Samantha James (8 page)

Thin-lipped and stony, he stared at the sky. Dawn streaked the horizon, a shimmer of pink and gold. He’d been too long without a woman, he decided. Aye, that was it. His body simply commanded that any woman would do—even this one! Scathingly he dismissed his desire. Once they were back on MacKay land, he promised himself, this cursed longing would be extinguished.

He vowed then and there to do all he could to see that she healed quickly.

Hot. Never had she been so hot. It was as if an inferno raged around her and she was at the very heart of it—even her lungs burned.

Meredith floated in and out of some dark netherworld, drifting between the present and the past. In the murky abyss where she now dwelled, she was hazily aware that she was not in her bed. Her gown had been taken from her and she was naked. Sweet Christ, naked!

She shuddered. There were hands in the dark…hands upon her body…hands that trespassed where they should not.

She floated back…back to that night. Terror iced her veins. She struck out blindly, for shadows surrounded her and she could not see. “Leave me be!” she cried. “I will tell my father!”

Husky laughter rushed past her ear. “Nay, girl, you will not. I know you too well…”

That grating whisper…it made her cringe. She had the awful feeling she knew it well…Her mind screamed, resounding in the hollow of her brain. Who was he? Sweet Christ, who?

“Merry,” said the voice. “My sweet Merry.”

God…oh, God! In some dark corner deep within
her, she knew it was but a dream. For a time at Connyridge, she’d been able to close her eyes and not think of it…of him…of hands in the dark…hands that held her down…

Only now there was a face—the cast of his mouth was so very forbidding!—that hovered above her.

“Easy, lass. I mean you no harm. You have naught to fear from me.”

Nay, she thought wildly. She had everything to fear from him. In some faraway part of her mind, she knew it was he…Cameron MacKay. The man who hated her. The man who used her as a pawn in his game of vengeance.

The arms of oblivion beckoned her a new. She did not fight it, but drifted willingly into the depths of forgetfulness.

Time passed, naught but a blur. She was still so very, very warm, and there was a suffocating heaviness weighting the center of her chest. It hurt to breathe.

It seemed to take a monstrous effort to lift her eyelids. Through a misty haze, Cameron MacKay’s handsome features swam before her. “Sweet Lord!” she said faintly. “I am in hell, then, and you are there with me!”

“Nay, lass.”

She blinked. “What? And where else would you be? Surely not in heaven.”

Something that might have been a smile creased the hardness of his lips. “We are not dead, lass. Of a certainty we are not in hell.”

“But…we must be. Why else would I burn so?”

“You took a dagger in the breast. You burn with fever from the wound. Do you remember?”

Meredith sought hard to grasp what he said, but it
was so hard to think! Memory emerged in jagged bursts. There had been two men, Davis and Monty. Monty had raised his dagger high aloft; Cameron was unaware of the man’s attack…There had been a searing pain…but one thought had swirled through her mind.

Thrice now she’d been thrust upon death’s doorstep. Would the next be the last…or would this?

Do not let me die
.

She was unaware she spoke aloud until she heard his voice. “Hush, lass.”

Lass
. Always before the word had carried an acid rancor. Where was that rancor now? she wondered vaguely.

“You need your rest to gather strength, Meredith. Try to sleep.”

Sleep, he said. How could she sleep with him so near? She shivered, and felt something warm placed over her shoulders.

The burning was gone when next she awoke. Yet still it hurt to breathe—faith, but she could not imagine why it was so.

You took a dagger in the breast. You burn with fever from the wound
.

The wound. With a gasp, she tried to sit up. A sharp, searing pain shot through her.

There was a vivid curse. “God’s teeth! You will reopen the wound if you persist in moving about so!”

Meredith pressed her lips together. It took a moment before the dizzying pain passed. When it did, she bestowed him with what she hoped was an admonishing frown.

“You curse too much.”

“Indeed. No one but you has ever told me so.”

“’Tis a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain.”
Somehow the admonishment lacked the necessary heat.

A rakish brow quirked high. “You are convinced I am bound for the fires of hell. Will one less sin make a difference? I think not.”

Ah, but it would! The retort sprang to the fore, but for the life of her, she could not summon the reason why it was so. Her mind groped fuzzily for the answer, but she was suddenly too tired to search for it.

