The Laird's Forbidden Lady (13 page)

There was pride in his voice. Over illegal whisky. It was a world in which she was a foreigner. The thought made her feel rather dismal.

‘We should eat now, while we can still see.’ He glanced upwards and she became aware of just how much the light had faded.

He unwrapped the bannocks and handed her one. They were surprisingly tasty. Or was she so hungry that anything would have tasted good? There were six altogether. She ate two. When he had wolfed down three of them he eyed the one remaining. ‘Do you want it?’

‘Oh, no,’ she said lightly. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite. You finish it.’

He didn’t speak.

She looked up to see him watching her. It was hard to fathom his expression, his eyes looked so dark. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Why do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Lie to me in that stupid little voice. Eat the bannock.’

She flashed hot. ‘You need it more than I do.’

‘Right, and I am the kind of man who takes the food out of the mouths of women and children.’ He stood up and bent to rake around in the rubbish in the corner. A grunt of satisfaction told her he’d found what he was looking for. When he stood up, she saw he had an old and bent metal pot in his hand. She couldn’t understand why he looked so pleased.

He must have sensed her puzzlement. ‘I recall using it the last time I was here. If it had been gone, we would have had to use the flask for water.’

‘And thrown out the whisky,’ she said.

‘Never.’

‘You’d rather do without water, than waste the whisky. I should have guessed.’

‘
Uisge-beatha
, lass. The water of life.’

She watched him leave, a smile on her lips, then tackled the last of the bannocks.

Chapter Nine

B
y the time he returned with water, their dwelling was pitch black and a chill permeated the air. Perched on the stool, wrapped in her blanket, she really wished they could light a fire. She forced her teeth not to chatter, though stilling her shivers was harder.

The sound of Ian’s breathing filled the small space. She sensed him fumble around, heard the clang of metal on rock and guessed he’d set down the pan of water. ‘I’d forgotten how dark the night can be out here,’ he muttered.

And how cold, she wanted to add. She shivered. ‘Are you sure we can’t light a fire?’

He hesitated, then sighed. ‘It would be a mistake. I think we can light one of the candles, though. Its flame is too small to be seen at any great distance.’

The sound of steel striking against flint only made her think more of warm fires. Yet when the wick caught and the small light flared, putting shadows in the corners of their small den, it did seem a bit warmer.

Then she noticed his grimace and the way he flexed his left hand.

She got up from the stool. It was a rickety old thing and did not sit flat on the ground, but it was all they had. ‘Sit down and let me look at your arm.’

‘Getting a little bossy, aren’t you?’

‘Sit.’

He sat.

She took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you should take off your jacket, so we can see how bad the wound really is. It won’t help us if you become ill.’

‘Aye, I suppose you are right.’

‘I wish we had some basilica powders.’

Looking surprised, he eased first one arm out of his coat and then, wincing, drew it slowly off the other arm. The fabric was dark with blood.

She gasped. Her stomach rolled. The blood seemed to drain from her head and the small space spun around. His coat had hidden the extent of the wound.

‘Oh, Ian,’ she whispered, ‘you need a doctor.’

‘It is not as bad as it looks,’ he said through
gritted teeth as he pulled the fabric away from the wound. He cursed softly.

Throat dry, she swallowed. ‘We should clean it.’

Looking up, he raised a brow. His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘We?’

She took a deep steadying breath. ‘Me, then. Look, it is bleeding again. Take off your shirt.’

Now he really looked surprised. ‘All right.’ He fumbled at his collar with his good hand.

She brushed his hand away. ‘Let me.’ Standing this close to him, with the light coming down from above making every sinew and bone as sharp and clear as a portrait as each breath expanded and contracted his chest, she could feel his warmth against her skin. Unnerved, she felt her hands tremble. Indeed, her very bones shook with a force she couldn’t quite grasp. When she breathed in to steady herself, it was like breathing in his air, his essence.

A shock jolted through her. How could that be?

It couldn’t. She was being stupid, just as she had been as a girl. In real life, they stood on the opposite sides of a line drawn on a map.

