Christine Dorsey - [MacQuaid 02] by My Heavenly Heart Page A

expression of belief on his face. She glanced down quickly. The devil take him. She didn’t give a fig what he thought.
    ~ ~ ~
    The afternoon brought a new revelation. He expected her to milk the cow.
    Rachel stood in the doorway of the barn, staring at the cud-chewing cow. This really was more than she could tolerate. Dust motes danced in the slant of late afternoon sun that shone through the slit of a window. The air smelled strongly of straw and animals, and for an instant she seemed carried back to the stables at Queen’s House.
    She always enjoyed riding.
    Rachel sighed. There was no horse to have saddled. Nothing but a pie-eyed cow. She could refuse to do it, of course. Rachel didn’t think Logan MacQuaid would hurt her, or even try to force her. But she couldn’t help recalling his face when he noticed the fire was out. And the memory of how cold she was wouldn’t go away either.
    “Well, Mistress Ellen it is but you and me.” Rachel wasn’t sure what made her call the cow that, but the creature seemed pleased. She shifted her head around, staring at Rachel with large, liquid brown eyes. Patting her neck seemed as natural as flirting over the fringe of her fan. “I really don’t know how to do this. Oh, I realize he showed me this morning, but...” Rachel let the rest of her sentence drift off as she reached for the small three-legged stool.
    She settled down as Logan did this morning, between the cow’s front and back legs, prepared to be repulsed—surprised when she wasn’t. Rachel edged the pail beneath the swollen udder and took a deep breath. “You do realize I’ve never done this before, don’t you, Mistress Ellen? Yes, I imagine it is rather simple, however... Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She reached out, tentatively touching, then squeezing the cow’s teats. She was rewarded with a squirt of sweet-smelling milk splashing into the bucket.
    She couldn’t help laughing. “What a wonderful creature you are, Mistress Ellen.” Her fingers tightened again. By the time she’d found a rhythm of sorts the pail was full of frothy liquid with a canopy of steam rising above it, and Rachel’s forehead was pressed against the cow’s hide.
    “This is one of Logan MacQuaid’s chores I shall gladly do,” Rachel said as she lifted the rope handle, placing the milk near the door. Before she left she gave the cow a small curtsey. “It was my pleasure to meet you, Mistress Ellen.
    “And I do appreciate your flattery about my hands.” Rachel examined her palms. “I do imagine they are smoother than Mr. MacQuaid’s.”
    There was no imagining about it. She knew exactly how Logan MacQuaid’s hands felt. Each time he touched her it was obvious they were work-rough. And strong. And gentle. Rachel pushed that thought from her mind. “I’ll return tomorrow morning, Mistress Ellen.”
    As she walked back to the cabin, Rachel realized she was beginning to hate her gown.
    She kicked at a piece of torn silver lace tangling about her foot. And spilled some milk in the process. Why wasn’t she wearing something a bit more sensible when she drowned? Something that would hold up a bit better. Her gown was in tatters—her dip into the lake certainly hadn’t helped its appearance.
    Oh well, as soon as she returned to Queen’s House, she would be able to choose from her large collection of gowns. First she’d immerse herself in a tub, with lots of delicious hot water and soap that smelled of flowers and left her skin feeling soft and smooth. She’d have her maid wash her hair and brush it dry, then dress it in the most fashionable of styles. Rachel closed her eyes reminiscing about the life she used to take for granted. Remembering also that Liz had no chance of returning to it.
    No, as much as she would like a bath and clean clothes, her first duty when she returned would be to speak out against Lord Bingham. Her first duty, and her first pleasure.
    Rachel started back toward the cabin with a more determined