A Highlander Christmas Page 3

  “I must.”

  “I don’t know you!” The pitch of her voice rose to a reedy screech.

  Wearily, he sank to the edge of the bed. She saw his hand advancing, reaching toward her, but she gathered her strength and flinched away. He sighed. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “How can I know that?” She sounded shrill and panicked, but she was too frightened—and too cold—to care.

  “I don’t hurt women.”

  She shook her head. “You—you look like you’d hurt anything that stood in your way.”

  “Not you,” he said flatly.

  She blinked at him, and he turned away, busying himself by piling more plaids on her body.

  Perhaps she was being stubborn. This Logan Douglas, as solid and intimidating as he was, seemed to have no intention of hurting her. Yet it damaged her pride to know he’d taken her clothes off, had observed her bare form, and then had lain for Lord knew how long with his body pressed against her, both of them stark naked.

  Staying in her curled-up position, Maggie forced her sluggish body to turn away from him, a clear signal of dismissal.

  “I . . .” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I wish to help you recover. That’s all.”

  She burrowed more deeply into the blankets, seeking not only their warmth but their ability to hide her body from his dark, compelling eyes. “I’m completely recovered.”

  It was a lie. Her skin prickled with pain, and shivers continued to ravage her body.

  He released a harsh breath. “No. You’re pale. Your lips are more blue than pink.”

  “I’m well,” she insisted.

  “You are frozen.”

  “I said I am well.” Her tone brooked no argument, but her eyelids felt weighted by steel. She was so, so tired. She couldn’t think straight. She needed sleep. Only sleep could warm her.

  He tried once more. “Allow me to lie beside you.”

  “No.” It was becoming difficult to speak. “You—you must sleep on . . . on the floor.” She sounded rather drunk, though she couldn’t remember drinking anything. Had she?

  Giving in to the pressure, she closed her eyes.

  “You’re exhausted.”

  Finally they could agree on something. “Will you sh-l eep on the floor?” she slurred. “Please?”

  All her strength had gone. Yet a strange man stood hovering over her. Valiantly, she struggled to open her eyes.

  He stared down at her, but instead of the frustration and anger she expected, compassion filled his face.

  “I’ll keep you safe,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “You must rest.”

  “I . . . Lord . . . so tired.” And the cold . . . it hurt.

  “You’re safe, lass. Nobody will hurt you.” The low-pitched words seemed to come from far away. “Sleep.”

  She’d curled herself into a tight ball beneath the plaids. Her teeth rattled. Logan had never felt so frustrated. She suffered and he could do nothing about it, because she’d ordered him not to touch her.

  He lay still, staring at the hearth, his need to help her warring with his honor.

  She whimpered.

  Hell.

  He rose from the hard dirt floor and stood over the bed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he gazed down at her face, the only part of her visible above the plaids. She was so damn pale, it made his gut clench. He could help her. Why hadn’t she seen that?

  Because she was distraught from her ordeal and not thinking straight. She was terrified of him—he was a man, and obviously a man had recently abused her. That combined with the cold had rendered her insensible. She had panicked.

  Once she realized the purity of his intentions, she would understand.

  The bed sank under his weight as he settled beside her, slowly sliding under the covers. He pressed his bare chest against her back, and, deep in slumber, she snuggled against him. He caught himself from releasing a sharp breath as his groin reacted to the cool softness of her body wiggling against it.

  Slowly—he didn’t want to wake her—he slid his hand over her bare hip and closed it around her waist, steeling himself against the chill. God, her skin was so cold. His own heat was a gift he’d gladly bestow.

  “Mmm . . .” she murmured. Her teeth had stopped chattering.

  He lay in silence, listening to the whisper of the fire and the increasing shriek of the wind, until every inch of her skin was as warm as his own. Then he slipped from under the covers and returned to his makeshift pallet on the floor.

  Maggie awoke wrapped in a cocoon of pleasant heat. When she cracked open her eyes, she saw dim light had seeped into the cottage. A fierce wind whistled outside, but morning had arrived, and she felt so much better. So much warmer.

