“Ye need to drink water to keep from turning yerself inside out. Hold fast while I fetch more, aye?”
Still gagging, she waved him away. He hoped that meant she agreed.
When he returned with the tankard refilled, she took several deep gulps, then held her breath as if determined to keep it down. “I know better than to drink whisky,” she said in a hushed voice, as if speaking hurt her head. “Wine, I can handle. Ale? I can down it by the gallons. But whisky?” She closed her eyes and shuddered, making him wonder if she was about to hang out the window again. “I know better. But it has been such a bloody awful day.”
“It didna take the drink long to turn on ye. That’s for certain.” He offered her the damp cloth he had fetched along with the water. “Here, my fine wee mouse. To help ease yer suffering.”
“Thank ye.” She wiped her face, then pressed the rag to her throat and squinted at him with one eye barely cracked open. “And why is it ye have dubbed memouse?”
Unable to stop himself, he grinned. “Because ye promised to be quiet as awee mousieright before falling asleep on the couch.” He brushed her hair out of her face, the motion seeming as natural as if he had done it all his life. “And it fits ye, I think. Mice are survivors and protective of their families. Both traits remind me of ye.”
She dipped the rag in the water and pressed it to the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back as though reveling in the coolness against her flesh.
“Ye dinna even know me,” she said without opening her eyes.
“I know enough.” And were he a wise man, he would run like hell from this woman who had landed in his midst. But it was the dead of winter, this was his home, and the possibility of his arranged marriage loomed near. He had to manage this with care.
With movements that were stiff and careful, she gingerly slid off the windowsill and stood. “I am sorry I made such a spectacle of myself.” She paused and forced both eyes fully open, cringing at the effort. “Thank ye for yer kindness. And yer patience.” She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, obviously still on shaky ground. “Please forgive me if I dinna make the feast tonight, aye?”
The thought of her not there pained him, and that reaction troubled him even more. Even though he had just met this woman, he hungered for her company. Instinct and past experience warned him that nothing good would come of that. And yet he shoved the warning aside. He was wiser this time. He could manage it.
“Ye must come to the feast. The children will need watching over.”
With a hand covering one of her eyes, she squinted at him with the other. “It is not as though they are wee bairns. All three are old enough to cut their own meat, ye ken?”
“But they need ye there,” he argued, sounding desperate even to himself. “Both Frances and Hesther will be too timid to eat without ye there to shield them from Lady Murdina.”
“Well, bollocks.” Her mouth puckered as though she was about to vomit again. She eased down into a chair, bent forward, and held her head in her hands. “I wish they had as much pluck as Bella. That wee lass will put old Murdina in her place.”
A sense of pride filled him, threatening to burst his seams. “Aye, my precious Bella is fiery as she is canny. Does me proud.”
Lorna lifted her head and offered him a smile. “With that dark hair and those big eyes, she is already a beauty. Ye will soon be beating the lads away with a stick.”
“Aye.” An old, familiar aching settled back across him. “She is the image of Mariella, her mother.”
“Forgive me. I can tell by yer expression her loss is still a fresh wound. I didna mean to stir it.” She leaned back in the chair as she rubbed her temples.
With a slow shake of his head, Gunn seated himself in the chair opposite her. For the first time in the longest while, he felt the need to speak of his pain. “Mariella died five years ago. A fever took her.” He shuddered at the memory. “It took many in the clan.” He leaned forward, propped his forearms on his knees, and stared down at his clasped hands. “Then two years ago, my second wife, Corinna, died while trying to bring my son into this world. He died a few moments after she did.”
“I am so sorry,” Lorna whispered.
“I loved both my wives,” he added quietly. “And I loved my wee son as well.” He lifted his gaze to hers, yearning for her to understand. “I am a weak man and a coward, lass. I canna bear that kind of loss again.” After pulling in a deep breath that turned into a despairing sigh, he continued, “But I need an heir to protect this clan and see after Bella once I am gone.”
“So ye chose an arranged marriage to a despicable woman ye have no danger of loving,” she said, as though reading his mind.
“Aye.”
Lorna slowly shook her head. “A sad fate for such a fine man who deserves so much more.”
“But a fate I embrace.” A bitter smile came to him. “For the good of my clan, my daughter, and my weary heart.”
She pulled her feet up into the chair and hugged her knees. With her chin propped on them, she studied him. “I agree Lady Murdina is a beauty, but as heartless as she is, do ye really think she would make a good mother to yer future heir? What if it takes a few tries to get a son? Can ye really see her mothering a brood of bairns?”
Her questions bored into him like well-aimed arrows. Their logic stirred knots deep in his gut. “Perhaps she is not as heartless as she seems. Could be she is merely jealous of the lovely young woman in her midst. This is only her first day here.”
Lorna made a face as if she thought him ridiculous. “Doubtful. I think ye found yerself a full-on witch with that one.”
He offered a rueful smile. “I have known men married to worse, and they lived to tell about it.”