She forced the inappropriate sensations aside. The man was hurt and patiently waiting without complaint with his chin raised for her to undo the darned knot.

It came free and she cast the cloth aside and
went to work on the buttons. Undressing a man—never in her life had she done anything so daring.

The collar fell open with each button she freed from its mooring, slowly revealing the hollow of his strong throat, his collar bones, a wedge of chest lightly furred with dark crisp curls that brushed against her knuckles as she released the final fastening, enticing to her fingertips and her gaze.

Such feelings led in only one direction. Down a path that would do her no good.

She let her hands fall to her side and stepped back. She glanced up to find his gaze fixed on her face. Intense. Heated. He was breathing faster than before.

He also felt desire.

It hung between them, hot and heavy. Terrifying. With effort she made a small gesture with her hand. ‘You should be able to take your shirt off now.’

The fire deep in the blue of his eyes flared, then died.

‘Aye. I can do that.’ He pulled the shirttails free and with his good arm pulled the shirt off over his head, unveiling the body of a Norse god she’d only dared to peek at in the sea cave.

The muscles of his arms were carved and hard, his chest vast and sculpted beneath its
smattering of hair. In the face of such magnificence, breathing was nearly out of the question.

But breathe she must. ‘Hold out your arm.’

She knelt close to his knee. He held his arm steady with his other hand, bending his head to look at the wound.

Their foreheads collided.

A nervous giggle escaped her lips. Heat fired her face. The schoolgirl was back. She felt giddy, and not from the sight of his blood.

He grunted. ‘It doesn’t look too bad.’

‘I can’t see.’

He leaned sideways.

A nasty gash scored his arm. Bile rose in her throat.

She swallowed it down. ‘You are right, it seems to be nothing more than a flesh wound.’ She controlled a shudder. ‘I will clean it and bind it.’

Blood from where he’d pulled the shirt free of his skin trickled down to his elbow. She grabbed up the flask. ‘If I recall correctly, this is better than water for a wound.’

‘A terrible waste, lass.’

‘I’ll save you a drop. Give me your knife.’

He eyed her aslant. ‘Why?’

‘Unless you have a nice clean handkerchief, I need some cloth to pad the wound. We will use your stock to hold it in place.’ She looked at his shirt. He’d need to put that on again, bloody
sleeve or no. She lifted up her skirt and looked at the hem of her petticoats. The lace of the top one was in tatters after being soaked in seawater, straddling a horse and dragging through heather. Now it would serve to staunch the blood.

He pulled his dirk from his sock and handed it to her, hilt first.

She shook her head. ‘I’ll hold the fabric taut while you cut. I am sure you will do a better job than I.’

An eyebrow shot up and he looked at her rather oddly, but he bent to the task. It felt a little strange with his face so close to her legs, even though he must be able to see little more than her shoes, since there were two more layers of cloth beneath the first petticoat. Portuguese women adored petticoats.

He soon had a long strip cut from around the bottom.

‘Cut it in two,’ she said, ‘and I’ll use one piece as a rag for washing.’

A frown creased his forehead. ‘Where did you learn such skill?’

‘I wouldn’t call it skill. I hate the sight of blood. But my friend, Lady Hawkhurst, convinced me to volunteer at the hospital she funds for injured seamen. I read to them and roll bandages.’ She soaked one of the rags with whisky.

‘So you have no experience in binding wounds and such like?’

‘None at all,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but I have seen it done.’ No point in telling him she’d thrown up in the nearest chamberpot when she’d looked at the wrong moment. Instead, she gritted her teeth and dabbed the cloth at the ragged cut.

He hissed in a breath and she waited for a spewing of swear words.

He remained utterly silent.

Impressed, she continued dabbing. If he could put up with the pain, she could put up with the sight. Although if anything the dizziness of earlier was growing worse. She continued dabbing and wiping until all the dried blood was gone.

The wound looked nasty—ragged edges and fresh welling blood.

Black edged her vision. She felt herself sway. She squeezed her eyes shut, regaining her balance and fighting the sickness.

This wound was nowhere near as bad as the one to her own leg. One brief glimpse of that and she had passed out cold.