Leaden balls seemed to weight her eyes. She could hardly keep them open. There was a sweep of cool fingers on her brow. “The fever has broken,” came a low-voiced murmur above her. “You are lucky you yet live.”

Lucky. She did not feel lucky. She felt cursed. She should have been back at Connyridge, kneeling in the dirt, tending the crops in the garden. Her mind might have been at rest. Instead she was here with this wretched man who gave her no peace…

She must have slept again. When she opened her eyes, he loomed above her, a basin in one hand, a pile of neatly folded linen cloths in the other.

“Good. You’re awake. I was just about to change your bandage. That will make it easier.” He knelt down near her, turning slightly to set aside the basin and cloths.

His intent registered slowly—and so did the realization that beneath the rough wool of the blanket, she wore not a stitch! Blue eyes flashed with horrified accusation to his face, for this could only be laid at his door.

“What have you done with my gown?”

“I could hardly tend you otherwise. Your gown was filthy and bloodied.”

Her lips compressed indignantly. He appeared totally unrepentant, the scoundrel!

“If you think I leered, rest assured I did not, for yours is hardly the first womanly form I’ve seen and touched.”

Nor was he the first man to touch her so…She pushed the hated memory aside and concerned herself with the present. With silent indignation, she raised her chin and clutched the blanket to her chest.

“I have already seen all that you would hide. You forget I’ve changed your bandages these past days. I’ve touched that which you guard so well—your naked skin. I’ve touched your naked skin—and aye, even there below your breasts—for who else was there to do it?”

His voice was clipped and impatient—and he was calmly determined. There was no way that she could stop him. Meredith knew instinctively that she was weak as a child, and her body ached all over. Resignation swept over her. She knew it must be done.

Wordlessly she nodded.

The blanket was tugged from her grasp. She had to curl her nails into her palms to keep from snatching it back. Cool air rushed over her flesh. One quick slice from the tip of his dagger and he lifted away soiled strips of linen. With a clean wet cloth, he dabbed at the crusty edges of the gash. Meredith inhaled sharply.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.” Their eyes met. Hers quickly skipped away.

It wasn’t the pain that made her flinch so—it was his nearness. Unable to stop herself, she glanced down. The sight of her own pink, creamy flesh, tipped by deeper rosebud, seemed to mock her. The stinging heat of embarrassment rose like a flood tide within
her. Did he look at her, too? she wondered frantically. Ah, foolish question, that! He could hardly do what he must do and not look upon her flesh. Compelled by a need she couldn’t control, she stole a glance at him.

His head was angled away from her, low and bent. Faith, but he was so close! The moist heat of his breath trickled over her skin, the very pinnacle of her breast.

Meredith swallowed. The difference between their skin was readily apparent…his so bronzed, hers so fair. Though he was immeasurably gentle, she sensed the latent power there. She couldn’t tear her gaze away as he rinsed the cloth, twisting it between his hands. His hands were intensely masculine—big and dark; bristly black hairs scattered across the backs. His fingers were long and lean.

Visions tumbled in her brain, visions to which she dared not give in. She yearned to dive beneath the shelter of the blanket—as if that feeble defense might protect her! If she could have escaped, by the saints, she would have. She felt trapped, as surely as an animal in a snare.

Yet there was naught to threaten her in his manner, nor in his touch—nothing irreverent in either. He tended her wound with the utmost care. His profile bespoke an earnest concentration; it bore no trace of lustful endeavors. Nay, he did not hurt her. Yet it flashed through her mind that it might have been almost easier to bear if he did.

He reached for clean white linen. “Can you arch your back a bit?”

Meredith obliged. From the corner of her eye she saw the bandage dip behind her back. Dismay abounded, for now her breasts jutted forward, as if in
offering! She felt naked and exposed, as in truth she was. Mortified beyond measure, she inhaled raggedly as he proceeded to wind the linen around her body.

He stopped almost immediately. A muscle contracted in his jaw. “You must let out your breath, else the bandage will be too tight.”

His expression revealed a faint consternation. Slowly Meredith released her breath, unaware she’d been holding it. Only then did he continue, circling her back several more times. A dip of the cloth—the brush of rough, faintly callused fingertips—and it was done. He drew the blanket up to cover her.

