Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

M ercy, as usual, woke before the sun had a chance to reach through the cabin windows on the mountainside. She slipped quietly from beneath a mound of her grandmother’s old skirts, as she’d loaned out her last blanket the night before, and was immediately covered in gooseflesh when her feet hit the freezing floorboards. She drew her white linen shift swiftly over her head and pulled brown stockings up to her thighs, knotting them with strips of spare cotton. Finding her blue kerchief on the ground, she swung it over her neck and slipped her arms through her wool stays, which she held against her chest as she shook Amity gently awake.

Amity threw her hands from beneath her blanket and searched for her sister’s laces with closed eyes. Ever since her father had pulled her shoulder violently out of its socket, Mercy was quite unable to do up her own stays, though she was able to get her right arm back far enough to release them. She sat on the bed with her back to Amity and had her sister tie them tight, as was their routine. Mercy was never sure if Amity was truly awake during this ritual.

When she heard Amity’s arms drop back onto her bed, Mercy got up and found two plain blue petticoats, shared between the sisters and so old that neither knew where they’d come from, which she stepped into and tied about her waist.

She glanced over to the chair and was pleased to see that her father had kept to his bedroom, as she was quite sure that her chattering teeth would have woken him. When he wasn’t drunk, which was more uncommon than a blood moon, he was a very light and easily angered sleeper.

Tiptoeing over the creaking floorboards, she shrugged her green bedgown on and wrapped it in front, securing it with an apron. The bedgown had been Gran’s, and she knew she was positively swimming in it, but there was no money for fabric for a jacket or gown.

She found and lit a nearly exhausted candle. It wasn’t much colder outside than in, so she left the heavier coat her father owned on the peg by the door and tightened her shawl around her shoulders before slipping into his old boots. Suddenly remembering the Scots, she wrapped her hair at the back of her neck and pulled on her linen bonnet.

In the barn, the youngest Mr. Macleod was snoring noisily beneath her scratchy red blanket in the hay, and his brother was doing the same nearby, his mouth wide open. Mercy smiled maternally at the two, though she suspected that Rabbie was probably older than she was. She bent down to run her fingers lightly over Cailean’s stitches, which to her delight had held overnight. She stood and nodded triumphantly, though she knew she’d need to recheck it by the light of day—the candle wasn’t bright enough to truly assess the wound’s progress.

Mercy stepped lightly to the back of the barn, ducking under bunches of drying herbs and tobacco leaves, and found the herd. She touched each goat that came to her with a gentleness that she’d only ever known from her sister. Lady Macbeth was found in the corner, coaxed out, and petted generously. She whispered to the poor old goat, who seemed skittish after sharing her bed with two large, unruly-looking men, then tucked the bucket beneath her udders.

The milk came easily after Mercy took Lady’s ears in her hands. Mercy knew every animal on the farm—every goat, every chicken. Though Cameo preferred Amity, she knew the old mare inside and out. She knew how to soothe each of them, and where to find them when they wandered off. She knew how to calm them down when her father brought chaos from town. If only I could do this with people, she thought as Lady leaned against her affectionately.

Don’t try to understand them, Mercy girl, her grandmother used to say, for they will never try to understand you.

After she collected milk from Lady, Miranda, and Goneril, Mercy herded all the goats past the two slumbering Scots and outside into the clearing, hoping the sound of their bells wouldn’t wake the men. She shouldn’t have been worried—the Scots slept like the dead.

After the animals settled, she crouched down next to the cabin stairs and pushed aside her blood-stained skirts from yesterday. She pulled a seed bag and a woven basket out from a makeshift root cellar she’d dug herself, then made her way over to the coop behind the cabin where the chickens greeted her enthusiastically. The sun finally greeted them, and Mercy let her head fall back to bask in the warmth before borrowing eleven eggs from the coop.

By the time Mercy had returned to the cabin steps, the sun had warmed the mountaintop enough that she could shed her shawl. She stepped inside the cabin quietly, just to make sure her father was breathing and that Amity was still sleeping, then stooped under the cabin stairs again and collected those bloodied skirts from the day before, as well as some soap.