Jaw clenched, she tried to remember what Alice had said about the symptoms of spreading infection. Redness? Yellow pus? No sign of anything like that. Yet.

She looked away and drew a deep breath in through her nose. ‘There is not much more I can do, except bind it.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said wryly.

Her gaze flew to his face. His mouth was
set in lines of pain. She’d been so busy trying not to pass out that she hadn’t thought about how much she must be hurting him, because he hadn’t made a sound.

Because he was strong and she was weak.

‘Hold still,’ she said gruffly. She placed the pad over the wound, then wrapped his neckcloth around it, tying it off with a knot.

He flexed his hand and she watched, fascinated by the way the muscle in his upper arm bulged against the bandage. He did it again. This time something happened to his chest; it seemed to grow firmer and develop more definition. It almost made her forget just how ill she felt, until her gaze fell on his torn and bloody shirt.

The room wavered in and out of focus. Her knees buckled and the shadows leaped out from the corners to take over the room. And she was falling.

‘Selina?’ he asked as though from a great way off.

A strong arm banded around her waist. It pulled her against something warm and hard. She collapsed against it, her stomach heaving as the candle refused to remain in one place.

‘Selina.’

Ian. Ian had hold of her. She closed her eyes and waited for the horrible sensations to pass. Slowly she became aware that she was sitting on his knee, cradled within his arms. He was stroking
her back. She opened her eyes and was glad to see that nothing was spinning.

‘Feeling better?’ he murmured, his voice low in her ear, the roll of his ‘r’ a sweet comforting sensation in the pit of her stomach. She always seemed to feel better when he had his arms around her. Too bad he couldn’t keep them there.

‘I’m such a coward,’ she said, trying to sit up, but he held her against his chest and she realised he was rocking gently back and forth.

‘No, you are not. You have been very brave. I promise everything will be all right,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll get you safely to your friend and we will sort it all out.’

She half groaned, half laughed. ‘I’m not worried about that. The sight of blood always makes me feel ill.’

His rocking ceased briefly, then continued. ‘Then I am all the more grateful, lass.’

Oh, that wonderful deep velvety voice, so close to her ear. She was melting, burning up with a fever of longing and desire.

‘You must think me completely useless.’

‘You are braver than anyone I know, because you knew how it would affect you.’

But she hadn’t been thinking. She’d acted on instinct. She never seemed to think straight around him.

A prickle of awareness made her look up at
his face. A slight curve to his mouth and the twinkle in his eye caused her heart to clench.

She couldn’t resist the temptation. She reached up and put her hands on his nape and kissed him full on the lips.

He groaned softly.

His lips parted against hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips. It felt delicious. Her spine tingled, her hands cradled his head, feeling the soft curl of his hair between her fingers.

His hand came to her cheek, his fingers shaking with the power of this moment between them. Never had her heart raced so fast or her body grown so warm with such a whisper of touch.

He was a big man, huge in comparison to her, and for him to tremble at the mere touch of her lips was heady indeed.

Many men had desired her over the years, lusted for her and declared their love, but they’d only ever seen what she wanted them to see. The perfect nobleman’s daughter. The diamond of the first water. The impeccable manners. The flirtatious wit. This man knew her weaknesses, and yet he trembled.

The knowledge melted her bones.

She parted her lips and let him into her soul. The kiss wasn’t all one-sided. Oh, no. Her tongue slid wantonly along his, tasting whisky and earthy man, while she inhaled the scent of
horse and leather and fresh air tinged with peat smoke. Sensual sensations rippled through her body with every beat of her heart.

She arched against him, pressing her breasts against his hard wall of a chest, wound her arms around his neck and submitted to her hunger.

He growled deep in his throat, shifting beneath her, making her aware of the male part of him that pressed against her thigh through her layers of clothing.

She breathed his scent, revelled in his heat and the feel of hard muscle and sinew beneath her exploring hands.

Breathing hard, he slowly pulled away, looking into her face. Could he see in her face the awe and wonder rioting through her body? Could he feel the heat burning in her belly, in her breasts, flowing through her veins?