The Warrior Bride (8 page)

“Is it so hideous then?”

“What’s that?” he asked, and snapped his gaze to her eyes.

There was worry there and the first glimmer he’d seen of true fear. “The wound,” she said. “‘Tis bad, that is why you’ve no wish to tend it.”

“Nay,” he said and shook his head. “‘Tis not that, lass, lad. Indeed, I can barely see it, bound as it is. ‘Tis simply that…” He ran out of words.

“What?”

“I’ll fetch help,” he said, and turned with rapid relief toward the door.

“Nay.”

He stopped abruptly, bumping into his erection.

“You are a man of arms. Certainly you’ve see the like of this before.”

Turning, he let his gaze fall to the breathtaking curve of her buttocks. No, actually he hadn’t, he thought, and tried not to wince.

“You’re not squeamish about blood, are you?” she asked, and turned slowly toward him.

“Nay,” he said, but his tone may have been less than convincing.

She stared at him for a moment. “Good then. You can see to it.”

He still delayed.

“Or I will care for it meself.”

He drew a deep breath through his nostrils and chastised himself. What the devil was wrong with him? Aye, restraint might not be his finest quality, but surely he could resist her. After all, she was practically a man, he remembered, and made himself look directly at her. It was a bad idea, for she looked no more masculine from the front than from the rear. Indeed, standing there with her arms crossed against her bound chest, she looked as vulnerable as a child and as provocative as a siren. How could he have known that a woman trained to battle would only increase his yearning?

“MacGowan?” she said, her tone suggesting that he had been lost somewhere.

He spurred his gaze to hers.

“Nay. Nay,” he said. “I… I will see to it.” He nodded, but somehow he couldn’t quite make himself cross the floor back to her, for if he did he couldn’t be certain of his actions.

“Very well then,” she said and uncrossing her arms, pulled her sgian dubh, sheath and all, from its hiding place. Dropping it to the floor, she found the place where the end of the cloth was tucked beneath the tightly wrapped bands. She tugged it free, then began to unwrap the bindings.

Lachlan held his breath as her fair skin was uncovered, and then she winced.

He spurred his gaze to her face and saw the pain etched there.

Sweet mother, he was a dolt.

“Me apologies,” he said, but his tone was strained.

“You need help.”

“Nay.” Her voice was firm as she continued the process, but then she winced again and paused in her task to exhale softly. “Aye,” she said, her tone softened. With her eyes downcast, she turned her back toward him. “Help would be appreciated.”

Lachlan drew a steadying breath as he stepped forward. “Very well then,” he said and slipped one hand beneath her arm to retrieve the end of the cloth. Their fingers brushed. A shiver of excitement shimmered up his arm, but he ignored it. If he couldn’t withstand the touch of her hand, he was going to have a devil of a time with the rest of this process.

Balling the cloth in his fist, he pulled it behind her back, passed it to his other hand and slipped it beneath her opposite arm. Another half inch strip of skin was revealed. He closed his eyes for a moment and wound the bandage about her again. It went over her shoulder this time, and as the fabric was pulled away, more fine curves were revealed. Her arms were strong and firm, her shoulders smooth and lovely, but he didn’t touch her. Instead, he eased the cloth around her body once again. His arm brushed beneath hers and his breath came harder. Again he unwrapped, bending slightly closer, and this time his crotch touched her bottom. His erection jerked on contact. He ground his teeth, closed his eyes, and continued, but finally he felt the bandage resist. He glanced down and saw that the cloth was adhered to her wound. Tugging gently, he pulled the linen from her flesh. The cut was several inches long, but no great amount of blood had been lost and the pain didn’t seem excruciating as he eased the cloth back around.

One more circuit and suddenly her shoulders were bare. They were not delicate shoulders, not weak shoulders. The bone was substantial. There was little slope to them, and the muscle that curved down to her arms was as firm and graceful as a doe’s.

He swallowed hard and reached about her again.

Through the fabric, his wrist brushed her nipple. He jerked at the impact. She stiffened, but despite his expectations, she made no attempt to decapitate him. In fact, she didn’t pull away, but remained like a life-sized doll in the circle of his arms.

