Page 21
Lizzie was holding up better than Patrick had expected. Stubborn pride apparently had its benefits. He'd issued her a challenge, one that she would not easily forgo.
From the way she carefully avoided his gaze, he knew she was hurting. Her initial anger had turned to sadness— as if she were mourning the death of a loved one. And though she was not the sort to appear sullen or to mope, this quiet acceptance was almost more difficult to take. He wished she would lash out at him, but that was not her way.
He'd known it would be difficult when she discovered the truth, but seeing the betrayal in her gaze was far worse than he'd imagined. The only consolation was that at least he was not deceiving her any longer.
Their slow trek through the boggy pass between Loch Katrine and Loch Achray known as Bealach nan Bo, Pass of the Cattle, where his clansmen brought their cattle (some reived) from the Highlands into the Lowlands, had taken longer than he'd anticipated, complicated by his efforts to hide their muddy tracks and avoid dangerous bogs. But as they climbed higher and the ground became firmer, he was able to quicken their pace.
The low clouds and fine mist that descended as the day wore on did not bode well, and Patrick wanted to reach the edge of the tree line along the hill of Binnein before the rain came. There weren't any caves in the area, but he would be able to fashion some sort of shelter that would keep them dry enough while they waited to see if they'd eluded their pursuers.
He was used to being hunted and disappearing into the wild, but this time it was different.
He glanced over at Lizzie, noticing her flushed cheeks and heavy, uneven breathing. She wasn't used to this kind of exertion, and even with the aid of the walking stick that he'd made from a tree branch, she was struggling. But if they wanted to stay ahead of his brother, they had to keep forging along.
With the plaid he'd given her wrapped around her like an arisaidh, she certainly didn't resemble a Campbell heir ess. She looked more like a bedraggled urchin. Her hair had long ago lost its bindings, and stray flaxen tendrils fell across her face and, more often than not, tangled in her lashes. Mud stained the bottom of her skirts up to the knee, and small droplets were spattered over the rest. At least she was wearing sturdy leather riding boots and not the flimsy slippers she often wore.
What the hell had he been thinking? This was after just one day in the wild. At times he'd lived like this for weeks. How could he have ever thought to bring her into this sort of life?
She wasn't the only one struggling. Truth be told, he was looking forward to reaching their destination as well. Each step he took sent a fresh needle of pain shooting up his leg that was becoming more difficult to ignore. He'd taken a risk in burning the wound closed and sealing in any infection. But that wouldn't come for days, if it did, and if he hadn't, he would have lost too much blood.
Sensing that Lizzie needed a rest, he stopped on a small rise and offered her a drink of water from the skin that he'd refilled at the loch. She accepted it eagerly, taking a long gulp before handing it back to him.
There was a break in the trees affording a breathtaking view east through the mist of the loch beyond.
“Is that the loch where we were earlier?”
She'd been silent for so long, it was a surprise to hear the sweet melody of her soft voice. “Aye.”
He pointed a little farther south. “The cave is on the side of the mountain there.”
She nodded. “The loch is beautiful. What's it called?”
“Loch Katrine,”
he said, his voice forbidding. He'd been doing his best not to think about it all day. To think how close they were.
He saw her eyes scan eastward and then stop. Her eyes sparkled with the first glimmer of excitement he'd seen from her in days. “Is that an island?”
He stiffened. “Aye. Molach.”
The islet where his sister and some of the other MacGregor women and children had taken refuge. Only the knowledge that it was one of the first places his brother would search once he realized they hadn't gone south prevented him from going to see Annie. He didn't blame Lizzie for what had befallen his sister, but he was trying not to dwell on the events that had separated them. As soon as Lizzie was safe, he would find Annie. And then he would find Auchinbreck.
“It's charming,”
she said. When he didn't respond, she asked, “Do you think they are following us?”
“Aye. My brother will not give up that easily.”
He saw the fear in her eyes and instinctively sought to reassure her. “I chose these hills for a reason, Lizzie. No one will find us if I don't want them to.”
If he'd intended to allay her fears, his words seemed to have the opposite effect. Her cheeks paled beneath the flush. “We're going into the hills?”
“Not unless we have to, but I need to get to Balquhidder to gather my men.”
It was too dangerous to try to get her to safety on his own. He hoped to hell that Robbie and the others had gotten away without a problem. He pointed in the direction of the hill where they were heading. “From up there I will have a clear view of the surrounding area. If my brother has picked up our trail, I will see him. If there is no sign of him, we will follow the lochs and rivers north and get my men, then I will take you to your cousin.”
