Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(90)

“Rain?” Lizzie looked up to the sky and frowned. “What rain?”

Lizzie swore she wouldn't complain. No matter how exhausted, no matter how hungry, no matter how miserable she felt. She would prove to him that she was not some fragile piece of porcelain ready to crack at the first sign of difficulty.

And then as he predicted it started to rain.

Not a light, misty rain, but a full Highland downpour with icy gusts of wind that cut to the bone.

So now in addition to being tired, hungry, and cold, by the time they reached the area where Patrick decided to shelter for the night, she was also drenched.

And when she realized there would be no cozy cave to sleep in this night, she wanted to cry.

But it appeared she had underestimated Patrick's resourcefulness. He showed her to a fallen tree for her to sit on while he set about gathering the materials—tree limbs, pine bows, and moss—to build a shelter. Using part of the fallen log she was sitting on for a base, he cleared away the ground of leaves and rocks and built a tentlike structure with branches. Then he wove the bows between the branches to create a roof and laid moss on the ground to provide a buffer from the wet ground.

At the open end of the shelter, he built a small fire. It would be smoky, perhaps, but warm. And a few minutes later, when he settled her underneath, she realized it was also dry.

“You've done this before,” she said wryly.

His mouth twitched. “Perhaps once or twice.” He paused. “It's not what you are used to.”

“No,” she admitted. Far from it.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Famished,” she replied before she could think to lie.

“I might be able to catch a mountain hare. I can try to fashion some twine from vines or …” He gave her an odd look—almost as if he were embarrassed.

“Or?” she asked.

“If we had some kind of string.”

She tilted her head, perplexed.

“Such that might be a part of a lady's undergarments.”

“You want the tie from my stays? Why didn't you just say so?” He'd seen her naked, but he was flustered by talk of undergarments. It was … adorable. If a heavily muscled Highland warrior of well over six feet could be characterized as such.

He turned to give her privacy, and she quickly went to work removing the plaid that he'd given her and the heavy woolen jacket that she wore underneath, then loosened the ties of her kirtle enough to slide it down to her waist. With all the walking and climbing they were doing, it would be nice to be able to move a little easier. When she got to her stays, however, she had to stop. She'd forgotten. They tied in the back.

She bit her lip and looked at his broad back, debating.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“I'm afraid …” She took a deep breath and started again. “I'm afraid I need some help.”

She covered her br**sts, fully visible beneath the damp linen of her sark, with her arms as he turned. His eyes heated for an instant, lingering on the bare skin of her arms and neck, before he bent and placed his hands on her back, slowly working the ties of her stays. She held her breath, painfully aware of the warmth of his hands, of every stray brush of his fingers on her back. Of his breath on her neck. Of his body so close to hers.

It was an altogether too familiar intimacy that her body remembered well. Her skin prickled. From the cold, she told herself. But then why was she so flushed?

God, did he only have to touch her for her to fall apart? Did she so easily forget that he'd lied to her and deceived her from the first moment they'd met? That his seduction had been coldly calculated with one purpose—her dowry? That he was a MacGregor—her clan's enemy and an outlaw?

She straightened her spine and forced herself to ignore him and not let his touch affect her.

He must have felt her resistance, because he finished quickly, murmured a brusque thanks, and said that he would return soon, leaving her to dress in peace.

Being alone in the forest at dusk, however, even with a fire, was not conducive to a state of peace. Frankly, it was terrifying. She jumped at every sound, imagining all sorts of horrible creatures lurking behind the trees. Time passed slowly, tolled by each rustling leaf, each snapped twig, and each oddly timed raindrop that splattered on a nearby rock. By the time he returned, her nerves were frayed raw and she would have welcomed the devil himself with open arms.

He took one look at her face and apologized. “It took longer than I expected. With the rain, there aren't as many hares venturing from their holes.” He set down his bow and sword and sat opposite her. After putting the dead animal in front of him, he took out his dirk. “I hope you weren't frightened?”

“Of course not,” Lizzie said automatically, before seeing his teasing expression. “Well, maybe a little,” she conceded. “I kept thinking of that wolf. Are there any other wild beasts that I should be aware of?”

She turned her gaze as he started to skin the dead animal. Not normally squeamish about such things, she was none theless usually more removed from the preparation of her meat.

“You mean other than boars and wildcats?”

Boars and wildcats, dear God! “Aye, other than those.”

He appeared contemplative and then shook his head. “Nay, nothing else I can think of.”