A bothy, on Rannoch Moor
Early evening, 13th December
There was no avoiding it. They were stuck there, together in the bothy, until the mist lifted and the snow let up.
They ate the rest of the chocolate and drank more hot water laced with brandy. Though her head was a little fuzzy, she was feeling more at ease than she had in a long time.
It had grown dark, the only light coming from the wood burner.
He’d slipped outside for a while but was now settled cross-legged by their fire, looking as if he sat on the ground all the time.
Perhaps he did.
He nodded towards the door. “I checked on Charon—gave him some of our water. It’s still snowing, thick n’ heavy. No sign o’ the moon.”
She came to sit beside him. Not on the chair but on the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest and gathering her skirts close round her. Making more room, he scooted over, giving her the prime spot, right where the fire glowed hottest.
Clearing her throat, she said, “What is it you do, in Texas?”
He didn’t answer right away, surveying her through half-closed eyes, as if weighing up how much she’d be interested in hearing.
“I work on a ranch with near ten thousand head o’ Longhorn cattle. Three times a year, we drive a couple thousand to the railroad in San Antonio.”
“That sounds like hard work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But also quite exciting.”
That smile; his mouth, quirking up on one side.
“There’s nothin’ like spending the night in the wide, wide open, with nothin’ between you and the stars: Orion, Cassiopeia, Scorpius…and Ursa Minor, o’ course. Named for you, lil bear.”
Ursula hoped it was dark enough to conceal the flush creeping through her. It was his voice—that long, slow drawl. That and the way he was looking at her.
“You shouldn’t call me that.” She attempted a reproving look. “I’m Ursula or Miss Abernathy.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” He tipped off his hat then settled it back, staring at her still from behind its rim.
He didn’t look sorry.
He was laughing at her; she was certain of it, but she was determined to keep their conversation civil.
“What else do you miss?” she asked. “Your family I suppose.”
Again, he took a moment before answering. “Most everythin’, truth be told—but my dog especially.”
Her shoulders relaxed a smidge. Here was a subject they could talk of without her feeling awkward. She’d had a dachshund some years ago and had been thinking of purchasing another. Once she came into her money, she’d do just that. She could have five if she liked! There would be no one to say she couldn’t.
The thought brought her a wave of pleasure.
Her current situation wasn’t what she would choose, but it was an adventure of sorts, and it wouldn’t be for long. Soon, she’d have the financial independence to make her own decisions.
“What breed is he, your dog?”
“A blue and tan Lacy.” Rye gave her a genuine smile now—one that had nothing to do with teasing her. “Helps herd the livestock. He’s smart as they come, and loyal with it.”
“All dogs are loyal, aren’t they?” Ursula sighed. “More reliable than people on the whole.”
“It’s like the story of Argos.” Rye moved his weight to one side. “You know it, right? After twenty years o’ his master wandering, he was the only one to recognize him.”
He’d read The Odyssey? Of course, why shouldn’t he? They had books in Texas, just like everywhere else.
Rye continued. “That poor dog’d been neglected all the time Odysseus was away. He was unloved, weak and full o’ lice, but it dint stop him waggin’ his tail on his master’s return. He lacked even the strength to walk over to him, and Odysseus couldn’t go to him for fear of discovery, but Argos showed he was loyal. Content at last, the old fella lay down and died, and Odysseus couldn’t do anything but wipe away his tears—not wantin’ his enemies to see and guess who he was.”
Ursula couldn’t help but notice that Rye’s eyes were glistening.
“The bond between a dog and his master puts most human loyalties to shame,” she said softly. Perhaps it was the firelight, or the brandy from before, but she felt softer altogether, as if she was letting go of something that had been wound tight inside.
“Same with horses.” Rye nodded. “Take Charon there, the Hanovarian I was ridin’. He wouldn’t look at anyone when I first came. Since he threw his master, no one’s wanted anythin’ to do with him. It’s a shame, pure and simple, but Charon and I are gettin’ along just fine. He’s been starved of affection is all.”
Rye leant forward. The room had toasted up nicely but he opened the stove to add more fuel, poking at the embers to stir up the flames.
She was resting her chin on her knees, looking at him, her eyes wide; hazel green with amber flecks, and lashes tipped in gold. It had been her eyes he’d noticed first, when Charon had brought him near on top of her, almost knocking her down. They’d given each other a fright—no doubt about that.
He’d been foolish, setting out when he could see mist rolling down the hills. As he’d saddled the horse, Campbell had warned him against it, but he hadn’t been able to face a whole day inside. There were too many women at Dunrannoch. He wasn’t used to it—all that chatter about not much at all.
