Page 90 of Go, Rogue

Chapter

35

Catherine heaves open the root cellar grate, silently thanking the strength she’s cultivated in her arms and back that allows her to move the heavy iron door. She quickly finds the ladder that James flung away and drags it back over to the cellar, lowering it down to McGann.

“Can you climb?” she asks as Andrew slowly and painfully pushes himself to his feet.

“Aye.” He limps toward the ladder.

“I’m coming down to help you.” It’s too hard for her to watch a man who’s usually so graceful in his movements struggle with even a basic step.

“Nay!” She hears the undercurrent of panic in his voice. He never panics.

“Andrew—what’s wrong?”

“Just stay where you are, lass. Please. I need to see you up there.”

“Alright,” she agrees warily. And only because he’s said please. Apparently that word works on her too. If he asks nicely, she thinks, there’s nothing I’ll deny him.

But it’s painful to watch him limp to the ladder and then slowly haul his body up, step by step. She lies on her stomach so her arms can brace the ladder, reaching down to touch him as soon as possible.

“You’re almost there,” she says as he climbs rung after rung. “You’re so close.” She strains her fingertips downward, trying to be as near to him as she can.

He pauses and looks up at her, his emerald eyes a mix of pain and determination. His brown skin has turned gray and slick with sweat.

Damn Barclay, she thinks. Damn that man to hell.

Andrew climbs a few steps higher, swaying on the rungs, and she reaches forward. She can just barely touch him, but it feels like heaven, having her fingers skim the top of his head, then his cheek, then his shoulder. He feels hot to her, feverish and unsteady, but also like the most welcome sensation in all the world.

“I’m here,” she whispers as he crests the top of the cellar and pulls himself out, stretching his long body on the ground next to hers.

She lies beside him for only a moment, feeling the hard, solid warmth of him, letting her fingertips run along his shoulder and arm. As if she’s still convincing herself of his solidity. That he’s here, beside her. Alive.

“You’re here,” she whispers.

“Aye.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Nay, lass. All is well.” He grasps her hand and holds it still for a moment over the beating of his heart.

“It’s not, Andrew, or you would have let me help you.” Her relief at finding him is swept away by a sudden rush of panic at what could have happened to him. “Why, you could have fallen. Hit your head! Hurt your leg worse!”

“Menace,” he says slowly, “I’m fine. I just didn’t want you on the ladder.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“That I didn’t want you slapping my arse while I was trying to climb. I know how you get around ladders.”

She doesn’t need to see the smirk to know it’s there. Her anger leaves her in a rush, as swiftly as it came. In its place settles something steadier, softer—relief. Gratitude, even, that he’s well enough to make a joke.

“It’s nothing you wouldn’t have deserved,” she says and begins to push herself to her feet. “But that’s an idea for later. After you’ve had a bath. We need to get you out of here.”

“Are you saying I smell, Menace?”

“I definitely am.” She looks around, realizing she has no idea where to take him.

“To my grandmother’s house,” he says, as if reading her mind. “I know the way.”