With his free arm, Grant lifted the short end of the table and overturned it, rushing forward. Logan was swept up in the momentum and smashed against the stone wall. He felt the swift burn of the blade slashing his flesh, but he couldn't let it slow him down. Gathering his strength, he caught Grant by the shoulders and shoved him back.
The big man tripped over the upturned table leg, and together they tumbled to the floor. Logan had the advantage now. He straddled Grant's torso, pinning his arms at his side. Holding him still.
"Breathe, mo charaid. Just breathe."
He held his friend there, immobile, until a familiar cloudiness overtook his eyes.
And then, just as he had a thousand times since that mortar blast, Grant startled back to life.
"What's all this, Captain? Where are we?"
Logan almost choked on a wave of relief. "The war's over, Grant. We're home in Scotland. Safe."
"Oh. Well, that's bonny."
"Aye. So it is." Panting, Logan moved to the side. When he moved to stand, he winced at the pain in his chest. He'd likely broken a few ribs when Grant had smashed him against the wall.
He turned, seeking Maddie. There she was, holding the spurtle like a weapon. Fully prepared to bludgeon her favorite person on Logan's behalf.
Sweet lass.
"Be easy," he told her. "All's well now."
She lowered the spurtle, but her face remained pale and wary. "Logan, you should be seated."
"I'm fine. Just a bit shaken up." He winced. "I might have a broken rib or two. Nothing that willna mend."
"Logan, please. Sit down at once."
Her voice was so cold and serious.
Even Grant kept staring at him.
"What is it?" he asked. "Have I grown a second head?"
Then again, it wasn't his head that seemed to be holding them rapt but something several feet lower. He followed Maddie's gaze downward.
Ah. So that's what had her so concerned. Grant's knife was embedded in his thigh. To the hilt.
Strange, that. He had been so focused on the ache in his ribs that he hadn't even noticed.
He stared down at it, feeling like a detached observer of his own body. When he spoke, his voice sounded distant to his own ears. "I expect Munro will want a look at that."
He blinked. Twice.
And then the world went dark.
Chapter Twenty-five
"Logan!"
Maddie wasn't prepared to catch six feet and fourteen stone of Scotsman, but she did her best, lunging to reach his side before he could fall.
She helped him slide to the floor, all the while being mindful of the knife. She didn't want to jar it and injure him further.
Once he'd lain down on the floor, his head in her lap, she tried to better assess his injury. She pulled aside a fold of his kilt.
Oh, Lord.
The wound might have worried her less if it had been bleeding more. But this was no superficial slash. The entirety of the five-inch blade had been buried in his thigh.
To the hilt.
And if not for Logan, that same blade could have been buried in her throat.
"Logan. Logan, can you hear me?"
His eyelids fluttered. "Mo chridhe?"
"Yes. Yes, Logan. It's me." She pushed the hair from his brow. "Be still, my love. We're going to have you mended in no time."
Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and his grip on her hand went slack.
Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.
She found his pulse with her fingertips. So long as that beat kept pounding, she could tell herself everything would be fine.
"What's happened?" Grant came to sit beside her, now oblivious to the mayhem he'd caused. "The captain's been hurt?"
"He'll be fine," Maddie said, needing to convince herself as much as she needed to convince him. "Don't worry, Grant. He'll be just fine."
"He's come through worse, the rogue." He smiled a bit, then looked up at her. "Who are you then?"
"I'm Madeline. The sweetheart who sent him letters, you recall? Now I'm his wife. I'm . . ." A hot tear spilled down her cheek. "I'm Mrs. MacKenzie."
She only wished Logan could hear her say it.
Grant looked from her to Logan and back. He chuckled and nudged Logan in the shoulder. "MacKenzie, you lucky bastard."
The other men came rushing in, no doubt drawn by the clamor of the table overturning.
"Help him, please," Maddie said, seeking out the field surgeon. "He's hurt."
Munro knelt at her side.