Once she’d made it through the woods and to one of the deeper runs of the tumbling creek, Mercy dropped the skirts and sighed. The morning was unseasonably hot after such a cold night, so she decided then and there to do her laundry while bathing, and kill two birds with one stone. She carefully removed the skirts and stays that she’d donned earlier that morning and hung them from the low branch of a PawPaw tree. She smiled when she noticed that most of the green fruits would be ripe soon, and that she and Amity would be able to feast on their custardy insides come October. She flung her boots and stockings off, reveling in the feeling of grass beneath her bare feet with closed eyes. I’ll only take a quick rinse, Mercy told herself as she slipped out of her shift, and be back to the cabin for Amity to redo my laces before the Scots wake.

The warm, still air caressed her bare skin as she lifted the soap and soiled skirts from the bank and waded into the water.

“Ohh,” Mercy moaned as she reached a point deep enough to submerge herself completely. She slipped her head beneath the surface and came back up slowly, stretching her neck from side to side in the cold water. She gathered her laundry up to her stomach and fell back, letting herself float for a moment with her eyes closed, the sun warming her face. When she began to feel overindulgent, her feet reached the bottom of the creek bed and she set about scouring the bloodstains from her skirts on the water’s surface, the submerged cotton rippling along in the gentle current.

Mercy frowned slightly and bit her lip. She wasn’t sure the stains had been completely lifted after her vigorous scrubbing, but it would have to do. Just then, a doe hopped gracefully to the water on the opposite shore and approached cautiously for a cool drink. Mercy stood slowly, her wet hair falling down her back until the water reached her hips. The doe lowered her head and lapped while keeping her black eyes on Mercy.

“You’re safe,” Mercy murmured. “I won’t hurt you, beautiful beast.”

“And how would ye hurt her, if ye had a mind to?” A rough and thoroughly amused voice came from behind Mercy, who let out a small shriek and dropped back into the water. She turned slowly, gathering her wet skirts to her chest. Of course. Mr. Macleod.

He stood there, a few feet from the water’s edge, with his head slightly tilted to the right.

“I’ve heard that Viking women sometimes hunt in the nude, but ye don’t seem the type, if I may say so.”

Miss Barnett’s eyes widened in indignation.

Rory was pleased that his voice didn’t appear to be shaking, since the devil knew his knees were. He’d been meandering up the creek, deep in thought, when he’d been wholly transfixed by a selkie, a real one. He knew then that he’d had too much to drink the night before, and far too little food in the days before that. Though the apparition had to be a trick of his mind, he staggered to it like a hungry man to mutton, but once he’d gotten close enough, he’d stopped as if turned to stone.

Miss Mercy Barnett. She was surrounded by submerged green skirts that floated like sage clouds around her naked body, but then she stood and her back was exposed, her hair blackened with water, falling down the delicate curve of her spine. He’d thought her lacking in beauty before, but free from the ill-fitting dress and constant grimace, he’d thought her rather pretty. Well, if not pretty, then striking.

She’d stayed still, and Rory finally found the point of her interest: a tawny doe on the other bank. Miss Barnett’s clothing hung from a nearby tree branch and flapped in the gentle wind, creating a rhythm that nearly matched the heavy beating of his heart. Rory had drawn his fingers to his chest involuntarily and listened as Miss Barnett whispered a few words to the doe.

You’re safe. I won’t hurt you. Beautiful beast.

Now, the woman looked livid. His lips were trapped in a lopsided grin as his gaze trapped her in the water. Though he tried not to seem threatening, his eyes wouldn’t leave hers.

All he could really see of her above the dark water was her neck and face, but what an elegant neck, and such an arresting face they were. Her dark hair floated along the water’s surface, and her gray-blue eyes, wide with ire and perhaps a little fear, were the same color as a cloudless day in June. Rory watched with utter fascination as a droplet of water slid down her smooth forehead and made a home in her dark eyebrow. He was overcome with the desire to lick that droplet from her face. For the second time, the curious woman made his cock twitch.

“Mr. Macleod,” she managed finally through gritted teeth. “If you wouldn’t mind returning to my father’s barn while I finish the wash and get dressed.” Oh, she was angry. It made him want to be very wicked indeed, and a sly smile reached his lips.

