Ramsay’s blue eyes widened, glistening with unshed tears as he dove back toward the head of the bed. “I am so sorry, Auntie Trish. I dunno what could’ve happened.”
Trish reached out and covered Ramsay’s hand with her own. The lines deepened around her mouth but she remained silent, her other arm still draped across her eyes.
The poor woman. Maxwell edged a bit closer to the bed. His heart clenched as he caught the glimmer of a single tear as it escaped from beneath her arm and rolled down the side of her face. She had to know she was safe here until…Maxwell stole a glance at Ciara’s worried face. Well. Until whenever. She and the boy would be safe until they chose to leave. “Ye have m’word that ye’ll be protected here. Ye have nothing to fear. Neither you or the boy.”
“Your word?” Ramsay turned from Trish and faced Maxwell with his eyes narrowed and an irritated frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. “Yer no’ the laird here. What good isyourword?”
“Ramsay!” Trish clutched the blankets against her throat, her face whitened with pain as she forced her body over to her side. “You will not be rude, young man. We are in a big enough mess without adding insults to the lot.” Flinching as she pushed herself higher up in the bed, Trish swallowed hard and sucked in several deep breaths before she spoke again. “Thank you, Maxwell and Ciara, for everything. We’ll need your protection until we can figure out a way to get back before we muck up anything in this century.”
A strange feeling fluttered in the center of Maxwell’s chest, shook his heart into skipping a beat, and made him swallow hard against a sudden lump swelling in his throat. Was it Trish’s helpless situation that shook him to his core or the fact that she didn’t collapse into an inconsolable bundle of weeping hysteria like most women in her situation would have done?
Maxwell didn’t miss how she kept a protective arm curled around Ramsay even when it must surely pain her to do so. Trish had spirit; a delightful stubbornness shone from her soul. And damn those eyes beneath that ragged bandage, blue as sapphires but sparking with three times the fire. As he exhaled a tentative breath, Maxwell’s gaze faltered a bit lower, mesmerized by the twin mounds of her ample breasts peeking over the edge of the covers. And the freckles.Damn the woman and those teasing freckles. Maxwell worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Where the hell had all his spittle gone? His mouth tasted as dry as the dust flooring the paddock. With a cough, Maxwell forced his attention back up to her pain-filled gaze. “Rest, Mistress Trish…er…Mistress?” Maxwell caught himself about to stammer. What the hell was wrong with him? “Or would ye prefer to be called by the name of your clan?”
Trish brought her knees up to her chest, tenting the blankets all about her. Massaging her temples underneath the bandage, she closed her eyes as she spoke. “Sullivan is my last name. But everyone here can call me Trish.”
“Sullivan?” Maxwell’s heart fell and he took a step back. Was he standing here lusting after his own great great granddaughter?God’s beard!The very thought of it turned his stomach.
Trish barely nodded. Grabbing her head between both hands, Trish furrowed her brow against the jarring movement as she gasped. “Yes. Sullivan. Why?”
“Because Maxwell heads the Sullivans, a sept of Clan MacKay and he’s wondering if the two of you share a bloodline.” Ciara hid an evil grin from Trish behind the extra blanket she shook out across the bed.
Ye are a conniving, wicked woman,Maxwell mouthed to Ciara with the slightest tilt of his head.
Ciara’s smile widened.
Trish gingerly slid back down into the depths of the bed without opening her eyes. “We might be related but it would be in name only.” Plucking the covers up under her chin, she hissed out a pained sigh. “I was adopted. According to everything I can find I’m really a mutt from Czechoslovakia.”
The tension left Maxwell’s shoulders. He didn’t have a clue where or what Czechoslovakia was but he knew none of his bloodline had been to a place so named. He tugged at the throw spread across Trish’s legs, smoothing out the wrinkles across her body. “Rest, Trish. ’Tis the only thing that will truly heal ye.” After a moment’s hesitation, he barely traced a finger across the pale skin of the back of her hand. Pure velvet. Just like it looked.
The deep pained lines around Trish’s mouth gradually faded as the rise and fall of her chest settled into the rhythm of shallow, easy breathing.
Ciara scooped up Ramsey’s hand and looped her arm through Maxwell’s elbow. With a smile and a nod at Trish’s now-peaceful face, Ciara turned the males toward the door. “Come. She sleeps. Let the herbs do their work.” Pressing a sharp elbow into Maxwell’s ribs, she smiled up into his face. “It’s good to know you two don’t share a bloodline.”
“Meaning?” Maxwell growled under his breath, struggling to keep his voice low.
“Meaning”—Ciara nudged Maxwell in the ribs again—“that perhaps the Fates sent Trish to you for a reason.”
“What reason?” Ramsay piped up as they all squeezed through the door.
“Never mind,” Maxwell answered. “Go find your cousin, Keagan.”
ChapterFive
“Ye do realize she’s plotting and ye are doomed to the utter certainty of matchmaking hell?” Faolan shoved an overflowing tankard of ale between Maxwell’s fisted hands.
Curling his fingers around the cool damp metal, Maxwell stared down at the scowl looking back up at him from the amber depths of the mug.
“Do ye think…” Maxwell paused, raised the tankard to his mouth, and sucked in a deep fortifying swallow. Lowering the mug, he returned his attention to the surface of the swirling brew. “Do ye think she might ha’ sent for her?” Surely, Ciara hadn’t dabbled with his fate. She couldn’t just yank a woman from another fold of time just to see Maxwell tethered to a wife. Could she?
Faolan shrugged, his warrior’s braid sliding back and forth across the top of his shoulder as he slowly shook his head. “My wife is a verra determined woman, Maxwell. Ye know that as well as I. How many times has she told ye that ye needed a wife over the course of just the past few months?”
“Too damn many to count.” Maxwell drained the contents of the cup in one desperate gulp. Nearly every time he turned around, Ciara never failed to mention how much happier Maxwell would be if he married. He had survived this long without a wife. Maxwell slid the damp metal tankard back and forth along the well rubbed top of the wooden table, his gaze following the shapeless patterns formed by the trails of condensation. He didn’t need a wife…or a family. Such things only led to unnecessary complications—complications he’d do just as well without.
Faolan propped his chin in one hand and drummed his fingertips atop the table with the other. “At least she brought ye a pretty one.”
“She didn’t bringmeanything.” Maxwell thunked his tankard onto the table as he rose from the bench.
Stalking across the room to the blazing hearth, Maxwell glared down into the glowing coals radiating beneath the flaming logs. Shimmering reds and oranges quivered and danced; heat waves undulated from their core. Vibrant colors. Mesmerizing and bright…like the shine of Trish’s coppery hair when she stirred beneath the light of the candles.