She looked at him as if he were mad. “To Dunoon? Won't that be dangerous for you? What if my family has already discovered that I'm missing and have learned who you are?”
She paused. “What if I decide to tell them?”
He peered down into her tiny upturned face, seeing the challenge in her gaze and in the hard set of her chin. “Will you?”
Her mouth pursed together. “I just might.”
His lips curved in a half-smile. “I suppose 'tis a chance I'll have to take.”
They both knew his secret was safe with her. No matter how angry she was with him, Lizzie did not have a bloodthirsty bone in her body. Hers would not be the hand that spelled his doom. But she was right. When it was discovered that she was missing, there wouldn't be anywhere in the Lowlands for him to hide.
“And what if your brother has picked up our trail?”
“We'll take the high road through the hills. Gregor won't be able to track us as easily over the rock, and we've enough of a head start to stay well ahead of him. But at this time of year, venturing into the mountains can be dangerous.”
“Why?”
“The weather changes quickly.”
At least it was still too early for snow. He slung the skin back around his shoulder. “Which will work in our favor today. The rain will slow them down.”
“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 breasts, 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.”
“I'm greatly reassured,”
she said dryly.
He chuckled. “I don't mean to make light of your fears, lass, but it's not the wild animals we need to worry about. They're just as scared of you as you are of them.”
“I doubt that.”
He laughed again. “I won't let anything harm you, Lizzie.”
She peered up at him, gazing at the hard angles of his handsome face flickering in the firelight, and could almost believe him. There was very little, she suspected, that this man could not do. His strength had always impressed her, but she was only now beginning to learn of its depths. She'd never met a man like him—tough to the bone, resilient, and resourceful. He would protect her with his last breath. Even against his own brother.
She'd been too angry to think about it at first, but she was glad Patrick hadn't killed him. The thought of him killing his brother for her … She shuddered.
“How is your leg?”
she asked.
He shrugged. “A bit stiff.”
An understatement if there ever was one, she would wager. “That's right, I forgot. Hamish said that you don't feel pain.”
He gave her a long look. “I feel pain, Lizzie. I've just learned not to show it.”
Their eyes held, and she wondered if maybe he wasn't as unaffected by what had happened between them as she had thought. It was some time before she looked away.
The smell of roasting meat a short while later was surpassed only by the first succulent bite. It was the first real meal she'd had in almost two days, and not knowing when she would have another, she ate her fill. It was some time before she stopped eating long enough to speak.
“Good?”
Patrick asked, a wry smile on his face.
“Delicious,”
she said enthusiastically.
He handed her the skin of water. “If we had something to boil water in, I could make you a hot drink with pine needles.”
“Hmmm. I didn't realize you were such a talented chef.”
“Necessity breeds many talents.”
She heard the underlying truth behind his jest, a reference to his life as an outlaw, she realized. What must it be like? A little like this, she'd wager. Hunted, living on the run, forced to find shelter in the wild. She felt a moment of compassion before she shook it off with the memory of how he'd gotten that way.
But now that the initial sting of his betrayal had dulled, she was left with many questions. “There's something I don't understand.”
He nodded for her to continue.
“I thought the MacGregor had agreed to surrender.”
Something in his gaze hardened. Or perhaps it was just the light from the fire?
“He did,”
he said carefully.
“Then why did your brother attack my guardsmen, and why did you change your mind and decide to take me to Dunoon?”
He didn't say anything, the silence punctuated by the crackle and pop of the fire and the slowing plop of rain on the bows overhead.
“What is it? What won't you tell me?”
His jaw clenched. “You won't want to hear what I have to say.”
His forbidding tone gave her a moment's hesitation. “Yes, I do.”
He took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on hers. “You know that Alasdair MacGregor surrendered under a promise from Argyll to see him safe to English ground— the deal brokered by your brother Jamie. Well, your cousin kept his promise, transporting the chief to England and setting him down upon English soil, only to immediately arrest him and return him to Edinburgh. Alasdair was executed along with twenty-four other of my clansmen a fortnight past.”
Lizzie gasped with horrified disbelief. “You must be mistaken!”
Her cousin wouldn't do something so dishonorable … would he? His hatred for the MacGregors made her pause. But even if Archie were so inclined, Jamie would never be a part of it.
Patrick's gaze was hard as steel. “I assure you, I am not mistaken. My cousin's and brother's heads sit over Dumbarton gate right now.”
Her heart plummeted. “Your cousin and brother?”
“Aye, Alasdair MacGregor was my cousin—twice over. Our fathers were brothers and our mothers were sisters. My youngest brother, Iain, died at his side.”
