“Of course he will,” Alys reassured her. The young girl’s worried expression was matched by her own wariness. Finian had barely managed to make it up the winding stone staircase, and he’d stumbled on to his hands and knees near the top. His brother Brochain had helped him into her husband’s bedchamber, while she and her maid Jeanne took care of the girl.
“It’s late,” Alys told Iliana. “Follow me, and I’ll show you a place where you can sleep.” She led her into a separate chamber, where she had slept while Robert had entertained other women. It was a small bed, but the young girl pulled the coverlet over herself, snuggling up.
“You’ll take care of my da?” Iliana asked.
Alys reached out and touched the girl’s short hair. “I promise I will. And perhaps in another day or two, he’ll take you home again.”
A smile faltered on her face as Iliana closed her eyes. Alys waited a few more moments until she was certain the girl was safe enough.
“My lady?” came Jeanne’s voice. “Shall I stay with the child and look after her?”
Alys sent her a grateful look. “Yes. In the meantime, I need to see to the MacLachor chief’s wounds.”
Her maid bowed her head, and Alys left her alone with Iliana. When she returned to Robert’s bedchamber, Finian lay on top of the bed. His brother, Brochain, eyed him as if he didn’t know what to do next.
“Build up the fire so we can make him warmer,” she ordered. From a chest, she withdrew a heavy fur coverlet and brought it over, layering Finian with as many blankets as she could find. And still, he trembled.
“I’m bringing the rest of the MacLachors into the main hall,” Brochain said. “We’ll stay here tonight.” With a look toward Alys, he asked, “Would you rather I remained here to look after him myself?”
“No, I’ll tend his wounds,” she told the man.
Finian stared at his brother and raised his arm to show the burned, scarred flesh. “This was your idea of healing, don’t you remember?”
There was a twinge of remorse on Brochain’s face, and Alys realized with dismay that the man had cauterized a sword wound. Though it might have saved Finian’s life, the gesture was nothing short of brutal.
“The wounds on his back should be treated,” she said. “I have herbs that will help.”
But Brochain wasn’t listening. Instead, he eyed his older brother. “Do you want me to stay or sleep with the men?”
“Go away,” Finian warned. “I’d rather have a beautiful woman looking after me.”
“Our enemy’s wife?”
“She’s the one who freed me from my chains. If she’d wanted to kill me, she’d have done it then.”
Brochain gave a nod. To Alys, he said, “We’ll guard the hall below and make sure none of the garrison returns. If you have need of us, call out.”
She murmured her thanks and busied herself preparing healing herbs to draw out any poison from the lash marks. But it was Finian’s freezing skin that bothered her most.
Despite all the blankets, nothing seemed to warm him. She sat beside the bed, and the exhaustion of the day swept over her. Her neck ached, and she was holding back her emotions by a thread. Robert was dead. No one would tell her how useless she was, or how fortunate she was that he’d taken pity on her and married her.
When he’d visited her bedchamber, it had never been anything but a horrifying ordeal to endure. She would lie beneath him, staring at the ceiling, praying to God that it would be over. Though after a few years, it had stopped hurting . . . it had still humiliated her every time. And not once had she become pregnant.
But that was her fault, like everything else.
“Lady Harkirk,” Finian murmured. “Are you well?”
She veiled her unsettled emotions and nodded. “I’ll be all right. Are you any warmer?”
Finian shook his head. “I suppose it will get better in a few hours.”
She reached beneath the coverlet and took his hand. It was freezing, but she rubbed her palms against it, trying to imbue some warmth. His gray eyes studied her as she touched him. Alys grew self-conscious but didn’t stop trying to warm his skin.
She touched his cool fingers, holding them between her palms. Then she massaged the skin, one finger at a time. He closed his eyes, as if he could melt the heat away from her body and pull it into his own.
Silently, Finian offered her his other hand. Once more, she rubbed his knuckles and fingers until they lost the stiffness, holding his hand between both palms. His gray eyes watched her, and the act took on an intimacy she’d never intended. The intense look in his eyes overpowered her defenses, as if he were trying to understand her.
She tried to pull her hands away, but he caught them. “What you did . . . when you saved my daughter’s life—“ He squeezed her palm, holding on to her as if his touch could convey the words he couldn’t find. “It meant everything.”
