Page 19 of On Thin Ice (Ice 6)

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By the time the inky-black night began to fade into the early glow of daylight, Beth was numb. Beyond hunger, despite midnight rations that had the taste and consistency of dog biscuits, beyond fear, beyond distrust. If the Guiding Light caught up with them, raped and murdered her, then at least she’d get a chance to lie down, she thought, too exhausted to summon up even a tremor of panic at the thought. If MacGowan decided to exact physical payment before they made it down the mountain, the same held true. Anything to stop this endless trudge though the thick growth of the jungle.

Everything hurt. Her feet, her hips, and knees from the constant jarring of the steep downward path, her back an

d shoulders from the backpack MacGowan had dumped on her, telling her she had to share the load. Which she would have insisted upon anyway, and would have told him so, but even then she’d been too tired to argue. Besides, she knew very well he’d made the pack as light as he could out of deference to her ridiculously puny strength.

When she got out of this she would soak in a hot tub for three days, have marathon massages, and then she would start iron-man training. This was absurd – she should be able to handle a climb down a mountain without falling to pieces.

Though he was moving fast, pushing them along with barely time to breathe. She viewed the approach of daylight and almost wept with relief. They’d have to stop and hide so the rebels wouldn’t find them.

But to her horror MacGowan pushed on when she began to slow. “We’re far enough away from them that we can keep going,” he said. His head swiveled around and his eyes narrowed. “Did you say something, Sister Beth?”

She couldn’t even summon up annoyance. It had been a tiny sob of pure despair, one she’d swallowed immediately. “Not a word,” she managed to say. And they kept walking.

The heat was unbearable. The lower they climbed the thicker the growth, and as the sun cooked away the dew it steamed slightly. Beth managed to braid her hair and tie it up with MacGowan’s grubby bandanna, but she could feel the sweat slide down her back and puddle at her waist. She was wearing nothing but a thin sleeveless tank underneath the loose cotton shirt, with no bra, but eventually she stripped down to the tank, no longer giving a shit. MacGowan was too intent on moving them to notice, and Dylan, who had finally stopped his incessant complaining, was behind her. Besides, he considered her ancient, mutton to his lamb, even if he had generously offered to “tap that.”

Her feet began to burn. Her expensive pair of sneakers were a mess. There was blood soaking through the heel, but it didn’t seem to be leaving any trace, so there was no need to stop. At one point she cried again, keeping her face down and wiping the silent tears from her face, but if the monster in front of her noticed he said nothing. He just kept going.

They finally stopped as the sun began sinking again. They’d been following the stream that was slowly turning into a river, the sound of the water one last bit of torture. He turned and she almost barreled into him, managing to halt in time. She felt her body begin to droop, and she stiffened her knees and her spine.

“We can take an hour,” he said, and she was too whipped to do anything more but nod, dropping where she stood in a boneless heap. A mistake, she realized glassily as he loomed over her, even though Dylan followed suit and sprawled out behind her, his usual litany of complaints simply background noise like the tropical birds and the rush of water.

And then MacGowan’s steel-gray eyes hardened. “You fucking moron,” he said softly. “You’re bleeding.”

She could barely summon enough energy to look at him. “I don’t care.”

“I do. You know how fast you can get an infection in this climate? I don’t fancy having to carry you the rest of the way.”

She took just a moment to notice the touch of Irish in his voice again. What American man said “I don’t fancy”? “Just leave me then.”

“Tempting. But you’re worth too much money.” He glanced down at Dylan’s sprawled body. “Hey, brat. Stay here. If you move I’ll kill you.”

“I can’t move,” he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the sun. “Just kill me now.”

It said a lot that she didn’t even react when MacGowan leaned down and scooped her up, effortlessly, as if he hadn’t been leading the Bataan Death March. She let her head sink against his chest, keeping her eyes closed. He smelled like the jungle. Like sweat and sun and the rough cotton of his clothing. He smelled strong and good, and she wanted to turn her face against him, hide herself from a world that had become too much.

But she had never been the type to run and hide, and she held very still in his arms as he carried her through the jungle.

The water was louder now, and the sound of it covered her stifled groan as he stopped and lowered her to the ground. It was running clear and cold, dancing over the rocks, forming pools here and there on the wide, flat river bed. He knelt down in front of her and began to take off her shoes, and the pain was sudden and unexpected, strong enough that she let out a short cry that she managed to muffle behind her hands.

“You can scream if you want to,” he said, taking off the second one with more speed than delicacy, like someone ripping off a band-aid. “There’s no one around to hear.”

She managed to pull herself together. “And how can you be sure of that?” Her voice was breathless from pain and exhaustion, but it was better than being dead.

“Trust me, I know.”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she said, trying to put a little strength into her voice and failing.

“No, you don’t.” He was rolling up the loose legs of her heavy cotton pants, and she suddenly fell back with a helpless laugh.

“What’s so funny?” He didn’t pause as he reached for the other pants leg, rolling it to her knee.

“I was thinking that I haven’t shaved my legs in months,” she said, feeling a little hysterical. “And I was worried about what you were going to think.” She giggled again, unable to stop.

He sat back on his heels, watching her inappropriate amusement. “First, Sister Beth, I don’t know why you’d be worried about what I’m thinking. Do I look like the kind of man you’d normally shave your legs for?”

She tried to control her giggles. “I don’t shave my legs for anyone but me,” she said.

“Ah, but that would be a crime, darlin’,” he murmured, and she felt his rough hand slowly run up her calf. “You have the most beautiful white gold down on your legs. If this were another place and another time I’d lick my way up them.”


Tags: Anne Stuart Ice Romance