Lizzie felt ill. She could not doubt him—the ravaged sadness on his face couldn't be feigned—even if she couldn't believe the part he'd attributed to her family. “I'm sorry,” she said.
“I do not blame you.”
“But your brother does?”
“Aye. I erred in trusting Gregor, but always before I could convince him to see reason. I thought he'd understood. I was wrong.”
She could see something in his expression. “What are you not telling me?”
His gaze was flat as he stared into the fire. “There were risings after the executions. My sister …”
He had a sister. God, she knew nothing about him.
He stopped and cleared his throat. Lizzie felt her heart start to hammer with trepidation. “My sister, Annie, was rap—”
His voice cracked, and she put her hand on his arm.
Her stomach turned. He didn't need to finish. “I'm so sorry.”
He gazed down at her hand and then back up at her face. His expression was as grim as she'd ever seen it. “At Auch-inbreck's orders.”
She pulled her hand away as if she'd been scalded. “No!”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “That's a vicious lie! How dare you make such an accusation!”
He didn't say anything, just stared at her—almost as if he felt sorry for her.
Lizzie was not na?ve. She knew that men often violated women in the name of war—as a means to humiliate and attack the pride of their opponent. But the thought that her brother could do anything so vile—so cruel and despicable …
God, was it possible?
There had to be an explanation. She needed to see Jamie, he would clear things up.
Lizzie was reeling from what Patrick had told her. No wonder he'd changed his mind about marrying her. If even a small portion of it was true, he had every reason to hate her.
Instead, he'd saved her life and battled his brother to do so.
Her eyes flew to his, suddenly recalling Robbie's hastily spoken word. “My God. You are chief.”
“Aye, though it's clear that my brother means to challenge me.”
Patrick Murray, simple guardsman, was really chief of the once-proud clan of MacGregor. The irony would have been laughable if it hadn't been at her expense. He was every bit her equal in position and in another time might have been a suitable husband for her. “Can he do that?”
she asked.
“If the clan thinks I am unfit.”
“But why would they … Oh.”
Because of me.
“I didn't say they would, just that they could. Gregor will try, but I will be able to convince them otherwise.”
In her heart, she hoped Patrick succeeded. He would be a good chief. The qualities that had made him seem like a good husband also made a good leader: smart, strong, controlled, calm under pressure, and a fierce warrior. The type of man others looked to.
But she also knew the danger that position would put him in. It would also make him the most hunted man in Scotland.
He moved away from her toward the opening of the shelter. She noticed that it had stopped raining. “That's enough talking for tonight. Get some rest. You will have need of it.”
She lay down, using the plaid as a blanket, her head resting on a surprisingly pillowlike pile of moss. She closed her eyes, but they wouldn't stay shut. Her gaze kept drifting to the large solitary figure shadowed in the flames. Finally she asked, “Aren't you going to sleep?”
“Later, lass. Later.”
Later never came.
The sun had risen an hour ago, and still there was no sign of Gregor. Patrick wanted to be relieved—if his brother had picked up their trail, he should have been here by now—but the heavy sense of foreboding that had shadowed Patrick all night would not be so easily persuaded.
He'd kept watch by the fire all night, not simply because he feared an attack, but because he didn't trust himself. The shelter was barely big enough for both of them to fit under; he would be lying too close to her. And she was too damn tempting.
Now he stood just below the summit of Binnein, his gaze sweeping from east to west. The rain had cleared, leaving gray skies but a clear view of the surrounding area. If his brother was heading this way, Patrick would see him.
He'd woken Lizzie just before dawn and told her to tend to her needs and be ready in case they needed to leave quickly. He didn't like leaving her alone, but these slick, steep rocks were far more dangerous than anything she was likely to encounter in the forest.
The climb up the hill, normally done without thought, had been agonizing, taking far longer than he'd expected. At least he could be grateful that there were no signs of infection. So far. Little good he would be to Lizzie if infection set in.
He had to admit, she'd surprised him. She was holding up much better than he'd expected. She was tougher than she looked. Though tired and weary, she'd adapted to the situation, accepting what had to be done with fortitude and without complaint.
It almost made him wonder …
Nay. Even if she could forgive him, he was chief now. He had a duty to his clan. A duty that put him at odds with her family—he'd not ask her to choose.
He'd wanted to keep the details of her family's treachery from her—knowing it would be difficult for her to accept coming from him—but even if she didn't believe him, at least now she understood.
He watched the lochs, the pass, and the forest beneath him for any sign of unusual movement. A few fishermen were scattered on the water, but this was wild, inhospitable land, and inhabitants were few and far between.
Had Gregor decided not to pursue them? Had he lost their trail?