"I won't know how bad it is until I remove the knife. And I canna remove the knife until I know he'll stay immobile. He has a few cracked ribs. Too much thrashing about, and one of those broken ends could puncture his lung." He looked to Maddie. "Do you have any opiates in the house?"
She nodded. "I'm sure we do. My aunt has about twenty different elixirs and tonics and miracle remedies ordered from ladies' magazines. I'd wager they're all primarily laudanum."
"Go and get them, then."
She nodded and prepared to stand.
Logan's hand closed tight around a fistful of her skirt. "No," he murmured. "Na treig mi."
Her heart wrenched. "I can't leave him."
"I'll go retrieve the medicines," Rabbie said.
"In my aunt's dressing room," she said. "Two stairs up, fourth door down the western corridor."
"Na treig mi," Logan rasped again. "Dinna leave me, Maddie."
"I won't." She took his hand in hers. "I'm right here."
He squeezed it tight. "You must swear it, mo chridhe. You're my heart. If you leave me, I'll die."
She pressed her hand to his cheek and looked into his eyes. "I won't leave you. You're not going to die. Munro is going to patch you up. I'm going to be right here while he does. Neither you nor I are going anywhere."
Rabbie returned with an armful of dark bottles. Munro uncapped and sniffed them, one by one. He handed a dark green vial to Maddie. "This should do."
She placed the bottle to Logan's lips. "Now drink this."
He did as she asked, choking down the bitter liquid with barely a grimace. His eyelids began to grow heavier at once.
"Munro." Logan turned his head from side to side, seeking the surgeon. "Munro, do you see this woman beside me?"
"Aye," Munro answered. "I see her."
"You see how bonny she is?"
Maddie blushed.
"Aye," the surgeon said, smiling. "I do."
"Well, we've been married for weeks now," Logan said, lifting his head groggily. "I've only bedded her the one night. And I'll be damned if that night will be the last. You had better mend me, Munro. I have a lot of pleasuring to do."
"Understood, Captain."
Maddie's face burned, but she couldn't help but laugh. She pressed a kiss to Logan's forehead.
"Maddie . . ." His voice grew thick. He sounded as though he were speaking to her from a dark, deep well. "Mo chridhe, I . . . I . . ."
"Hush," she told him, holding back tears. "I'll stay with you, Logan. Always. Just please promise you'll stay with me."
Logan came through the surgery easily enough--or so he later assumed, given that he could not remember it. It was the days afterward that threatened to dig him an early grave.
A fever set in the evening after Munro had removed the knife from his thigh.
The next few days were a blur of fitful sleep, racking chills, cool cloths swabbed over his body, weak broth offered to him on spoons . . .
And dreams.
His sleep was a riot of wild, vivid dreams. So many dreams that he suspected his mind was compensating for those lost years of darkness. He dreamed of people and places he'd long forgotten. He dreamed of battlefields and bedsport.
Most of all, he dreamed of Madeline. Her dark eyes and her slender fingers, and her sweet, essential taste.
When he finally woke, his fever broken and his mind at rest, she was right there beside him.
But the woman would not let him get out of bed.
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For anything.
Sponge baths were not nearly so amusing as a man might think they'd be. Not even when administered by a beautiful woman.
On the third straight day of his invalid treatment, Logan rebelled. "I hope you know I despise every moment of this."
"I do know." She swabbed him under the arm with a soapy sponge. "That's why I'm enjoying it so much."
"I'm perfectly able to do for myself now. I'm well."
"Oh, no. I'm sentencing you to a full week of nursing in bed. If you do well with that, next Tuesday I might start letting you spoon your own parritch."
Logan grumbled in response.
"That's what you get for being heroic and saving my life."
She leaned forward over him, plumping his pillow. The pose gave him an unobstructed view down the valley of her cleavage.
"Be careful, lass. You're brushing close to danger."
She smiled. "You're no danger to me in this state."
"That sounded like a challenge."
"In all seriousness, Logan. You always work so hard taking care of everyone else. For a few days, I'm going to take care of you. And you will have to lie there and endure it."
