Chapter Three #2
“His wife and children . . .” He paused.
It was now his duty to care for his sister-i n-l aw and her three daughters, just as it was his duty to manage his brother’s tacksmen and tenants.
Determination to do his duty for his lands and people—and the women who were now his only family—was what drove him to first stay alive, then escape from Argyll’s men and trudge over two hundred miles north in the dead of winter.
“They are all alone now,” she finished quietly.
He should still be moving, Logan realized. He’d already delayed too long. Guilt stabbed at him—he’d scarcely thought about his driving need to rush home since he’d encountered Maggie MacDonald in the snow. For the first time since the battle, he’d let go of his single-m inded urgency.
Her brow furrowed as she focused on his leg and removed a tiny piece of gravel from his wound.
Maggie had softened him. Her presence had comforted him. Ultimately, he couldn’t regret the interruption to his journey home. Seeing to Maggie’s safety and well-being was worth the delay of a few days.
Gently, she folded the cloth over his thigh. “Did your brother die at Sheriffmuir?”
“Aye.” He closed his eyes against the memory of watching the cannonball tearing through his brother’s chest, and a shudder twisted through his body like a screw.
Maggie nodded tightly, then lapsed into silence as she painstakingly cleaned the wound, removing bits of debris he hadn’t realized had been embedded in the injury since the battle.
As she worked, Logan studied her hair, her face, the way her lips pursed in concentration. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. A wee freckle near her left eyebrow disappeared in the crease between her brows when she frowned.
“There!” Rocking back on her heels, she tossed the soiled rag back into the pot. “Now we must give it a few moments to dry, and then I’ll wrap it.”
He began to rise, but she placed her hand flat on his chest, pushing him back to the bed. She scowled down at him. “What do you think you are doing?”
He gave her a sheepish look. “I could use some of that whisky now, I think.”
“You stay right there. I’ll fetch it.”
She retrieved the bottle from the floor and went to the table to pour some into a cup. He studied her profile. The rounded shape of her jaw, the gently sloping nose. Her unruly hair fell across her face, and she shoved it out of the way as she turned to bring him the cup.
“Thank you.” His lips curved up as he took it from her. It was such a rare expression for him, it felt odd, as if he were forced to crack through a thin layer of ice over his face before the smile could form.
She sat beside him and prodded his leg. “Good. It’s dry. I’ll wrap it, then.” Taking a strip of linen from the pile at the bottom of the bed, she began to wind it round his leg.
Logan set his cup on the floor and eased onto his back, lifting his leg from the blanket so she could wrap beneath it.
He nearly smiled again as he watched her, for she assiduously kept her eyes on his wound, not allowing them to travel higher to peek beneath his plaid, where his wayward cock, revived after its respite during the wound cleaning, grew more insistent by the second.
She finished wrapping his leg in silence, then went to tend the fire. She was so beautiful. Unconscious, she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, but from the moment she’d opened those blue eyes and faced him without any semblance of fear, he’d been entranced.
“Tomorrow is Christmas, isn’t it?” she said quietly, still facing the flames.
Logan frowned. The days had melded together since he had begun to walk north, but he tried to keep count. “Aye, I think so.”
“Today, then, is Christmas Eve, and we don’t have a Yule log to burn through the night.
” She turned to him, her eyes bright. “Nevertheless, we must keep the peat burning until dawn. My mother always insisted upon it when I was a lass, for she said the elves are out this night, and a strong fire is the only way to keep them away.”
The way she smiled at him, slightly pensive, slightly wry, made Logan’s body tighten all over.
When he’d first brought her in from the cold, he’d stripped her naked.
Then, the need to save her had kept his baser impulses in check.
As he worked, he’d resisted reacting to the curve of her hip, her narrow waist, the creamy mounds of her breasts.
He’d kept his focus on warming her. Nevertheless, as he’d tried to infuse his body heat into her, he couldn’t help but revel in the smooth softness of her skin, in her utter femininity.
She was soft where he was hard, smooth where he was rough, narrow where he was wide, delicate where he was large.
Now, despite the bruises, she was whole and healthy, and as vibrant as anyone he’d ever seen.
Just looking upon her, even clothed as she was in a shapeless plaid, made his blood heat to a boil.
And right now, as she gazed up at him, the firelight haloing her head, a light flush drifted across her pale cheekbones and her eyes shone with some emotion—was it longing?
Was it possible she wanted him, too?
Logan nodded gravely. “Aye, we’ll keep the fire going. Wouldn’t want elves filching the whisky.”
She grinned, and blood roared through his veins. Every inch of his skin burned with the urge to touch her.
Tearing his gaze away, he rose and yanked on his jacket, then gathered his plaid over his shoulder without returning his focus to her.
If he looked, he didn’t know what he might feel compelled to do.
He had to get away from her, even for just a few minutes, to soothe the edginess crawling beneath his skin.
The perfect excuse came to him as he worked the row of buttons on his jacket. “I must search for your brooch.”
“No, you shouldn’t. I didn’t know about your leg when I agreed—”
“I told you I would search today, and I will,” he interrupted her. “Stay inside, and I’ll be back before dark.”
“No!”
He turned to her, raising a brow.
“I . . . I’ll go with you.”
“It’s too dangerous. It’s going to storm again.”
She shrugged. “You said the place where you found me wasn’t far away.”
“It’s far too cold to risk it. And your clothes—”