  “How are you?” The rumbling voice came from the direction of the fire, and Maggie turned toward it, blinking at the tall figure sitting on a low chair. He swiped something through a bowl of water—a blade, she realized. He’d been shaving. His dark gaze met hers, and heat washed over her cheeks.

  “Much better, thank you.” Awkwardly, she rose to a seated position, clutching the plaids against her chest. For long moments, she sat in silence, remembering all that had happened as he continued to shave. Finally, she said, “Is it still snowing?”

  “Aye.”

  “You were wrong about me requiring your body heat for warmth. The blankets were more than enough.”

  He made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

  She gazed at the bedclothes that lay in disarray near his feet. “Thank you for sleeping on the floor.”

  He shrugged and dropped the razor into the water.

  “And . . .” She swallowed, suddenly realizing she might have been somewhat harsh to him last night, considering all that had happened. “Thank you for bringing me to shelter. I am . . . very grateful.”

  Abruptly rising from the chair, he stalked to the bed. On instinct, Maggie cringed backward. He reeled to a halt, every feature in his face turning still as stone. “I told you I would not hurt you.”

  Breathless, she nodded. “Aye.” And she believed him. “But . . .”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. He stared down at her. “You were ill used.”

  She looked away from him. How embarrassing it was to admit such a thing, yet her bruised body did it for her. There was no need to answer him.

  “The bastard raped you.”

  “No,” she breathed. “N-not that.” Thank God. Although if Innes had managed to get her wherever he’d planned to take her, he would have raped her, and happily, too. Logan was right to call him a bastard.

  “I would never harm a woman,” Logan said, his voice tight.

  Gazing at the far wall, she clutched the plaid more tightly about her.

  He leaned toward her. His fingers brushed her cheek as he pushed away a curly strand of hair that had fallen across her face. Gently, his fingertip touched the tender bruised flesh surrounding her eye.

  “Who did this to you?” An edge of steel laced his voice.

  She shrugged, still refusing to look at him.

  His fingers slid into her hair, and he cupped her cheek in his big, warm palm, forcing her to face him. “Tell me.”

  “It’s over,” she said quietly.

  But it wasn’t over. When she returned home, Innes would continue to pursue her. She doubted anything save death—his or her own—would thwart him. He never stopped, not since the day Duneghall died. And if what he’d said about Torean’s involvement was true, she was doomed.

  She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t think on any of that now. The small victories were all that mattered, all that would continue to matter. If she could win those battles, perhaps in the end she would win the war. She must continue thinking so, otherwise she would lose the war before she finished fighting. And, when it came to Innes Munroe, she’d fight till the bitter end. She took a deep breath and forced her thoughts to return to her little victory.

  “I stabbed him in the bollocks with my
. . .” Slapping her hand to her bare shoulder, she scrambled onto her knees, looking wildly about. “My brooch! Have you seen it?”

  Logan’s dark eyebrows drew together as he frowned. “Brooch?”

  “It was pinned to my plaid . . .” Wait . . . she’d been clutching it in her fist. She’d held on to it like a weapon as she’d trudged through the deepening snow. “No, I was holding it.”

  “You were holding nothing.”

  She shook her head. “No, no . . . I had it. It . . . it was my mother’s . . .”

  She would not cry. She swallowed hard against the lump building again in her throat.

  Awareness dawned, softening Logan’s fierce expression. “The sword pin with the bird and the diamond.”

  “Aye! Not a bird—i t’s a dragon. And not a diamond, an agate. Where is it?”

  “It was lying in the snow a few feet away from you.” Logan frowned. “I left it. Once I saw you, I forgot about it.”

  “I must find it.”

  Logan nodded. “I’ll take you there.”

  Pulling a plaid over her shoulders, she jumped off the bed and went to her clothes. Everything was still damp.

  “Not today, though,” he added.

