Love, Come to Me(2)

She was being carried through the woods. Her head rested on a wool-covered shoulder. Her forehead was nestled intimately in the crook of a man’s neck. Her legs swung gently, bumping against the stranger’s side. The man who carried her trudged through the gathering drifts of snow with the steady, dependable stride of a workhorse, his feet moving in an unbroken rhythm. Sensing that she was conscious, he spoke softly, in a pronounced Southern accent.

“I was going out for stove wood when I heard you. I don’t know what you were doing out there, honey, but you should’ve had better sense than to set foot on that river. Couldn’t you tell it wasn’t frozen all the way?”

Opening her mouth was like prying apart rusted iron. Lucy tried to say something and heard a funny shuddering sound. She was too cold to talk, too cold even to think.

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine,” he said lightly, and in her misery and shock, his voice sounded immeasurably callous. Her clothes were heavy and icy, clinging to her body and making her limbs ache. All of her life, her cuts and scrapes and miseries had been attended to quickly, and with plenty of sympathy. She had never felt pain like this before, all-consuming, enveloping, unrelenting. This was suffering, and she found that she had no tolerance for it. She began to cry weakly, and with a soft oath, Heath lifted her higher in his arms until her head was settled more firmly on his shoulder. His lips were right by her ear, and he murmured to her quietly. “Such a cold little ear. Listen to me, honey. It won’t be long, and you’re going to be all better. I’m taking you to a nice, warm room with a hot fire. We’re almost there. Don’t cry. Hold on for just another minute, and we’ll see what we can do about thawing you out.”

He was talking to her as if she were a little girl, and although he sounded outrageously patronizing, she was comforted by his soothing. Despite his assurances that they were “almost there,” it seemed to take hours before they reached a small, well-lit house, and Lucy was nearly panicked by the realization that she couldn’t feel anything from the neck down. Wild fears ran through her mind. Was she paralyzed? Had she lost any fingers or toes? Fear kept her quiet as the stranger carried her into the house. After closing the door and shutting out the billowing gusts of snow, he deposited her carefully on a sofa. He seemed heedless of the way her water-soaked clothes and hair dampened the furniture. The room was lit by the cheerful blaze of an open-grate woodstove. Lucy could see its warmth but could not feel it. Her teeth chattered audibly, complementing the animated crackle of the flames.

“You’ll warm up in a minute,” Heath said, fueling the blaze with more wood.

“N-n-never,” she managed to say, shaking violently.

He smiled slightly, dropping an armload of quilts into a nearby chair. “Yes, you will. I’ll have you so warm in a little while that you’ll be asking for a fan and a glass of iced tea.”

“I c-can’t f-feel anything.” Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and he knelt by the sofa, pulling the sodden tresses of hair off her face.

“I told you not to cry . . . Miss Lucinda Caldwell. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

She nodded, shivering fitfully.

“I’ve seen you working at your father’s store,” he continued, unwinding the limp, dripping cashmere scarf from around her neck. “My name is Heath Rayne . . . and you should know, Lucinda, that for a long time I’ve planned on meeting you. The circumstances are not of my choosing, but we’ll just have to make the best of them.” He unbuttoned her cloak with quick, impersonal efficiency, while her eyes rounded and her teeth chattered harder. “Lucinda. You’re all curled up like a little snail. I need you to help me. Let me turn you onto your back.”

“N-no—”

“I won’t hurt you. I’m going to help. Make this easier for me, Lucy, and turn over. Yes, just like that . . .” Quickly his fingers moved to the basque of her drenched walking dress, unfastening the garment and spreading it open. She cringed away from him as she realized what he was doing. No man had ever undressed her before. But it had to be done, and she couldn’t do it herself. With an effort, she tamped down the instinct to struggle against him. “It’s a good thing the river had such a weak current,” he remarked matter-of-factly. “If it didn’t, this bunch of petticoats and all these . . . ruffles . . . would have dragged you down fast.”

Lucy closed her eyes, unaware that tears were still rolling down her temples until he dried them with the corner of a quilt. Deftly her dress, the fashionable bustle, the collapsible crinoline, and all of her petticoats were removed. Several buttons popped off her boots, making Heath swear under his breath as they rattled across the floor. The laces of her stays were soaked and impossible to untie. Grimacing, he drew a bowie knife with a clipped point from his vest and cut the cords. The boned material gave way and the corset expanded, causing Lucy to gasp feebly as knifelike pains seemed to slide through her ribs. Heath paused only a split second before hooking his fingers underneath the straps of her dripping camisole. Her body went even more rigid, which hardly seemed possible. This had to be a nightmare. That was the only explanation for what was happening to her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, stripping her of the flimsy camisole and pantalets. She thought she heard a soft intake of breath, but the sound might have been the rustle of the quilts that he proceeded to wrap her in. He cocooned her in them tightly, so that nothing except her head was visible. The cold was settling in at her joints, causing her to groan in agony and harden her knees and elbows against it. Picking up her swaddled form easily, Heath sat down in a chair by the fire, cradling her in a solid grip. Even through the blankets she could feel that his arms were rock-hard.