Winter Heat (12 page)

Innes took a big bite of goose thigh, his pale eyes thoughtful. “Hmm . . .” he said through a full mouth. The offer of whisky had tempted him.

Torean slid a glance from Maggie to Innes. “Come now, Innes. Give her a few days, eh? I’ll . . .” He paused to think; then he smiled. “You’ve been making eyes at Mary Steward. Why don’t you take her tonight?”

Maggie bit back a gasp. Mary was one of the local loose women. To think Torean would offer her so blatantly, in Maggie’s presence, stole her voice. Torean intended to allow Innes the use of his whore a few days before he intended to marry Maggie to him? The gall!

For the first time in her life, she hated her own cousin.

But then, something in his eyes caught her attention. A subtle glint, as if he were plotting a scheme. Again his gaze flitted to her and then back to Innes.

Perhaps . . .

Innes’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline, and his eyes sparkled with interest. “Well, now, she’s a fair piece, isn’t she?”

“Oh, aye. A fair piece indeed.” Torean turned fully to Maggie and offered her a gentle smile. “Godspeed, cousin. Go home and rest. In one week, your intended will come for you.”

Perhaps he was buying her time.

Shaking with a fierce kind of rage he’d only felt once before, in the throes of battle at Sheriffmuir, Logan strode out the door of the doctor’s cottage. His vision was clear and crisp now, almost back to normal except for the red fury swirling on its fringes. Whatever Munroe had thrown at him only had a temporary effect. Nor had the bastard cut him too deep. The scratches on his chest burned like fire, but they weren’t life-threatening—a small consolation for what had to be the most anger-i nducing day of Logan’s life. Since he’d left the arena, he had fought with every breath to school himself from violence. The only thoughts that kept him sane were of his family, his duties, and Maggie.

He needed to get off MacDonald land. He was too angry to think rationally here. Too angry to think beyond the compulsion to draw his sword and cut everyone down who stood between him and Innes Munroe, and then stabbing the blackguard through the heart.

Munroe had cheated, but none of the MacDonalds seemed to possess any inclination to do a damned thing about it. Yet did that truly matter? Logan had made an agreement, and to break his word now would sink him to Munroe’s level. Despite what the cheating, slimy, devious bastard had done, Logan would not—could not—compromise his honor.

Just outside in the courtyard of the small cluster of castle out-buildings, Torean MacDonald leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest. When the laird saw Logan, he pushed himself from the stones and strode toward him.

Logan stopped in his tracks, standing stiffly as he waited for the laird to approach.

“Are you going, then?” MacDonald asked.

“Aye.”

“I’d hoped you’d stay for the Hogmanay celebrations and perhaps depart in the morning.”

Logan shook his head. “No. That’s not what was agreed.” He’d sworn to leave immediately if he lost the duel. The rub of it was, he hadn’t entertained the possibility that he’d be the loser. The notion of having to leave Maggie had only crossed his mind once—when she had brought it up. At that moment, the idea of him losing the duel had been out of the question. An impossibility.

What a fool he’d been.

“Very well.” MacDonald’s chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “I’ve a horse for you.”

“Why?”

“A man in your position shouldn’t be walking across the Highlands.” Logan didn’t answer, and the laird’s eyes flicked away. “What happened, man? I expected you would defeat him.”

Logan’s lip curled, and he rounded on the laird, furious all over again. “You suggested a duel thinking I would win, even when you’d offered your cousin to my opponent to strengthen the bond between your clans?”

“I did.” MacDonald sighed. “You see, at first I thought they’d make a good match. Both of them are high-spirited, after all, and I thought Maggie’s quick wit might compensate for Munroe’s lackluster one. But once she explained to me what happened . . . No.” He shook his head firmly. “I am fond of Maggie. I don’t wish to see her hurt. Earlier, I couldn’t believe that Munroe would do such a thing to her—I thought his interest in her was genuine. Now . . . Well, my cousin was in the right and I . . .” He swallowed. “I was wrong.”

“You were.”

The laird studied him. “You would take care of her, wouldn’t you?”

“Your question comes too late. I have promised to leave this place. To give Maggie to Munroe.”

The words tasted like poison on his tongue. He couldn’t allow Maggie to fall into Munroe’s hands. Yet how could he prevent their marriage and still keep the vows he’d made and retain his honor?

Hell if he knew. He needed time. Time he didn’t have, for he had no doubt Munroe would claim Maggie soon.

MacDonald released his breath. “Aye, Munroe has won her. Though . . . I wonder if the fight was fair.”

“No.” Logan snarled out the word. “It wasn’t fair.”

“What happened?”

“He threw something—a fine dust—i nto my eyes. Blinded me temporarily.”

MacDonald frowned. A long silence descended. Finally, the laird said, “Yet you must still leave.”

“I swore that I would.”

It had been stupid of him to assume Munroe would follow any code of honor for dueling. Nothing of this duel, from its inception to its end, had followed that code. He shouldn’t be surprised. And now, because he’d misplaced his trust, he couldn’t legally accuse Munroe of wrongdoing. It was simple: Fair or not, Logan had lost, and therefore honor demanded he must abide by his side of the bargain. He must leave this place.

“Yet you never promised not to return,” the laird said suggestively.

Logan stared at him. MacDonald was right. Logan had promised to leave MacDonald land straightaway, but he’d never made any promises to stay away. He could return. It was allowed, approved by the laird, and he’d never agreed not to.