“Oh,” Rory said finally as his fingers reached his cravat, untying it with flourish and letting it drop to the grass, “I would mind that very much.” Rory saw her color rise as he shrugged off the tight, sleeveless waistcoat.

“Sir.” Miss Barnett’s voice trembled with rage and it looked like her blush was about to set the water about her to boil. Rory bit back a laugh and continued on with his game.

“Miss Barnett,” Rory returned calmly and seriously with a little nod of his head, pulling the bottom of his shirt out of his trousers and dragging it over his head theatrically. He saw her swallow a gasp.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Miss Barnett sputtered as he reached down to his tattered black boots.

“I thought I might bathe,” Rory said indifferently. His boots fell with two thunks next to hers. “Ours has been a long journey, lass,” he added, his hands lifting to the waist of his trousers. Miss Barnett squeaked softly and spun around to face away from him. “I think a soak would be just the thing.”

When Miss Barnett stiffened and didn’t say anything more, Rory was miffed. He was enjoying this exchange immensely, and as he had no real plans to take off his trousers and join her, as he merely had wanted to watch her cheeks pink as she became more and more uncomfortable, she was taking all the fun out of it with her silence.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an enormous bear ambling towards the creek on the opposite bank.

A bear. His mind stuttered and then stopped altogether. It was the stuff of mythology, of something gone so long ago it may as well have been a unicorn. He’d seen paintings, of course, but nothing that even began to compare to the sheer size and majesty of the animal. It moved slowly, which was surprising—he’d always imagined they raced to and fro on those enormous paws. Its fur was black and not brown, and as it got closer to the creek, its head swaying this way and that, Rory swore softly.

As quietly as he could, he plunged into the creek with his trews still on, making his way to Miss Barnett with as few ripples as possible. When he reached her, he wrapped both her and her laundry protectively in his arms. He sank down until he was neck-deep in the water, preposterously pulling her naked form tightly to his bare chest.

Miss Barnett whimpered softly when two cubs appeared by the bear’s side.

“Be still, Mr. Macleod,” she whispered. “Nothing is more dangerous than a mother bear with cubs to protect.” He tightened his grip, making any movement on her part impossible. The bear sniffed lazily in their direction.

“Yes, lass,” he whispered. He hugged her closer to him, knowing full well that he’d try to take on the bear, unarmed if he had to. Fuck. Yes, he would have to, as he’d left his knife in the barn with Rabbie. The bear raised her head, and Rory felt every muscle in Miss Barnett’s body tense. The beast snuffled again, then seemed to lose interest in the two of them and ambled downstream, cubs in tow.

The two of them stayed tightly wound until the bears had disappeared. Rory knew that it was that moment, right then, that he should let her go, but he found that he couldn’t. It was the strangest thing, but his arms would not loosen their hold.

Then, he caught a heady whiff of something that filled his nose with pleasure.

“What is that?” he asked suddenly, jerking his head forward. Miss Barnett lifted and turned her head to gaze up into his face. Their eyes seemed to collide with one another, as two clumsy dancers would. Rory had never been very talented when it came to dancing, and had spent most of the Laird’s gatherings against the walls of Clachan Hall, drinking too much whiskey, or stealing away into dark passageways with whichever woman he was pursuing at that time. Now, he had the oddest desire to stumble through a dance with Miss Mercy Barnett.

“What is what?” she asked, still trembling.

“That smell,” Rory said, flaring his nostrils to better take in the scent. He wanted to touch it, taste it.

“The soap?” Miss Barnett asked, confused. Though she had her laundry clasped to her chest in a death grip, and he had her clasped to his chest in kind, she was able to lift the rectangle from beneath the water.

“God,” Rory murmured, loosening one of his arms to take it from her. Miss Barnett flinched when their wet fingers touched. He brought the soap to his face and breathed deeply: lavender, mint, and… “Lemon?” he asked softly, surprised. He’d only once tasted lemon at the Laird’s house, but the exotic fruit had enchanted him.

