The Rogue (7 page)

“No wonder. Ye have the plaid on wrong, lass. ‘Tis worn like this.” He took it from her shoulders, made fast pleats of the middle, wrapped one end around her waist, had to do it again to take up more length, and then draped the remainder over her shoulder. “See? ‘Tis easy.” He then slipped the wide belt from his waist and carefully wrapped it around hers—twice—and still a half-length was left hanging. “Well, it will have to do. At least, ye’ll stay warm.”

He took her hand and led her out of the cave and into brilliant sunshine, into a day warmer than expected. He waved toward her right. “There, lass, there’s a privacy bush, but be quick.”

He turned away, and Birdi was left on her own to stumble over river rock in the direction he pointed. Why he was behaving so out of sorts was beyond kenning. She’d been the one attacked. She huffed, tripped, and her hair fell over her face. Muttering, she pushed it out of her eyes, took another step, and stumbled again. Grinding her teeth, she grabbed her skirt and the plaid with both hands and, keeping her gaze locked on the slippery stones beneath her feet, she walked without further stumbling.

Straight into an elderberry bush.

Angus poked through the neck of his chain mail in time to see Birdi collide with the bush. He shook his head as she muttered and turned. A heartbeat later her head jerked back with such force he was surprised she didn’t lose her footing. Before he could take a step, she reached back, wrenched a thick lock of hair free of a branch, and marched on again. Birdi Shame had to be the most accident-prone female he’d ever laid eyes on. Another reason the sooner he got her back to her clan the better.

When she made it behind the bush without further incident, he finished donning his armor and turned his attention to Rampage. The beast snorted and blew out his stomach as Angus tried to tighten the saddle girth. “Ack, lad, ye ken I’ll win in the end, so why do ye put me through this aggravation every time I saddle ye?”

Angus looked over his shoulder and found Birdi at the churning river’s edge washing her hands. “Birdi, get away from there! I dinna want to be fishing ye out of—

Too late.

The current-weakened earth beneath her suddenly gave way and she fell into the river with a surprised screech, hands over her head.

Cursing and with his gaze locked on the place where she’d disappeared, he ran. A foot from where she fell in, his right leg sank into sucking mud up to his shin. He windmilled his arms to keep from getting both legs trapped and landed on his rear. God’s teeth!

He pulled free just as Birdi broke the surface, sputtering and flailing, a good ten yards down stream.

His heart thudding, her cries for help only escalating his alarm, he ran along the bank. Good God, he hadn’t realized how fast the current was here.

She swam, thrashed really, but in the wrong direction. He brought his hands to his mouth and shouted, “
Birdi!
This way. Come this way!”

She turned, her face as white as the churning water surrounding her, and started thrashing, blessedly in the right direction, but the current still hauled her downstream, farther away from him. Realizing he couldn’t outrun her and praying she could stay afloat, he whistled.

As he tore off his mail, Rampage pounded up behind him. He mounted and kicked Rampage into a canter. As they raced along the bank and around boulders, Birdi made some small progress toward shore but even more progress toward Loch Purdith. And, God help her, the traitorous waterfall that emptied into it. “Birdi! Keep swimming lass! I’m coming!”

God, please get me to her before she exhausts herself and drowns or falls over that precipice. She willna survive it.

As he raced to catch her, the fast-flowing river hauled her at breakneck speed over and between boulders. Ack, the abuse she had to be taking. He could only pray she wouldn’t hit her limit or hit her head before he reached her.

The river swung left and he lost sight of her for several painful seconds. He vaulted over trees brought down by floods and rounded the bend. He released his breath. She was alive. Her arms still churned, though not with her past determination. Not good, not good.

He spotted a partially submerged, felled tree some fifty feet before her. “The tree, Birdi! Try to grab hold of the tree!”

Her right arm reached up and out but to the left.

“To yer right, Birdi, to yer right!” God, the woman would be the death of him.

To his monumental relief the current spun her and put her in direct line with the tree. He raced past her at a full canter, came abreast of the tree, and reined in. Rampage snorted and stomped as Angus slid to the ground and raced for the log. Heart slamming against his ribs, his arms extended for balance, he ran along the slippery bark until it disappeared below water. He dropped to his knees and then straddled it. His elation—in getting ahead and in direct line with her—evaporated as he saw the huge whirlpool churning between them. Praying it wouldn’t take her in the opposite direction, he stretched out and bellowed, “Birdi! Reach for me! Here!”