Logan tried not to seem too churlish. It wasn't that he minded her presence, of course. He'd never known this kind of tenderness and attention. He simply despised the feeling of helplessness. He hated knowing that if someone charged through the door, he'd be powerless to stop it.
But he also had to admit to himself that there was a certain intoxicating pleasure to be found in surrender.
"You don't need to sit here all day," he said. "I know you probably have work to do. How are Rex and Fluffy?"
She set the sponge and basin aside. "Getting on very well indeed. She molted. They've mated and entered the tending phase."
"And . . . ?" he prompted. "Don't leave me in suspense. Which position do lobsters favor for their lovemaking?"
In response, she only smiled and shrugged.
Logan pushed himself up in bed, a realization settling on him. "You missed it. You missed the whole thing, didn't you? Because you were here with me."
"It's no matter. I'll just have to catch them next time. Fluffy will be ready to breed again in . . . oh, eighteen months or so."
Her response was light, but he knew this had to have come as a blow. He reached for her. "Maddie."
Before they could discuss it further, Munro entered the room to make an assessment of Logan's wound and bandages.
"You're out of the worst danger," he declared. "No strenuous activity for a month."
"A month?"
"A month. And if you mean to trouble me with complaints, I suggest you be grateful you're alive to complain."
"Mo charaid." Logan reached to take the field surgeon's hand. "I owe you a debt for saving my life. It willna be forgotten. Thank you."
Munro nodded.
"That said, I hope you'll take this in the kindest possible way. Get out. I want to be alone with my wife."
The grizzled surgeon cracked a rare smile. "That I can do."
Once they were alone, Maddie settled on the bed next to him.
"Come here, then." He pulled her close, burying his face in her neck.
She resisted. "You just heard the man. That wound will take a month to heal. For the past several days, the both of us worked day and night to keep you alive. I'm not going to undo it all now."
"If I have to wait a month to hold you tight, I swear I'll die of wanting first."
She stroked a hand through his hair. "I suppose a gentle embrace might be acceptable."
He supposed he would take that.
She scooted her backside further onto the bed and cozied up to him, molding the curve of her body to his and laying her head on his chest. Her fingers stroked lightly on his collarbone, back and forth.
He pressed his nose to the top of her head and breathed deep.
She gave a soft laugh against his chest.
"What is it?"
"Oh, Logan. I hate to tell you this. But I think we're cuddling." She nuzzled into the linen of his shirt. "You're doing a wonderful job of it, too."
The little minx. Very well, she'd finally gotten her way.
They were cuddling.
And Logan rather liked it.
He loved it.
And it seemed she must truly love him. Or had succeeded in convincing herself that she did.
He slicked his hand down the tight braid of her hair. "You didna leave me."
"Not for a single hour."
He knew it. She'd been by his side through everything. The blood, the stitching, the cautery, the fever and racking chills. He'd felt her presence beside him, her arms holding him when he couldn't cease shaking on his own. Her faint scent of lavender and sweetness had reached him even in sleep.
And the dreams. He'd dreamed of her, day and night, and for the first time in his life there was nothing cold or dark or lonely about those fantasies. They were flooded with more color and light than a circus tent.
Her shoulders gave another slight quiver. Was she laughing at him again?
He heaved a teasing sigh, then regretted it. Even sighing hurt. "What have I done that's so humorous this time?"
She didn't answer. Because, just as softly as she'd started to laugh a few minutes earlier, she had begun to cry.
"I was so afraid."
"It's all right, mo chridhe. It's all right. I'm here now. I'm not going to leave you, either."
He tipped her lovely face to his.
And then he kissed her. How could he not?
If he tried to speak, he would have failed. There were no words for the emotions flooding his chest. His heart pounded in his chest so fiercely that he feared it would break his ribs again--this time from the inside. Or simply burst from being swollen with too much feeling.
Too much joy.
All that emotion had to go somewhere, or it would surely kill him. A kiss was the only answer.