  “We must go now,” she insisted, though reason told her she couldn’t walk anywhere in this weather, at least not until her stockings and shift had dried.

  “No. It’s snowing too hard, the wind is too strong, it is too cold, and you are still recovering. You must eat. I’ll cook something.”

  “But—”

  His eyes narrowed into slits. “You must eat.”

  Maggie snatched the ends of the plaid around her, closing them over her front, and raised her chin at him.

  His gaze remained fixed on hers, but a subtle smile played over his lips. “You know I’m right.”

  She scowled, resisting the urge to stamp her foot.

  He turned away and reached for his shirt, which hung on a peg beside the fire. Muscles rippled across his back, and Maggie stared, fascinated despite herself. When the shirt slid over his broad shoulders, she could no longer see his spectacularly muscled torso. Disappointment washed through her before she ruthlessly thrust it away, reminding herself that this man was a complete stranger.

  She continued watching in silence as he rebelted his plaid then folded it over his shoulder and pinned it in place. Two steps took him to the table in the center of the room, and he rifled through the items piled on its top.

  “Is this your cottage?”

  Busy opening a small sack of oats, he didn’t look at her. “No.”

  “Whose is it, then?”

  “I don’t know, but I expect him to return once the storm abates.” Taking a pot from the table, he strode to the door. When he opened it, a blast of snow and cold whipped through the room. Quickly, he knelt to scoop some fresh snow into the pot and then stepped back inside, closing the door firmly behind him.

  His dark gaze speared her. “Tell me if you become cold again.”

  She was already cold. Keeping her lips pressed firmly together, she nodded.

  Kneeling beside the hearth, he hung the pot on the hook over the fire. “What’s your name?”

  “Margaret MacDonald. Everyone calls me Maggie.”

  He inclined his head and reached out to her. “Come, Maggie.”

  Lured by the promise of warmth, she stepped around the bed and sat on its edge, extending her legs toward the flames.

  “Why do you think the owner will return?”

  He gestured at the table with his chin. “Someone brought supplies in anticipation of his arrival.”

  “Oh.” She gazed at the tabletop, at the bottles of whisky sitting upon it, and realization dawned. This must have been where Innes Munroe had intended to bring her. He’d had it all planned—he’d wanted to take her somewhere isolated so she couldn’t escape. So no one could hear her scream. How long had he thought to keep her here?

  Until she gave everything to him, no doubt. Her body, her soul. Her independence. A shudder racked her body. In an instant, Logan was at her side. “Cold?”

  “No.” But the tremble wouldn’t go away.

  Tentatively, he reached toward her, and when she didn’t pull away, he tugged her close, fitting her against the side of his muscular body. This time, she didn’t fight him. It was Innes who scared her, she realized, not this man. As big and intimidating as Logan Douglas was, if he’d intended to hurt her, he would have done it by now.

  He was, in his harsh, masculine way, attempting to comfort her. To help her.

  “Shhh.” He patted her head awkwardly, but his touch was gentle and more soothing than she would have expected. “You needn’t fear him any longer. I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Logan touched his fingertip to the wound Innes’s dagger had inflicted on her chest. The light skin-to-skin contact sent an unexpected prickle of desire rolling through her. Her breath caught, and for a suspended moment, she froze. And then her wits returned in a rush. She jerked away, tamping down the unfamiliar sensation.

  She crossed her arms and gazed at the flames licking at the bottom of the pot. Logan sat beside her in silence.

  “He thought brutality was the way to win my affections,” she murmured eventually, moving her fingers to press over the dagger wound. She slid Logan a glance. “That approach never works with women, you know.”

  Logan nodded grimly. He didn’t try to touch her again. “It doesn’t work with anyone.”

  “He has wanted to marry me since my husband died in a hunting accident five years ago . . .” Maggie sighed. “It seems like for ever.”

