A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [47]
He could not get warm while he was wet. Somehow she had to dry him. She needed a rag, anything she could use as a towel. She was wearing several linen petticoats: she could spare him one. “Can you stand up alone now?” she said. He managed a nod between coughs. She let go of him and lifted her skirt. She felt his eyes on her, despite his condition, as she swiftly removed one petticoat. Then she began to rub him all over with it.
She wiped his face and rubbed his hair, then went behind him and dried his broad back and his hard, compact rear. She knelt to do his legs. She stood up again and turned him around to dry his chest, and she was shocked to see that his penis was sticking straight out.
She should have been disgusted and horrified, but she was not. She was fascinated and intrigued; she was foolishly proud that she was able to have that effect on a man; and she felt something else, an ache deep inside that made her swallow dryly. It was not the happy excitement she felt when she kissed Jay; this was nothing to do with teasing and petting. She was suddenly afraid McAsh would throw her to the ground and tear her clothes and ravish her, and the most frightening thing of all was that a tiny part of her wanted him to.
Her fears were groundless. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He turned away, bent to his bundle and drew out a sodden pair of tweed breeches. He wrung most of the water out of them then pulled them on, and Lizzie’s heartbeat began to return to normal.
As he started to wring out a shirt, Lizzie realized that if he put on wet clothes now he would probably die of pneumonia by daybreak. But he could not stay naked. “Let me get you some clothes from the castle,” she said.
“No,” he said. “They’ll ask you what you’re doing.”
“I can sneak in and out—and I’ve got the men’s clothes I wore down the mine.”
He shook his head. “I’ll not delay here. As soon as I start walking I’ll get warmer.” He started to squeeze water out of a plaid blanket.
On impulse she took off her fur cloak. Because it was so big it would fit Mack. It was costly, and she might never have another, but it would save his life. She refused to think about how she would explain its disappearance to her mother. “Wear this, then, and carry your plaid until you get a chance to dry it.” Without waiting for his assent she put the fur over his shoulders. He hesitated, then drew it around him gratefully. It was big enough to cover him completely.
She picked up his bundle and took out his boots. He handed her the wet blanket and she stuffed it into the bag. As she did so she felt the iron collar. She took it out. The iron ring had been broken and the collar bent to get it off. “How did you do this?” she said.
He pulled on his boots. “Broke into the pithead smithy and used Taggart’s tools.”
He could not have done it alone, she thought. His sister must have helped him. “Why are you taking it with you?”
He stopped shivering and his eyes blazed with anger. “Never to forget,” he said bitterly. “Never.”
She put it back and felt a large book in the bottom of the bag. “What’s this?” she said.
“Robinson Crusoe.”
“My favorite story!”
He took the bag from her. He was ready to go.
She remembered that Jay had persuaded Sir George to let McAsh go. “The keepers won’t come after you,” she said.
He looked hard at her. There was hope and skepticism in his expression. “How do you know?”
“Sir George decided you’re such a troublemaker he’ll be glad to be rid of you. He left the guard on the bridge, because he doesn’t want the miners to know he’s letting you go; but he expects you to sneak past them, and he’s not going to try to get you back.”
A look of relief came over his weary face. “So I needn’t worry about the sheriff’s men,” he said.