Free Winter Heat by Dawn Halliday Page B

more mundane thatched structures scattered nearby.
    As Logan and Maggie strode along the shoveled path leading down the final stretch of mountain, a rider appeared in the distance. Two other men on horseback followed not far behind. Logan’s fingers tightened on the barrel of his musket, but within moments, the lead man’s angular features came into focus, and Maggie gasped.
    “It’s Torean,” she whispered.
    “Maggie!” the man shouted, recognizing her. He spoke to his horse, urging it to a canter. Logan gazed warily at the men as they approached. Reining short, Torean MacDonald smoothly dismounted. The other two held back, remaining seated on their stomping, impatient mounts.
    “Maggie!” the man cried again. He gripped her shoulders and gave her a small shake as if to test whether she was an apparition. His eyes grazed over her partially undressed form and the too-l arge leather boots. “My God, Maggie. I thought you were dead.”
    “Is that what Innes said?” she asked dryly.
    “Aye. Well, he returned just two days ago, saying he’d been searching for you . . .” His voice trailed off, and his blue eyes skittered away, coming to an abrupt stop as they fixed on Logan.
    “This is Logan Douglas,” Maggie said. “He . . . saved me. Took me in near frozen from the snow. Logan, this is my cousin, Torean MacDonald.”
    Logan inclined his head at the laird but didn’t speak. He could see the family resemblance to Maggie in the dark hair, blue eyes and shape of the jaw, but Torean MacDonald was tall where Maggie was slight, with stick-straight hair and an overlong face in the shape of an exaggerated oval. He had an awkward, gangling look about him, as if he hadn’t quite finished growing into his adult features.
    “Where are you from?” MacDonald asked.
    “Near Wick,” Logan returned easily enough. “I’m on my way home from Sheriffmuir.”
    The young man continued to assess him, his head tilted slightly. “You were captured at Sheriffmuir?”
    “Aye.”
    “And you escaped from the governmentals?”
    “I did.”
    “Well done!” MacDonald gave him a sharp nod and glanced at Maggie as if suddenly remembering her presence. “And I thank you for caring for my cousin. I should be honored if you would join us for a night before you continue on your journey home.”
    “Thank you,” Logan said, though he would have stayed whether invited or not. He had no intention of leaving Maggie before he confronted the Munroe bastard.
    Clapping his gloved hands, Torean returned his attention to Maggie. “Come, cousin. I’ll take you home.”
    He held his hand out to her, but she merely stared at it, hesitating. “Torean”—she looked up at his face, a deep frown furrowing her brow—“did you sanction what Innes did? Did he take me from my cottage on . . . on your suggestion?” Her voice wavered, but she held firm, and Logan gazed at MacDonald to assess his reaction.
    Torean’s blue eyes darted to Logan, then fixed on his cousin. “This isn’t the time to discuss it, Maggie. Come. Why, you’re half naked, and those boots—”
    Maggie’s fists clenched at her sides. “We will discuss it now. I’ll not be moving until we do.”
    The man released a sigh. “Very well. Aye, I told him he should take you, but—”
    “You bastard!” She flew at him, her little fists pummeling at his chest. Logan crossed his arms and watched, prepared to cut in to protect her should this fool make a move to hurt her.
    He didn’t. MacDonald merely plucked her away from his body and held her at arm’s length as she kicked at his shins. “You foolish, stupid idiot!” She stomped on his booted foot. “This is your fault! He tried to rape me—do you know that, Torean? How could you encourage such a brute? He . . . he hurt me.”
    “Oh, come now,” MacDonald soothed. “He can’t be so very bad. Surely you’re exagger—”
    “He’s a despicable worm,” Maggie spat.
    “He was distressed when he lost you. He’s