Winter Heat (6 page)

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—”

“—are completely dry,” she announced, smugly victorious. She yanked her stockings from the ceiling and pulled them on.

Sighing in resignation, he went to bank the fire. By the time he finished, she’d secured her stockings and dropped her shift over her head. Clearly she’d had much practice in dressing before others, for he only caught a glimpse of pale flesh as the plaid fell to the floor and the shift covered her nakedness. She retrieved the plaid and wrapped it around her body, finishing by fastening it with the borrowed pin. Then she strode to the trunk and removed the too-large men’s leather boots.

Once she’d finished lacing the boots on as tightly as possible, she rose and smiled at him. “Are you ready, then?”

Logan opened the door and turned his face up into the gently falling snow, allowing the coldness to collide with the heat boiling through him.

Closing his eyes, he prayed for temperance.

The place where Logan had found her looked different in daylight, but from the recesses of her mind, Maggie dredged up the memory of the small, sheer rock bluff that she’d believed would shelter her from the storm.

She stared at the outcropping and shook her head in disbelief. “I must have been mad to think I’d be safe here.”

Logan stood a few steps away from her, carrying the shovel he’d found leaning on the outside wall of the cottage. “The cold addled your head.”

She wrapped her arms around her body, and Logan turned to her. His expression was guarded. Shuttered. “But you’re safe now.”

The realization struck her like a brick in the stomach. If it hadn’t been for him, she would have died in the snow. She hadn’t truly believed it until this moment. She blinked hard. “Thank you.”

He shook his head, and a muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I lost your brooch.”

“But you saved me.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I suppose that’s more important.”

She was human, after all. She’d never felt so vulnerable as she did at this moment, staring at the place she might have died if not for the stranger standing nearby.

She studied Logan’s stiff, hardened features, tight lips, and dark eyes. He wasn’t a stranger anymore. He’d saved her life. He’d suffered war, capture, injury, grief, and imprisonment in the past few weeks, but he’d rescued her from certain death and made certain she recovered from her ordeal. All along he’d listened to her. He’d treated her with respect.

She trusted him.

As she stared at him, she realized she was shaking. It was a deep shiver that originated in her bones.

Logan released a harsh breath, dropped the shovel, and in two long strides, he stood in front of her. Reaching out, he pulled her tightly against his warm, hard body.

She couldn’t resist his touch anymore. She didn’t want to. His powerful embrace was so welcome, so comforting. She wanted to crawl right into his heat and stay there.

Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he murmured, “You’re more important than anything, Maggie.”

She stiffened in shock. His words sucked the breath from her, leaving her unable to speak.

Abruptly, he pulled away, taking a step back. A light flush darkened his cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “We should search. Do you remember where you dropped it?”

“No,” she murmured, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “Do you remember where you saw it?”

“I was distracted. I forgot it completely once I saw you,” he replied.

“All right. You take the area near the rocks; I’ll look here.”

Maggie knelt down and began to sift through snow until her fingers were red and numb with cold. She clomped back and forth in the too-l arge boots, combing the entire area before the bluff. Then she found a stick and dug. After an hour had passed, clouds muted the dull remains of sunlight, and the snow came down in thick flurries. She could hardly see beyond the ridge. Frustrated, she straightened and tramped over to Logan. “This is ridiculous.”

He looked up from the deep groove he’d shoveled in the snow. He’d been working hard, and sweat beaded his brow despite the cold. “What do you mean?”

“We’ll catch our deaths if we continue. It’s hopeless.” She clamped her jaw tight, but her lip trembled and a tear slipped from her eye. “Damn it.” Angrily, she brushed the moisture away with the back of her hand.

“Ah, Maggie.”

She’d never known how much that brooch meant to her, but losing it felt like she was losing her mother all over again. Emotion welled up within her, and then it overflowed. She buried her face in the woolen lapels of Logan’s jacket. He dropped the shovel and wrapped his arms around her, enclosing her body in a protective cocoon, and she clung to him and sobbed.

Finally, exhaustion crept through her bones, and she brushed away the last of her tears. Darkness had chased away the last vestiges of daylight, and all was silent in the snowy gloom.

Wrung dry, she looked up at him. “Take me back to the cottage, please, Logan. Let’s leave this place.”

Damn it—he’d wanted to find her brooch. With Maggie at his side, Logan strode through the snow in rising frustration, his wounded thigh throbbing. He’d return, search again. It was imperative he find it. The pin was important to Maggie, and therefore it was important to him. He wanted her to have it.

Through the flurries of snow, the cottage came into view, their tiny haven in a dismal, charcoal world. The idea of returning at dusk to a warm cottage and food appealed to him, but the idea of returning with Maggie at his side made an odd feeling flutter in his chest.

“Juniper!” she suddenly announced.

“Juniper?”

“Aye.” She gestured at a clump of trees just beyond the cottage. “Every year for Christmas and Hogmanay, we decorate the laird’s castle with wreaths of juniper and mistletoe.” She glanced up at him. “May I borrow your dirk? I’ll cut one small branch to hang from the rafters. Just to remind us it’s Christmas.”

“Of course. I’ll cut one for you.”

Her lips twisted. “I’m quite capable of cutting a branch of juniper.”

“Nonetheless, I’d like to help.”

When they reached the clump of shrublike trees, Maggie chose a long branch heavy with berries, which he sawed off and carried into the cottage. She helped him hang the branch from the center roof beam. Finished with the task, they both stared up at it, inhaling its sweet, woodsy evergreen fragrance.

“Perfect,” she announced.

He grinned at her, and this time it came naturally, easily, without having to crack through that layer of ice he’d believed permanently encrusted his skin.

Outside, the storm gathered force. The temperature dropped severely, and wind blasted through the eaves. Within the warm haven of the cottage, Maggie and Logan drank ale and ate a supper of oatcakes and salted beef. Maggie, sitting on the plaid he’d laid before the fire, cocked her head. “Perhaps it will storm through the day tomorrow.”

The wistfulness in her words spiked under his skin, and Logan kept his eyes hooded so she wouldn’t see how easily she fired his blood. Any indication that she wished to stay longer with him was enough. “Why?”

“A windy Christmas bodes very well for the year, according to my mother.”

“Does it?”

“Aye. My mother also encouraged the old laird to burn a
cailleach
on Christmas Eve.”

“A
cailleach
?”

“The men would carve a log in the shape of an old woman to represent the Queen of Winter. We would build a great bonfire in the castle courtyard, and everyone would watch the queen go up in flames. As she burned away, so did all the terrible things, like death and poverty and grief, that had occurred during the year. Once she turned to ash, the clan could begin the New Year afresh.”

“Your mother was superstitious.”

“She was.” Maggie sighed. “I miss her.”

“When did she die?”

“It’s almost ten years now. But I remember her every day. Before she died . . . she told me I must keep strong. Keep to myself and remain independent until I knew I was safe.” Maggie gave a small laugh. “I’d no idea what she was talking about.”

“But now you do?”

“I . . .” Her voice faltered. “I’m not sure. Perhaps she spoke of a husband who would protect me. But since she died, I’ve always felt safer on my own than under any man’s protection—even my husband’s.” She paused. “I feel safe with you though.”