Chapter One - DECEMBER 1715 SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS #3
The loop suddenly went slack, and she shook off the twine. Finally free, she flexed her stiff, cold fingers and rubbed her raw wrists.
Rising from her hiding place behind the bush, Maggie turned the way they had come, marveling at the fact that her footsteps had nearly disappeared.
She could barely make out the path they’d taken, but that didn’t matter.
She knew what direction to go: downhill, where she’d find the village, protection, warmth. Home.
She covered her head with her plaid and pulled it tight around her, thanking Providence for her second pair of stockings and for their ability to keep out some of the wetness of the snow.
Sometime later, as the first gray light of dawn edged through the thick cloud cover, Maggie’s weak legs could hardly drag her through the snow.
She knew she hadn’t been walking for long, but she’d lost the ability to distinguish uphill from down.
Each stride took her up to her ankles in snow, and sometimes she stepped into deep drifts and sank to her thighs.
She was so tired. So very, very tired. The pale white snowdrifts called to her like warm, downy beds, and she craved nothing more than to lie down upon one of them and have a rest.
Just a short break, she thought. Blocked on three sides by a shoulder-h igh granite bluff that would keep her safe from the elements, a high rise of snow just ahead looked like the perfect bed.
It would be like sleeping on a cloud. Her brooch slipped from her fingers as she stumbled to the drift and fell to her knees.
She’d just have a short rest; then she’d retrieve her brooch and continue on her way.
Pulling her plaid tightly over her shoulders and wrapping it around her hands, she lay on the snow, curled her body into a ball, and embraced the warmth of slumber.
Logan woke before dawn, as was his habit. Quickly and efficiently, he boiled a pot of water, cooked some of the porridge from his small bundle of possessions, and ate. He left the cottage as he’d found it, silently thanking its unknown owner for his hospitality.
Snow fell tranquilly now, for the wind had calmed.
The going was more difficult this morning, however, for deep snowdrifts had gathered over the terrain.
The thick cloud cover had broken, and Logan hoped it would stop snowing soon.
He was still a few days’ journey from home, and though he would if he must, he’d rather not trudge through waist-deep snow to get there.
Sweat broke over Logan’s brow as he made his way downhill. Given the location of the cottage, he guessed there would be a village at the valley floor where he might find shelter tonight.
Something caught his eye—a shimmer in the gray light. All his senses on alert, Logan drew himself to a stop. Silently raising his musket, he turned toward it.
The small object lay half buried in the snow, but a rainbow of glittering light cascaded around it.
Following behind the barrel of his gun, Logan approached it cautiously.
When he had drawn close, he flicked it with the butt of the weapon, revealing a long silver pin in the shape of a sword.
On the blade stood some kind of bird perched upon the largest clear multifaceted gem he’d ever seen.
He’d be damned if that wasn’t a diamond.
A soft groan drew his attention from the bauble. Tucked beneath a cleft of a short ridge of granite, a figure lay half covered in snow. A pale white cheek offset by black hair, lashes, and brows. A red plaid covered the slight body.
Holy hell, what was a woman doing out here? A tiny, harmless woman, huddled beneath a plaid, with nothing covering her head? Rage swelled through him. Whoever had allowed this to happen should be shot.
He’d have thought she was dead if he hadn’t just heard her. He took two angry steps toward her. “Lass?”
She didn’t respond.
“Can you hear me?”
Nothing. Her eyes didn’t so much as flutter.
He sank to one knee beside her. She was beautiful, exquisite, with a fall of raven curls cascading around her pale oval face.
Logan’s fury deepened when he noticed the red, swollen area around one of her eyes and the bit of dried blood caking her lower lip.
She looked like a fragile porcelain doll, utterly serene, utterly helpless. Used and tossed away.
An emotion he’d thought dead roared to life deep within him, caught in his chest, and sent the blood raging through his veins.
Gently, he pushed aside her stiff, frozen plaid.
His breath caught. Christ . . . she wore nothing but a shift beneath, its neckline stained with blood.
He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her before gathering her pale limp body in his arms. Her skin was cold as ice.
As lifeless as she appeared, though, he knew she lived. As he cradled her in his arms and bent his face down to her, he felt the soft whisper of her breath against his cheek.
“Come, lass,” he murmured gruffly, wondering if she heard him at all. “I will warm you.”