Lavinia hadn’t laid it out for him explicitly but it was obvious what they had in mind, and he could hardly blame them. Dunrannoch was their home. It was only natural they’d want to safeguard their place in it. His grandfather was tenacious all right, but he wouldn’t see out too many more years.
Rye had known the deal. Coming over here, taking on the mantle that could have been his father’s, he’d a duty to continue the line—and that meant finding a wife.
Or being provisioned with one.
He’d only been at Dunrannoch a couple of weeks but, already, he was being backed into a corner. Not that they weren’t amenable, those cousins of his: Fiona, Blair, Bonnie, Cora and Elsbeth. All dark haired and blue-eyed and pretty as porcelain dolls. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t much to choose between them. Perhaps that was the problem. It felt like picking a shirt from a whole pile stitched just the same.
Damn! He was an ungrateful son of a bitch.
Of course, he’d planned to settle down one day and raise a brood. He just hadn’t realized it would happen so quickly. Any other fella would’ve been feeling like a kid in a confectionary shop; instead, he’d only been feeling trapped.
Until now.
Until Miss Ursula Abernathy, sitting there with her honeyed hair all loose about her shoulders, and those dainty bare feet, pale as milk. One long, thick ribbon of satin caramel curled down one side, reaching over the curve of her breast, all the way to her waist.
He’d a yearning to find out how soft it was but he’d made himself sit far enough away that he wouldn’t overstep the boundaries. As it was, he’d have to spin a tale to keep her reputation intact.
He couldn’t make out if she was flirting with him, with that velvety look in her eyes. When her nose wasn’t wrinkling in disapproval, she sure was pretty.
He’d no idea what she was thinking right now.
Nor what she’d say when she worked out who he was.
He hadn’t lied. Not exactly. He just hadn’t wanted to tell her—not yet. In case it changed how she acted towards him.
And though he might not be telling Miss Ursula Abernathy the whole truth, he was darned sure she was holding a few things back herself.
They sat for a long while, drinking the last of the brandy, saying not much at all. Rye tried hard to keep himself from staring. She’d closed her eyes, tilting her head on one side. Her lips were pale pink and petal-plump, parted in just the right way for kissing.
When riled, she was prickly as a cactus—but kissing her would smooth that out some. That, and holding her close, convincing her that she was safe—that nothing bad could reach her.
“You’re tired, little bear.” He pushed back a lock of hair from her cheek. “You should get to bed before y’ tump over.”
Drowsy, she opened one eye. “Where will you sleep?”
“Right here. I’ve slept on rougher ground. I’ll be fine.” Even as he said it, he was thinking of how he’d like to curl up behind her and tuck her into him. He wanted her close enough that he’d be able to smell her hair.
If he were honest, he wanted the roundedness of her behind pressed up against him too, but he shoved that thought away quickly. She trusted him, and he wouldn’t do anything to make her regret that.
“Come on now.” He got her under the arms, raising her up.
He shouldn’t have given her the last tot of brandy. She wasn’t used to liquor.
Reaching the wooden cot, she lay down at once, tucking her knees up. It couldn’t be too comfortable; the horsehair mattress was losing its stuffing. He laid the rough blanket over her and she said nothing but, as he stepped away she reached out one arm, her fingers brushing his lower thigh.
“Keep me warm.”
“You want me to hold you?” His voiced came out cracked. He knew it was a bad idea but God help him, he was only human.
She nodded and rolled over, leaving space for him. Not much, but just enough. If he turned in the night, he’d pitch right out and onto the floor.
He adjusted the blanket, making sure her feet were covered, then slipped alongside. He only hesitated a moment before putting his arm over her shoulder, making her snug in the crook.
The rest of him he kept apart from her, but she pushed back, as if by instinct, so that her thigh and her cold little feet sought his. Even through her numerous petticoats and layers, he could feel the warmest part of her, fleshy, rubbing against his groin.
He groaned.
Couldn’t she feel it? The almighty cock-stand she’d given him?
Apparently, she could, for she sighed and wriggled, but then her breathing slowed.
The brandy sent her straight to sleep.
Rye smoothed her hair and moved up the bed a little. He couldn’t help the erection in his breeches but he’d at least be gentlemanly enough to stick it into her back rather than the cleft of her buttocks.
It was a good hour before he drifted off, dreaming of wide-open plains and a horse saddled beneath him. He was riding hard, heading into the haze of the desert, towards something he couldn’t quite make out. Something waiting for him in the far-off distance. Something, or someone.