Meredith latched on to the edges and turned her head aside. Closing her eyes, she pretended to sleep. It wasn’t long before he appeared at her side again, calling her name.

“Meredith.”

It crossed her mind to screw her eyes shut, to feign sleep—or unconsciousness. But she strongly suspected he would know the truth.

“I’ve broth for you. Are you hungry?”

Meredith opened her eyes. He knelt beside her, a rough wooden bowl in his hands. A sumptuous aroma filled the air.

“Aye.” She was startled to realize that it was true.

A steely arm slid around her from behind, easing her forward. Tilting the bowl, he held it so that she could drink. To her amazement—and his, she suspected—she drank every last drop, for it was as delicious as it smelled.

Afterward she lay back. She had no energy to spare, yet the thought of sleep held no appeal—she felt all she’d done was sleep of late. She watched as he retreated, crossing to the stone fireplace and setting aside the bowl.

For the first time Meredith became aware of her surroundings. The structure they were in was built of uneven brick; there were gaping holes between many. It was tiny, perhaps only six or seven paces across, with a dirt floor. The only light came from the door, propped open with a stick. Hazy streamers of evening shadows fluttered within. She was lying on a bed of straw covered with a blanket. The obvious surely seemed the implausible. Had he done this for her? Surely not…

“Is this your home?” she ventured after a while.

Something flared in his eyes. For an instant she was certain she’d roused his anger. Only then did she realize how foolish was her question. The MacKays were a mighty clan. Of course his abode would not be so humble and small.

“Nay,” he said finally. “’Tis near the place where we were attacked.” He relayed how the crofter they’d seen—Jonas—had told him of the hut and lent him assistance.

“How long have we been here?”

“This is the third day.”

“The third!” Meredith was stunned.

He laid aside the rusty poker he’d been holding. His gaze now dwelled on a spot just above her left ear. “The bruise there,” he said quietly. “Does it cause you pain?”

Her fingers had already slid self-consciously to the spot. “Nay,” she said faintly. She felt for herself the swollen, tender lump. “I—I did not even know it was there.”

He said nothing, but turned away, no longer inclined to converse. It struck her that he was not a man of many words. But then why should he be? she
thought bitterly. He was a MacKay, and she was a Munro.

And it was something neither could forget.

It wasn’t long before Meredith began to grow weary. But her eyes flew wide when all at once he drew off his tunic and tossed it aside.

For the space of a heartbeat, he stood poised before the firelight, booted feet braced wide apart. His back was long and sculpted, divided by the valley of his spine. His arms and shoulders were knotted and dense, tapering to hips that seemed incredibly narrow, given the breadth of his shoulders. He bent, stirring the fire with the poker. Meredith stared in both fear and fascination, unable to take her eyes from the rippling undulation of muscle beneath sleek, golden skin. All she could think was that here was a man who embodied both grace and power aplenty…

He straightened. Meredith’s mouth had gone as dry as bone. Silently—so silently she would never have been aware of it had she not seen him—he came and stretched out beside her on the pallet.

Only the width of a hand separated them, for the pallet was narrow. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying he hadn’t seen her watching him. All at once she was reminded anew of her nakedness. How many nights had passed since he’d taken her from the priory? She tried to calculate, then dismissed it. It mattered not. Each one had been spent beside him. This one would be no different, it seemed. He did not ask, nor even demand! He simply acted as if it were his due. And aye, she thought with weary despair, it was.

Not by right…but by might.

Was she too tired to protest—or simply too weak? Either way, she decided bitterly, she could not hide from what she was…

A spineless coward.

He slept beside her the night through. When the golden haze of morn seeped into the hut, the distance between them had not closed. He had slept deeply, she noted with a sniff, while she had not slept at all! She had wavered between indignation and the fear that he would seize her and have his way with her at any instant. Ah, but she was a fool, for had he not already pronounced his distaste for her?

All too soon the time came to change her bandages. He towered over her, dark and starkly masculine, and all at once the cost to her modesty was too steep.

“I—I can do it.”

“How? You cannot see it, nor would you want to.” He made the pronouncement flatly.

Meredith flushed and looked away. To her horror she felt her lips quiver. His gaze sharpened; she felt his stare as surely as she felt the prick of a dagger. She couldn’t banish the uneasy sensation that he knew precisely what she was thinking—the very feelings that ran through her breast!