“Lemon bee balm,” she answered, sounding strangled. “I add herbs to the soap.” Her voice cracked. Rory opened his eyes and peered down at her. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him, but all he could do was say,

“Ye’re cold.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Barnett said shivering, her eyes widening, perhaps wondering what he meant to do about it. The wet hair of his chest drew across her silken back and he felt like an anchor, digging in to keep this small and likely angry boat from floating away. His thighs cupped her lower body perfectly, and Rory leaned her back as if to sit on him like a throne.

The dizzying smell of lemons and her arresting eyes and perhaps the sight of a bear—a real bear!—left him utterly lightheaded. “Give me the laundry, lass,” he whispered, surprising himself. What did he mean to do if she did? He loosened his grip and turned her by her bony shoulders to face him.

Mercy’s heart was thumping wildly in her throat, and she was unsure if she was more fearful or furious, as both sensations seemed to be competing for her attention. Having spent her entire life fighting off the advances of men who would have her body even though they detested her, her family, everything that she was, she should have been used to it by now. But every time, it was like another slice on an open cut. How many times had she skirted advances from men who wouldn’t meet her eyes in town? How many times had she laid cool hands on an ailing wife, or son, or daughter, and been quickly escorted out under the cover of night by the same man who would have ravaged her not a week before at one of her father’s debaucherous nights?

She eased herself slowly from Mr. Macleod’s grasp like a mouse from a sleepy cat, knowing that any abrupt movement might alert him to her escape. He looked dazed, as if he’d met her somewhere before, but his eyes were smoldering. She inched back slowly, causing not so much as a ripple in the water, but once she was free of his hands, she bolted, splashing violently through the water and covering herself with the soaking laundry as best she could as she waded onto the shore.

When she looked back, she saw that Rory was standing in the creek, the water just reaching the soaked thighs of his trousers as if he had made to follow her out. Water dripped over every muscled dimple in his arms and chest, and trailed neatly into his waistband. His mouth was open, and he looked at her as if he didn’t know quite what to say.

It felt, suddenly, that the creek was in the sky, and she was falling upwards. The colors around her, the yellowing leaves, the black creek, began to unravel at an alarming rate, and soon the only color she could see was the sun-darkened gold of the giant’s smooth skin and the patches of black hair that adorned his head, face, and chest.

His body was incomparable. Rippling muscles flexed and relaxed in turn as he studied her slowly. He carried himself with the fluid ease of a cougar, and his eyes betrayed the animal’s same predatory likeness. Never in her life had she felt more vulnerable, though the nature of her father’s extracurriculars and the friends he kept had made her feel both exposed and unsafe many times before.

She would have never let him hold her that way, she told herself, had she not been familiar with what kind of damage a bear could do—she’d tended to a few bear wounds over the years, and had seen her fair share of the victims die. Yes, that was why she let him handle her so improperly.

“Please turn around,” Mercy demanded as she yanked her clothing from the branch, wishing she could have sounded less desperate than she felt. The wet cotton of the threadbare skirts she’d washed did little to hide the contours of her body. When the brute didn’t comply, Mercy clutched her dry clothing in a fist and fled without her boots.

“May I ask what happened?” Amity asked when Mercy flung herself into the cabin, soaking and barefoot and bright red with embarrassment and haphazardly wrapped in wet skirts.

“You may not,” Mercy answered primly, dropping her dry clothes on her bed and searching desperately for a blanket. Amity nodded, her lips pressed together. Though Mercy was sure that she had easily ascertained an approximation of what had occurred, she wouldn’t laugh at her misfortune. At least not in her company.

“I’ve finished the rest of the chores,” Amity managed to say evenly, “but the last corn in the upper garden is yours to harvest. It may take a while. I’ll care for the Macleods today.” Mercy had dried herself off and began dressing quickly.

“Thank you,” she said, grasping Amity’s shoulders roughly. She rubbed a rag in her hair and spun, letting Amity tie up her stays for the second time that day. “Thank you,” she whispered again. For the rest of the day and night, Mercy was able to avoid the interlopers completely, and the only proof that what had transpired was not a terrible dream were her boots sitting neatly on the cabin stairs when she returned barefoot from the garden.