Marmaduke shook his head, his steely resolve cutting off her protest as soundly as if he’d snatched the words from her lips.
“Come,” he said, then paused a moment as wind rattled the shutters. “Be assured I would not seek the cramped confines of a squint to speak with you did I not believe such a precaution to be necessary.”
Placing his trust in his ability to win her confidence, he overlooked the doubt in her eyes, an unflattering hesitancy he preferred to ignore, and held out his hand.
“Come,” he repeated.
Slowly, she took two steps forward, then slipped her hand into his. A powerful emotion curled round his heart at the feel of her slender fingers lacing with his own, and his senses snapped to sharp-edged awareness.
“Ach, here is a wonder!” Lady Rhona’s cheery voice scattered his dust-coated dreams.
His lady’s companion drew up before them, a basket of dried sphagnum moss clutched under one arm, and an earthen bowl of some sharp-smelling unguent in her free hand.
“My faith!” She gave them a look of contrived astonishment. “Is it not a mite cold and draughty to be standing about, here in the middle of the passage?”
She eyed their still-clasped hands. “Perhaps you should take yourselves off someplace more private?”
“There is nary a corner of Dunlaidir that isn’t private these days.” Caterine’s fingers tensed in his hand. “Lest you happen to be about,” she added, looking at her friend. “You, my lady, appear to be everywhere.”
“Truly?” Rhona affected an injured look. “Then I shall visit poor Sir Lachlan’s bedside and see to my duties.”
With feigned subservience, she wheeled about and reached for the solar’s door latch. Somehow, the edge of her basket bumped against Marmaduke’s right side and he winced, drawing in a sharp breath as his ribs, still aching from his tangle with the submerged sea rocks, throbbed and burned.
Pressing his lips together, he waited for the pulsing waves of hot discomfort to recede. The saints knew he’d suffered worse in his time.
Without doubt, his lady’s friend had jabbed her basket into him a-purpose, cleverly maneuvering herself so she could rake her makeshift weapon along his bruised ribs.
But why?
He knew women too well not to recognize a ploy.
“Faith and mercy!” Rhona cried then, her brows arcing upward. “James told me you’d hurt your side repairing the latrine chute. Now I’ve gone and made it worse. How clumsy I am.”
Looking over-pleased with herself, she thrust her small bowl of foul-smelling unguent into Caterine’s free hand. “’Tis crushed St. John’s wort and betony,” she said. “Little is better for treating wounds.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to Marmaduke’s side. “Perhaps the salve will lend a spot of comfort to my lord’s bruised ribs?”
Before his lady could reply, Rhona slipped inside the solar, shutting the door behind her.
“Come you, I would see that squint now,” Marmaduke said as quickly, and hoped the shadows hid his elation.
He glanced at the wooden bowl of healing unguent clutched in his lady’s hand. Thanks to her friend’s mischief, she now had little choice but to smooth the salve onto his abraded flesh.
The corners of his mouth fought to widen into a wolfish grin, but he resisted the urge and thanked the saints instead.
For good measure, he also sent a nod of gratitude to the old gods so many Highlanders still honored.
That done, he drew a fortifying breath.
“Let us be gone from here,” he urged again. “I would be most obliged if you will apply your friend’s unguent to my ribs.”
“In the laird’s lug?” She looked up at him, her gaze skeptical.
“Of course.”
The snug comfort of such a confined space suddenly boasted an appeal of a much different nature than merely shielding them from unwanted listeners.
“And will you?” He indicated his proffered arm. “Tend my scrapes, I mean?”