Lachlan licked his lips, said a silent prayer to a surely mischievous God, and eased the cloth around her one last time. ‘Twas not such a difficult task, he told himself as he gazed into the distance. No troublesome ordeal. It was like peeling a quince or unwrapping a…

But in that instant, the tail of the binding fell away, and her torso was bare. His biceps inadvertently brushed the swell of her breast and his cock kicked like a mule against his plaid.

He froze. Aye, he knew he should pull away, but, strangely enough, he found such self-preservation impossible. He was paralyzed, with his arms about her, breathing in her essence, feeling the softness of her hair against his throat.

Reaching out, she found her tunic with her fingertips and pulled it to her chest. The last of the cloth unwound from her waist and he stood like one in a trance, staring at her back.

It, like the rest of her, was beautiful. Sleek and smooth, it sloped down to the sharp curve of her waist like an ivory spoon.

“Tell me,” she said.

“What?” he asked, and fretfully caught her gaze as it slanted up from beneath the heavy fringe of her lashes.

“Surely you can see it now.”

“Oh, aye,” he said, and glanced down at the wound. ”And?”

Her heavy tunic and her bindings had saved her much pain. Indeed, the wound was barely a scratch and would surely heal well with no help from him. It almost seemed a shame.

“Will it need tending?”

“Ahh… Yes it will.”

She glanced over her ivory shoulder at him, and there again he saw the worry.

“But you needn’t fret,” he added at guilt’s nudge. Her brow puckered slightly. “Do not coddle me, MacGowan,” she said. “You can tell me true. Is it a grievous wound?”

“Not… grievous,” he said, and let his gaze slide over her buttocks again. “Still, I think-”

“Does it fester?”

He pulled his attention upward, only pausing momentarily on the dramatic dip of her waist.

“MacGowan?”

“Nay,” he said. “It looks fresh. If we clean it thoroughly it will mend well.”

“You are certain?”

“Aye, you needn’t worry.”

She nodded once. “Then I shall douse it with spirits and bind it anew.”

“Alone?”

“Of course,” she said, and glanced at him again. “If ‘tis small and not festering-”

“Well there might be a bit of… festering.” Oh aye, he knew he was pathetic.

She stared at him.

”And you cannot reach behind,” he continued. “Nay,

I’ll not have it.”

“You’ll not have-”

“‘Tis your rule we live by now.”

She raised her brows slightly in curiosity.

“If one saves another it is his right and duty to make certain no harm befalls him, at least for a spell.”

“That is not my rule,” she said, but he failed to hear her, for his entire attention was bent on the beauty of her skin, the firm stretch of her muscles.

“I’ll fetch what is needed,” he said, and yanking himself away, turned abruptly toward the door.

On the far side of the portal, Lachlan slowed his pace and gave his head a mental thump. Sweet mother! What was wrong with him? She was wounded. She was uninterested. She thought herself a man!

Still, the sight of her bare skin… His erection ached again and he shook his head at his own foolishness. Nay, she was not for him. But hardly could he leave her. After all, she was a maid, and a wounded one at that. ‘Twas his duty to see to her, and if that duty involved bathing her and…

Nay, not bathing her! It only involved tending her wound, and that much he would do. After that his duty would be complete and he could return home with a clear conscience.

Aye, that was all he wanted, he vowed, and strode determinedly off to find the necessities that would heal her and hurry him on his way.

Alone in the bedchamber, Hunter exhaled heavily.

She was tired, exhausted really. But her wounds were not serious and her mission would not be delayed.

Evil comes to Evermyst.

Was the old woman right? She didn’t know. Wasn’t sure, though she’d spent a year trying to find out. For a long while, she’d thought it all foolishness. Now she wasn’t certain, but she would learn the truth soon enough.

She would allow MacGowan to tend her and then she would be rid of him, for he would only make her task more difficult. Aye, she determined, and nodded to herself as she pressed her tunic more firmly to her breasts. They felt strangely full and unusually heavy, like a foreign weight against the bare skin of her arms. But then she’d never found much use for them, she thought, and almost laughed as she sat down on the bed.