Birdi’s heart leapt. Angus the Canteran was before her, somewhere, telling her to grab hold of his hand. Choking on frothing water, she raised a weary arm, and was suddenly jerked from below. She screeched. Her skirt—once billowing about her waist—was now wound tight about her legs. She couldn’t kick or right herself as she spun. She bucked and clawed at the water pulling her down.

Goddess, help! Please, I’ll be drowned!

Arms thrashing, she slid beneath the surface.

B
irdi awoke to the sounds of hissing Gael, to the feel of large hands pressing on her stomach.
Ah, ‘tis him, the Canteran, Angus Mac
...she couldn’t remember his other name. He pulled on her arms, up, down, up, down, pushed again on her stomach, and then spun her onto her face. Numb with cold, too tired to breath, she didn’t care. She’d never see her home again so what did it matter? The saddest part of this journey, apart from not seeing colored glass, was kenning that no one would grieve, would miss her.

He pressed on her back, up, down, up, down. He was squeezing the life out of her. Why? She was flipped again; the sun’s glare now bore against her eyelids. It felt good. Warm. He pressed on her stomach again, this time it hurt, and suddenly she was choking, vomiting, and gasping.

Good Goddess, he was trying to kill her!

She tried to defend herself but found her arms were weighted down. Already breathless, she started coughing again. This time it tore, racked, inside her chest.

And he wouldn’t stop pounding on her back. Pound, pound, pound. If she had a rock and the strength she’d cosh him a good one. On the head.

Merciful Goddess, please. Please, make him stop.

“Birdi, lass, are ye alright? Can ye hear me?”

He hauled her onto his lap, raked the hair off her face, and ran a calloused hand over her mouth, wiping the spittle from her lips. He then cradled her to his powerful, heaving chest and began rocking.

Above the sound of his thudding heart, she heard, “Lass, ye scared the
shit
out of me.”

Sheet?
She would have to ask the meaning, later, when she had the breath. Panting and shivering, she had only enough strength to marvel at the heat pouring off the wet man who held her so close, his hands scrubbing her limbs and back in an effort to warm her.

She’d nearly drowned and he’d saved her. He and hale Mary. Another thing she need remember to ask about when her teeth stopped chattering, when she could speak without her throat feeling like she’d swallowed hot coals.

“Ack, Birdi, I swear ye’ll be the death of me.”

She’d be the death of him? ‘Twould more likely be withershins—the other way around—if his hands continued to chafe her skin as they did. But she didn’t complain. Chafing was better than his unmerciful pounding.

“Lass, open yer eyes and look at me.”

She did and found his face only inches away, well within her clearest range of vision. He was staring at her intently from eyes fairer than the mid-summer sky, bluer than a jay’s feather, fringed by long spiked lashes the color of wet bark. Truly lovely. Too bad they were frowning at her. Sadder still, they weren’t hers. She did so dislike her eyes.

She’d seen them once in a looking glass when she’d been summoned to the Macarthur’s keep. She hadn’t realized until that moment that her eyes marked her as different. The Macarthurs—those few she’d seen—had eyes of smoky blue or green. Hers, alas, were the color of snow in shadow. It explained why the Macarthurs feared her so. Graces, her eyes had startled even her, spying them for the first time. So why didn’t they frighten the Canteran?

“Ye’re freezing, lass, I need build a fire.”

Before she could say there wasn’t need—the heat radiating from his chest was certainly warm enough—he sprang to his feet and carried her to his horse. Holding her in one arm with no apparent effort, he reached behind his saddle and pulled down a package. He carried it and her back toward the waterfall.

He laid her down on a grassy spot in the sun, the place where the horse—a huge, slow moving white blob to her burning eyes—grazed. Angus tore into his package and pulled out yard upon yard of deep green, shimmering cloth. He then—to her horror—started pulling up her kirtle.

She squeaked and slapped his hands. “Leave me be!”

“Not until I have ye out of these wet clothes. I dinna want ye catching the ague.”

He again reached for her hem and she swatted his arms. “I can do it myself. Turn around.”

