins and stepped closer to the water’s edge. “Wait here.”
“I willnae wait. I dinnae need ye tae carry me like a child. I’m comin’ with ye,” she insisted, trying to follow him.
He stopped and turned to her. “If ye dinnae stop right there and wait fer me, then I’ll throw ye in the water meself and ye can take yer chances.”
“Ye wouldnae dare.”
His dark brow quirked. “Wantae risk it?”
Catriona stamped her foot in frustration, but after considering his threat, she decided she had to give in because she could not trust him not to carry it out.
“Nay,” she replied irritably. “I’m sure ye’d enjoy watchin’ me struggle, and I wouldnae wantae tae give ye the satisfaction.” With a huff of defeat, she slumped down on a rock to wait for him while he took the horse into the water.
Ten minutes later, Catriona discovered there were some things more mortifying and confusing than sharing a horse with Malcolm. He had come back for her all right, and without a word, bent and hoisted her on to his shoulder like a sack of turnips.
That was bad enough, and she had strongly protested, kicking her legs and battering at his back with her fists, all to no avail since he completely ignored her.
But worse was in store. For when the water threatened to soak her feet, he suddenly put his hand beneath her bottom, lifted her bodily into the air as though she weighed nothing, and sat her on his right shoulder.
Catriona shrieked in panic, scandalized by the outrageous manhandling of her person as well as fearful of falling in. She instinctively clutched at her only available handhold—Malcolm’s head.
“Will ye get yer hands off me eyes,” he shouted, “I cannae see where I’m goin’.”
“I cannae help it,” she cried, more panicked, moving her grip she knew not where.
“Ach, me ears are stuck tae me head, ye ken?” he complained, flicking his head like an annoyed bear to shake off her unwitting assault on his ears.
“Sorry!” Catriona let go his ears, her hands scrabbling for something else to hang on to, anything! Her hands wound into his thick hair and gripped it tightly between her fingers as they bobbed along.
“Ow! Jaysus, woman! Are ye tryin’ tae kill me?
Now ye’re tryin’ tae pull out me hair by the bloody roots!
” he protested, trying to pull away from her hold.
How he was managing to maintain his steady pace through the roiling waters Catriona had no clue, but part of her admired him for it.
Not that she would ever let him know it.
“Ye should have let me dae it on me own like I said,” she countered, settling for bending low enough to clasp his neck with both arms as she rode him like a beast of burden, uttering occasional small screams of alarm.
This seemed to work reasonably well. But aside from all the bickering, Catrina was being forced to deal with something that threatened to overturn all the rules of propriety the nuns had drummed into her.
Secretly, she was burning with shame, for she was acutely aware of his large, warm hands gripping her thighs just above the knee.
And, God forgive her, her left breast was practically jammed into his ear.
Worse, her buttocks and tender parts were rubbing lewdly against his shoulder with every step and sending shards of heat shooting through her body. Worse still, she was enjoying it.
This is so wrong. I shouldnae be likin’ this.
Malcolm broke into her mental litany of her sins.
“Dinnae fash, woman, I’ve got ye. I’ll nae let ye fall, I promise,” he shouted above the river’s ceaseless cacophony, clearly thinking her shrieks were due to her fear of falling in.
Catriona, desperately fighting her body’s betrayal, was grateful for that at least.
After what felt to her like an eternity, he walked out of the river, onto the bank, and set her down to sit on a fallen tree.
Nearby stood Warrior, munching happily on the grass, not troubling himself even to look up.
“Ach, ye’re soaked tae the skin,” Catriona said, regarding Malcolm’s towering, drenched figure as she recovered her breath, unsure why she should suddenly be so concerned.
“Ye’re very observant.” He went over to the horse, opened the saddle bag, and extracted a bundle of clothing. Catriona watched as he laid it on the grass beside him. Then, to her astonishment, he proceeded to strip off his wet things.
This was tolerable until he pulled off his soaking wet shirt and tossed it on the ground, revealing his bare chest. Catriona had seen bodies in the infirmary, sickly, pale, thin bodies. Nothing like this... this living, breathing specimen of magnificent masculinity standing in front of her.
Unable to look away, she openly gawped at the wide expanse of firm, tan flesh on display.
Malcolm’s broad chest rippled with packed muscle that flexed with each tiny movement.
The light dusting of fine dark hairs covering it looked strangely inviting to Catriona, who found herself wondering if the hairs were as soft and springy as they looked.
Her gaze traced the constellation of swirling tattoos adorning his upper arms and mighty shoulders, and took in the network of silvery scars left by past battles.
Perhaps most beguiling was the mysterious, neat line of dark hair than ran down from his navel, over his flat, muscle-ridged belly, then disappeared into the front of his trews.
His body seemed made for battle and had been honed to perfection in its fiery forge. She was not prepared for the shocking way it made her feel.
Lord help me, but he’s so braw!