She kissed him back, as though it meant her very life as well, sliding her fingers into his damp hair to hold him tight. Beneath the bed linens, sleeping parts of him began to stir and assert their vitality, making demands. We're not dead yet, they said.
"I want you," he whispered, tugging at the neckline of her frock and bending to kiss her neck. "Here. Now. Maddie, I need you."
I love you. God, I love you.
The thought moved through his mind, and Logan fought the instinct to drive it away. He didn't say it aloud--but he didn't chase it down and squash it like a bug, either. That alone felt like a victory.
He moved one hand to her breast, thumbing her nipple to a tight point and easing his fingers under the lacy neckline of her powder-blue frock to feel the delicate heat of her skin. A possessive growl rose in his chest.
"Logan . . ."
Despite her chiding tone, she let her head roll to the side, giving him more room to nibble at her earlobe.
"Let me have you, mo chridhe." He slid his hand inside her stays, cupping her breast. "We won't be disturbed."
"Logan." She pulled away with obvious regret. "Munro said no strenuous exercise. You know I can't ignore his orders. I care about you too much."
He let his head fall back against the pillow.
"So . . ." She walked her fingers up the center of his bandaged chest, until they reached his breastbone and her eyes lifted to his. " . . . we'll have to be very, very careful."
Yes. Holy God, yes.
"I can be careful. I can be so careful." Logan reached for her.
"Shhh." She held those two fingers against his solar plexus and pushed him, gently but firmly, back against the bed. "I'm the one who's going to be careful. Just let me do everything."
"You dinna have to do everything."
Her fingers pinned him to the mattress. "I'm going to do everything. And you must lie there and take it."
There was nothing in the world that came less naturally to Logan than reclining on a cloud-soft featherbed and allowing so
meone else to do everything. Much less the woman he'd come to treasure and protect.
But part of him liked the idea.
Liked it verra, verra much.
"I'm going to take care of you," she whispered in his left ear. She slipped her loosened frock downward, whispering in his right ear. "I'll give you everything you need."
Her breathy, sensual promise sent chills racing over his scalp and cascading down his spine. The unobstructed view of her breasts left his mouth dry with thirst.
He could only manage a word in response: "Hurry."
She gave him a slow, mischievous smile.
She lifted her breast with her hand and leaned forward, teasing the lavender-scented softness against his unshaven cheek. Logan turned his head, capturing her nipple. He drew the tight, luscious peak into his mouth, and she gave a breathy gasp that made his cock stir.
He licked and teased with abandon, loving the taste and softness of her. Even better were the little noises she made as he suckled her hard. Gasps and sighs and low, erotic moans.
"I . . . I'm supposed to be pleasing you."
He released her nipple just long enough to reply, "You are, lass. You are."
He ducked his head, nuzzling the underside of her breast and pushing it higher with his brow so that he could lick the sensitive curve beneath. Then he found her nipple once more and lavished it with long, slow passes of his tongue.
When he released her, she sat back. Her eyes had that glazed look of pleasure, and her cheeks were flushed pink.
She was lovely. So lovely, and so his. He'd done that.
"Keep very still," she said.
She gathered her skirts in one hand, settling between his legs. He bent his uninjured leg at the knee, pulling it to the side to give her more space. She drew the bed linens downward, exposing his entire body to the room's chilly air.
His eyes closed in anticipation of her touch.
But his anticipation went unfulfilled.
After a pause that seemed to last hours, he opened his eyes and glanced down at her. What was the matter now?
Apparently nothing was the matter. She was staring at the rude curve of his cock, artistic fascination plain on her face. The same way she might stare at the claw of a lobster or the wing of a butterfly.
She ran a light touch up his thigh. "May I sketch you sometime?"
"You can do whatever you please with me. As long as it's some other time." His voice was shaking. He made fists in the bed linens. "Lass, I'm dying here."
"Oh." She bit her lip with abashed regret. "Well, we can't have that."
At last, she touched him. Her fingertip made a long, slow pass up the underside of his shaft, circling the sensitive crown.