Though neither scenario sounded like his brother, Patrick knew that they needed to leave soon. If Campbells weren't already blanketing the area, they would be soon.
An eagle cried and soared overhead. It dipped, and Patrick's gaze lowered. And there, in a clearing in the trees below—two miles, maybe three, away—he saw a movement. Then another.
His instincts went on full alert, and he watched as a group of five men on foot followed the exact path he and Lizzie had taken yesterday. He couldn't see the men's faces or plaids from this distance away, but he knew: It was them.
Damn. There was only one road to Balquhidder open to them now—the high one through the hills. Lizzie was going to be seeing more of the Highlands than either of them had bargained for. He hoped to hell she was up to the challenge.
Skirting around the north side of Binnein to avoid being seen, he raced back to camp—the pain in his leg dulled by the knowledge that every second counted. They had a good lead, and they needed to keep it that way.
When he arrived back at camp, he didn't need to say anything.
She paled. “They're coming this way.”
“Aye. But we'll lose them in the hills.”
She nodded, unable to completely mask her trepidation. He almost reached for her, but she turned away. His chest tightened. She didn't want comfort from him, not any longer. Now that she knew the truth.
He looked around, intending to start getting their things in order, and realized it was unnecessary. Everything had already been packed neatly away in the bags. She'd even had the foresight to refill the skins from the small burn nearby that he'd told her to wash in this morning. In these hillsides water was never hard to find.
He quickly smothered the fire but didn't bother to hide the evidence of their encampment. It would only take time they didn't have, and his brother was too good at recognizing the signs to be fooled. But once they were in the hills, it wouldn't be so easy.
Within five minutes of his arrival, they were off. He kept them moving at a brisk pace—if not a run, then not quite a walk, either. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and Gregor before nightfall. With any luck, they would spend one cold night in the mountains and be at Balquhidder before dusk tomorrow.
The woodlands soon gave way to the strath. They followed the curve of Binnein north to the higher hill of Meall Reamhar. As they made their way up, bracken, heather, and grass gave way to rockier paths and Patrick was able to easily hide their tracks.
In addition to keeping an eye on the landscape behind them, he kept constant watch on Lizzie, slowing every so often to allow her to catch her breath. Only when they crested the hill did he stop. Stretched out before them, from east to west, was a panoramic vista of burnished brown hilltops—broken only by the occasional glimpse of a loch or small copse of woodland nestled in the deep corries.
Lizzie made a sound beside him that might have been a gasp, had she breath to lose. “It's magnificent.”
Her eyes met his. “Hills as far as the eye can see.”
She bit her lip. “Are you sure … it would be easy to get lost.”
“We won't get lost.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“These are MacGregor lands. I was raised in these hills.”
She flushed. “Of course. I didn't think. Is your home near here?”
His gaze hardened, her innocent question hitting a nerve. “What home? I've had no home since I was a boy.”
“I'm sorry, I—”
“We've tarried long enough.”
Turning his back to her, he started down the hill. He didn't need her sympathy.
They walked for hours. He pushed her as hard as he could without risking her collapse. The same could not be said of himself. Each step caused an explosion of pain so blinding, he wondered how much longer he could stand it. Steely determination and the knowledge that it was not just his life on the line kept him forging ahead.
Once he thought he'd caught sight of figures cresting a hill in the distance behind them. But as often happened in these hills, the clouds proved an expedient cover, descending like a curtain to hide them from view and further hampering his brother's ability to track them.
But it wasn't just his brother they had to worry about.
As the day drew on, the low clouds, once friendly, took on an ominous change. They thickened, turning heavy and dark. The weather in these mountains was like quicksilver, changing without warning. But it wasn't just the prospect of rain that worried him. It was the sudden drop in temperature— the unseasonable sudden drop in temperature.
This high in the hills, with little to protect them, the cold was bone-numbing. With the plaid wrapped around her and her heavy wool skirts, Lizzie was better protected than he was with only a shirt and leather jerkin, but neither of them could stay out here for long, and they were still a good distance away from the place he'd hoped to shelter for the night.
Realizing they weren't going to make it before the storm set in, he knew he had to find someplace closer. He changed direction, heading due east, making for a copse of trees in one of the gulleys on the other side of the mountain ridge.
Every time he looked at Lizzie, exhausted, shivering, trying bravely not to show her fear, he felt a stab of guilt so sharp that it felt like a dirk twisting in his gut. He urged her on with words of encouragement, but she was flagging.
This was his fault. He never should have gone to Castle Campbell in the first place. Why had he? Land, yes, but also because from the first moment he'd seen her, he'd wanted her. And look where it had brought them: running for their lives in one of the most dangerous places on earth to be caught in a snowstorm—early or not.