Grumbling, he handed her the shimmering cloth and turned his back.

Teeth chattering, she pulled on her water-soaked sleeves and her arms came free.  She glared at his broad back. The nerve of the man, thinking he could strip her without so much as a by-yer-leave!

She yanked her kirtle over her head and quickly wrapped the shimmering cloth over her nakedness.

Fearing Birdi didn’t have the strength to manage on her own, Angus watched her out the corner of his eye. Her chilled skin was almost blue.

When she’d finished donning the velvet fabric he’d

intended as a wedding present for his bride, he faced her.  “Are ye feeling better?”

  In response, she narrowed her incredible eyes at him and pressed her lush lips into a thin line. One hand slipped out of the yards of fabric. When she fingered the velvet, he grinned. Aye, she felt better. Feeling immeasurably better himself, he told her, “I’ll leave ye to warm in the sun while I gather some firewood.”

The wood gathered and lit by her side, he stripped down to his sark—something he normally didn’t wear liking the feel of air about his nether parts, but now wore in an effort to protect his groin while traveling through forest at night—and donned the second tunic he carried.

He then spread their clothing on a flat boulder to dry in the sun. Stomach growling, he sat down beside her. A healthy pink had returned to her lips and cheeks, and her hair, which she’d pulled from beneath the cloth in his absence, was again starting to billow about her waist in the faint breeze.  “Are ye warm yet?”

She nodded.

Wondering if he dared leave her to catch something for them to eat, he murmured, “Ye scared me witless, lass.”

“Myself, as well. Thank ye for saving me.”

“No need. I’m happy I managed it.” He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, his back to the sun. He studied the scar encircling her right wrist. It looked like she’d been caught in a poacher’s snare. “Lass, how did ye come to be alone in Macarthur’s forest?”

She pulled the velvet closer. “Minnie died.”

“My condolences on the loss of yer mother. And what happened to yer guards?”

She tipped her head, her brow crinkling. “We had no guards.”

“None?” He couldn’t believe her mother’s stupidity, given how lovely her daughter was. “How long ago was this?”

She nibbled on her lip. “Ten summers past, mayhap more.”

Ten summers? Nay! She’d misunderstood. His Scot, apparently, wasn’t as good as he thought. “Your mother died when you were a bairn?”

“Aye, when I was so high.” She held her hand a yard from the ground.

Nay. She couldn’t possibly have survived on her own for so long. “But how did ye feed and clothe yerself at such a tender age?”

“Minnie had taught me. ‘Twas her way. We had only each other, and so I learned before she died.”

Still not believing his ears, he asked, “And how did she die?”

“A boar gored her.” Birdi’s eyes became glassy. “She’d not died right away. She lingered. I tried to help her, tried to ease her pain as best I could, but the fever still took her.” She again fingered the velvet and a tear slipped down her cheek. “I wonder at times why it happened when it did, before I had grown.”

He brushed the lock that fluttered about her face over her shoulder. “Sometimes there is nay reason why things happen as they do. All we can do is make the best of a bad situation, which ye apparently did.” Though how she had was beyond his knowing.

She plucked at the fabric covering her lap. “Like now.”

He chuckled. “Am I so bad, lass?”

She looked at him, one corner of her lips quirking up. “Why do ye wear the metal shirt?”

Ah, so she still wasn’t yet ready to admit he wasn’t a complete ogre. “To keep from being injured in battle.”

“Oh.” She remained silent for a moment, and then asked, “What is this called?” She patted his bride’s wedding present.

“Velvet. Ladies wear gowns made of it.” Yards and yards of it. Another reason he hadn’t wanted a wife before now. The fabric Birdi fingered—now smudged with mud and liberally covered with pine needles—had been booty, a prize of war, from his campaign in France fighting for Louie against the
Sassenach
—the English dogs. He couldn’t have gained it otherwise. Its value was more than he earned in a year. “Where did ye live, lass? I didn’t see a croft.”

She eyed him warily for a moment. “‘Tis a wee croft. The villagers built it long ago. I have a soft bed, a table, a cuttie stool, and a fire-ingle.” She smiled for the first time and his heart stuttered. Dimples, lovely deep crevices, bracketed her lush mouth and even teeth. “I have,” she told him, “a down pillow, a posnet, and two kirtles, as well.”