  She never spoke of this to anyone, and yet she wanted to tell Logan Douglas, stranger though he was. She forged onward. “His name is Innes Munroe. He’s threatened, cajoled, coaxed, but I’ve refused him again and again. All I want is for him to leave me in peace.”

  Logan sat stiffly, staring at the fire. His fingers curled into fists. His face was hard, his expression angry. He truly felt protective of her, she realized. But that was absurd—he hardly knew her. Perhaps he was the kind of man who felt it his duty to protect the weaker set.

  He spoke through tight lips. “What happened last night before I found you in the snow?”

  A renewed shudder rushed through her. “I was asleep, and he and his man kicked in and splintered my door. I tried to fight him, but I . . . couldn’t. He was drunk. He took me from my bed, threw me on his horse, and started riding like a madman up the mountain. I”—she sucked in a breath—“I think he intended to bring me here.”

  She glanced at Logan to gauge his reaction. He scowled down at her, his forehead creased. “Haven’t you any men in your clan? To care for you? To look out for your safety?”

  “I don’t require a man to protect me.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Well, there are men in my family, of course. The MacDonald of Beauly is Torean, my first cousin. However, I’ve never asked—”

  “Why didn’t your laird protect you from this Munroe?” The growling threat had returned to Logan’s voice.

  “He believes I should accept Innes.” She shrugged, thrusting away the dark feeling of betrayal that admission brought with it. “At least, that’s what Innes said. He said my cousin approved of him abducting me from my home. That it—” Maggie swallowed the bitter taste of bile. “That it was Torean’s suggestion.”

  Logan made a low, menacing sound, and his shoulder muscles bunched.

  She shook her head in bemusement. Though it probably should have roused her independent nature and raised her hackles, she found herself lapping up Logan’s attention like a starving kitten would a bowl of sweet cream. No one had ever been so protective of her—even Duneghall had left her to her own devices upon sensing her capability to care for herself.

  “Why does that distress you, Logan Douglas?” She raised her hand and touched it to the solid bulk of his arm.

  “I don’t enjoy seeing a woman ill used.”r />
  “But you don’t know me.”

  Logan’s hard fingers pressed beneath her chin and lifted it until she faced him. “I know you, Maggie. I’ve lain beside you, flesh against flesh. I’d say I know you well.” He lowered his head until their noses were inches apart, and his warm breath washed over her cheek. He stared at her with those deep black eyes, searching, studying. His pupils were dilated, his lips parted. Lord, what beautiful lips he had.

  She’d lost every impulse to push him away. In fact, she wanted him close. Closer. Her lids descended, heavy from the anticipation of his kiss. As he drew nearer, she leaned into it. They were so close she could all but feel those lips on her. Taking her. Possessing her.

  For the first time since she became a widow, she craved a man’s kiss. That intimate sharing. That carnal embrace . . .

  He dropped her chin. Then he rose and turned toward the fire.

  “Porridge is ready,” he said gruffly.

  Chapter Three

  Logan was no good with women. His mother had died when he was a babe, and he’d been raised among men. Women had always been vague, ambiguous creatures to him, mysterious as the kelpies that prowled the depths of the Highland lochs.

  Maggie MacDonald wrought all kinds of strange sensations on him. It went beyond his regular befuddlement with her sex. Whenever he set eyes upon her slight frame, a violent protectiveness overcame him. Yet whenever he tried to act on those impulses, she thrust him away. Outwardly, she was as frail and delicate as a flower, but inwardly she was fiercely independent.

  He didn’t know what to do with her. The more he remained in close quarters with her, the more he wanted to touch her. Beyond that, to tame her. His self-control grew more tenuous by the minute. If he spent much more time in this cottage with Maggie MacDonald, he was going to crawl out of his skin.

  Maggie certainly didn’t supply any assistance in soothing his tormented thoughts, not with her hot and cold behavior. One moment, she’d brush her fingers over his arm or his shoulders, murmuring how warm he was—and arousing him nearly beyond endurance—and the next, she’d catch herself and put as much distance between them as she could in the small space they shared.