Steadying a flagon of spirits, an unwieldy bucket of warmed water, and a half dozen other items, Lachlan fumbled with the door latch. The bucket tipped slightly, loosing a few drops of water onto his wrist and spilling forth the medicinal scent of camphor.

He remedied the situation, managed the door latch, and stepped inside. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Hunter sat upright in bed. He was just about to speak when he realized she was asleep.

Nay, she had not lain down, but neither was she awake. Her cheek rested against the head of the bed. Her shoulders were bare, and though her right arm was holding her tunic against her bosom, some kindly miracle had caused the garment to slip slightly toward the mattress, revealing the soft upper curves of her breasts.

It was then that he stopped breathing. It was then that his desire roared back to life. Not coincidentally, it was also then that his plans began to crumble like a house of sand, for lying there silent and defenseless, she looked like a fairy child who had found her father’s clothing. A fairy child dressed in leather. And aye, the fairy child was soiled and she was the very devil with a dirk but…

She awoke without warning. Her eyes snapped open and her gaze flew to her blade where it lay on the floor. He tensed, but she did not leap to her feet and demand a duel to the death as he had suspected she might. Instead, she relaxed visibly. Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, lowered, and seeing the wanton ways of her tunic, she pressed it slowly upward again.

“You’ve returned.” Her voice was low, her heavy lashes dipped slightly over her sleep softened eyes.

“Aye.” No threats? No curses? “Are you feeling well?”

“Very well,” she said and sat up slowly. “I dreamt.” She said no more, but somehow those simple words intrigued him. The thought of her asleep captivated his imagination, while the thought of her playing in dreamland stole his breath.

“What did you dream?” he asked.

The suggestion of a crescent smile curved her lips.

The expression did strange and unwanted things to his innards, and his nethers. “I dreamt of a castle,” she said.

“Oh, and what castle was that?”

For one fleeting moment the smile remained, but in a short while she sobered. “It matters not,” she said, and straightened from the headboard. “The sooner we see this done the sooner you can find your way home.”

He yanked himself from his fantasies. “Aye,” he agreed, and nodded. “Here then.” He set the wooden bucket aside and lifted an earthenware flagon in one hand. “I brought something to cleanse the wound, and ‘twould do no harm to the palate either. ‘Twill ease some of the pain.”

She nodded once. He sloshed a draught into a drinking horn and handed it to her.

“You had no trouble securing the spirits?” she asked and, releasing her tunic with one hand, took the offering. The shirt slipped a fraction of an inch. Lachlan ’s erection grew in direct proportions. Interesting.

“Nay,” he said.

“And what of a meal? Can we yet sup?”

“I convinced them to bring us a trencher.”

“Kind of them.”

“Oh aye,” he said, and after filling a basin with water from the bucket, dipped a rag into it. “The old man’s all but a saint.”

She almost smiled before trying a sip of the wine.

“Truly.”

”Turn a bit,” he said, and she did so, twisting slightly on the mattress so that she presented her back. Smooth and fair, it scooped dramatically down toward hidden treasures. His heart rate bumped up a beat, but he scoffed at himself. This was no great ordeal. It was just a back, after all. Just a back. The water felt warm as he wrung out the cloth and touched it to her flesh. She flinched slightly. He grimaced and drew away.

“Me apologies.”

“Nay.” She was sitting very straight now. “I was only startled.”

But he knew he had hurt her and when he touched the cloth to her back again he did so with cautious gentleness. “They had no chamomile for the water. Lady Fiona would box their ears if she knew of their negligence. Still, I was fortunate they had camphor. ‘Twill keep the swelling at bay.”

She remained very still as he washed the edges of the wound. There was some inflammation, but only a bit and soon the area was clean.

“Lady Fiona,” she said. “Your uncle’s wife.”

“You know of her?” He could not help but be surprised.

“Only a bit. She is a healer, I believe.”

“Aye,” he said, and leaned away, feeling somewhat breathless.