But if he came back here, what then?

“Again, I ask you to stay. Just for Hogmanay. Your agreement to the conditions of the duel can be delayed until tomorrow.”

Logan shook his head. “No.”

MacDonald nodded, but regret darkened his blue eyes. “Very well, then. Your mount is saddled and awaits you in the stables.”

The horse MacDonald had given him was a chestnut mare, a fine English horse, not one of the diminutive creatures usually seen in this part of the world. Logan rode back up the mountain, retracing the path they had taken from the cottage.

The landscape had changed from its appearance a few days ago. Now the steep slope was a cold wasteland. Most of the snow had melted, and everything looked frozen, forbidding, dead, and damp. In spring, the land would be reborn, but now the mountain was lifeless and dull.

As the horse climbed, the air grew colder and the snow more widespread. With each outtake of breath, the animal released a cloud of steam. When her chest began to heave with exertion, Logan turned the horse toward a distant dripping noise, which he assumed must be a stream. He’d water her and give her a brief rest before deciding what to do next.

The stream was situated in a small ravine. Obviously it wasn’t a permanent body of water, rather a temporary collection of recently melted snow. The water trickled down the shallow banks in rivulets, then collected into a trickling pool between walls of dirty snow.

He dismounted, took the animal’s reins, and led her to the water, the X-shaped wound across his chest stinging with the movement of dismounting. Gratefully, she bent her head and began to drink.

Logan raised his gaze to take in his surroundings. Just ahead, past a row of bushes, was a small half circle of a granite rock face. The familiarity of the place slammed into him. He hadn’t recognized it at first. But it was where he’d found her, lying facedown in the snow, nearly dead from the cold.

Innes Munroe had put her in that position. He’d have no qualms doing it again.

Logan stood still, reins gripped in his hand.

He loved her, damn it. He possessed a powerful compulsion to care for her, protect her. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, his love for her had grown. Now it was a force within him, something that couldn’t be denied.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something gleaming in the waning light. He swung his gaze toward the shining object on the ground.

There it was.

His jaw dropped. She was wrong. That dragon wasn’t standing on an agate. It was standing on the damned largest diamond he’d ever seen. The stone was crystal clear, its facets luminous. Perhaps it was made of paste, he conceded, but if so, he’d never seen a counterfeit gem more brilliant or beautiful.

He released the horse’s reins, and in two long strides, he stood before Maggie’s lost pin. He crouched before it and gathered the heavy silver object into his hand. His fist curled around the cold metal. Even through his fingers, the sun glinted off the facets of the diamond, casting sparkling beams of light onto the lifeless terrain.

Honor be damned. Maggie MacDonald was his. Innes Munroe would never lay his filthy hands on her again.

At dusk, most of the castle occupants were sotted, and cover ing himself with a plaid, Logan thought he might slip through the great hall without garnering any attention. But then Donald MacDonald, the man who’d served as his second, spotted him.

Pushing himself through a group of revelers, the old man strode up to him and clapped him on the back. “Douglas! The laird said he’d welcomed ye to the Hogmanay festivities, but ye’d decided to leave us regardless.”

“Aye,” Logan said. “But I changed my mind.”

Donald smiled. “Well, then. Come join me in a dram.”

“Not tonight.” Logan’s gaze roamed the torch-l it interior of the grand hall. He didn’t see Innes Munroe or Maggie, though Torean MacDonald sat at the opposite end of the room, his cheeks flushed. The busty woman sitting beside him offered him her cup, and he drank heartily from it.

“Och,” Donald said soothingly. “Yer looking for Munroe, aren’t ye? The bastard.” He spat at his feet. “Well, ye needn’t worry ’bout him, for he’s locked himself up in his bedchamber with his wench. I doubt anybody’ll lay eyes on him till—”

But Logan had already pushed past him and was heading for the stairs at a near run.

His wench?
Maggie?

He didn’t give a damn if anyone saw him now. Good God, was he already too late? Had Munroe taken Maggie upstairs? Had he been raping her as Logan had delayed, locked in his misguided attempt to retain his honor?

Logan barreled up three stories to Innes’s bedchamber. When he reached the man’s door, he turned the handle and found it locked. Of course.

Maggie could be in there.
If she was, he’d never forgive himself.

Without hesitation, he rammed his shoulder into the door until it splintered. Then he reached through the gaping hole in the planks, released the latch, and pushed the remains of the door open.

A woman with sleek black hair sprang up from the bed, clutching a dun colored blanket to her naked chest.

Thank God, it wasn’t Maggie. Nevertheless, Logan took one look at her face, at the tears streaking her pale cheeks, and renewed fury exploded through him.

“What’s this?” Munroe heaved his body upward and the blanket slid down, revealing the mass of white flesh that was his torso.

Logan stepped inside to reveal himself, kicking the remains of the door shut behind him. He stood tall, his hand on his musket.

Munroe sneered, but not before Logan saw the quick flash of fear in his eyes. “Our duel is over. What are you, an idiot?”

“You cheated.” Logan’s voice was low. Deadly.

Munroe released a sputtering breath. “There is no cheating in battle. You do whatever it takes to win, you damned fool. We don’t follow those foolish lowland rules of dueling. You should know that. We fight in our way. The Highlander way. Whatever it takes to win.”