For the first time in his life, Patrick felt real fear. Not for himself—he'd weathered storms before—but for Lizzie. He didn't know how much more she could take.
His fears were well-founded when moments later the snow started to fall—hard and fast, as if it had been waiting months for the opportunity to let go, instantly covering their footsteps in a heavy white blanket and making each step over icy rock and dense heather more treacherous than the last. But worse was the wind. Blowing in hard gusts, it blinded, preventing him from being able to see more than a few feet in front of them.
And ever present was the growing threat of darkness.
“Patrick, I …”
He turned, holding his arm against his face to ward off the icy wind. He was just able to make out her tear-filled eyes beneath the edge of the plaid that covered her head. His chest squeezed, seeing her cheeks wet and red from the cold.
“I'm sorry,”
she cried. “I don't think I can go on.”
He pulled her against him, tucking her under his arm as if he could protect her from the brutal elements by the shield of his body alone. She let him hold her, and though he knew it was for his heat, for the moment it was enough.
“Come, love, you've done wonderfully, don't give up now. It's not much farther,” he lied.
He could hear the rising panic in her voice. “But how do you know? How can you see anything in this?”
He pointed to a rock. “By the direction of the snow on the rocks.”
The wind had been blowing from the east.
“Is there nowhere we can rest, just for a few minutes?”
He didn't need to look around, he knew the answer. There was no place for shelter—there were only high moors and rock with occasional patches of heather. “I know you are tired, Lizzie, but we need to keep moving.”
If they stopped, they would freeze, and there was less than an hour left of light.
She looked up at him, eyes wide with concern. “I've taken your plaid. You must be freezing.”
“I'm used to the cold.”
He looked down at her tiny hand on his arm. The tinge of blue on her fingertips struck him cold. Quickly, he took from his bag the pelt he'd kept from the hare. “Use this to wrap around your hands.”
She did so without argument, though it hadn't been tanned. “We need to keep moving. I'll help you, all right?”
She nodded and allowed him to lead her on. He kept her tight against him, bracing her from the wind with his body as they slowly wound their way through the maze of rocky hills. But as the snow got deeper, her skirts started to tangle, impeding her steps even further.
He was literally dragging her, and when she tripped, almost falling headfirst down a steep crag, he picked her up.
“What are you doing?”
she said weakly, delirious with exhaustion and cold. “Your leg. You can't carry me.”
He was so damn cold that he didn't feel anything—he just knew that he had to do something if they were going to have a chance. He ignored her protests and, cradling her against his chest, plowed forward through the storm.
But as he approached the summit of the last big hill before they descended toward the copse of trees, the light dimmed to almost nothing and the snow started to come down even harder. He couldn't see two feet in front of him. They weren't going to make it. He looked around for anything that might help shelter them from the full brunt of the storm.
Once before when he'd been caught in a storm, he'd been able to stay warm by using the carcass of a deer that had fallen down the steep mountainside into the corrie. The vile, nauseating stench was not one he'd soon forget, but right now he would welcome it.
A few feet away, he saw the dark gray top of a large rock just breaking through the snow. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. But when he reached it and tried to set Lizzie down, his heart plummeted.
Her eyes were closed, and glittering crystals of ice hung from her lashes onto her bloodless cheeks. “Lizzie!”
he cried, gently slapping her cheek when she wouldn't wake. “God damn it, Lizzie!”
He felt as if his heart were being wrenched from his lungs. “Don't you dare leave me now!”
She was deathly cold.
Knowing he had to work fast, he set her down and began to dig furiously, tunneling a small cave of snow next to the rock. When it was just big enough for them to squeeze in, he hugged Lizzie tight and pulled her inside, nestling her against his chest and enfolding her in his arms as he fought to warm her shivering body with his. But he had little heat to give. He swore one minute and prayed the next, having never felt so bloody powerless in his life.
Take me, but don't let her die.
Not this sweet girl who'd done nothing but make the mistake of giving her heart to a man who didn't deserve it.
God, what have I done? “I love you, Lizzie,”
he said, speaking the words aloud for the first time.
His chest burned, the ache in his heart so profound that he could deny it no longer. The truth had been there all along: He loved her. Loved her as he'd never loved a woman before. He'd thought himself impervious, no longer capable of feeling these cruel emotions. But he was wrong. His love for Lizzie was too powerful to be denied.
But the realization was tinged with despair. He pressed his mouth against her head, the cold clamminess of her forehead sending ice through his already-frozen veins.
The snow and wind howled as night closed in around them like a shroud.