“I erred.”
“So I see.” She glowered back at him.
Still standing in the open threshold, her stout frame silhouetted against the light from a wall torch, she looked nearly as broad as she was tall, especially when she mimicked him by bracing a pudgy hand against her own more than generous hips.
“Be that as it may,” she began, eyeing him shrewdly, “if the lady has no need of my sphagnum moss dressings, mayhapyoucan make use of my special goldenrod ointment!”
“Me?” Ronan lifted a brow, not at all surprised when she marched into the room and plunked her healing basket onto the table.
“Aye, you,” she announced, clucking as she plucked a fat earthen jar from the basket and thrust it into Gelis’s hands. “And what I’ve brought is far better than Hugh MacHugh’s selfheal ointment. ’Tis my own fine unguent of Saint-John’ s-wort, germander, speedwell, and goldenrod that you’ll be needing, I’m thinking. Blended with butter and grease, it will soothe your cracked ribs before the next sun rises.”
Ronan’s brow furrowed. “My cracked ribs?”
Auld Meg waved a hand. “Dinna do me the insult o’ doubting my own good eye. I can see what ails you, right enough! It’s there in every step you take.” Coming closer, she wagged a finger in his face. “The unguent will soothe your smashed toes as well.”
Ronan humphed.
His lady spoke up at last. “I’ll see to it,” she said, clutching the little jar of ointment. “And I . . . thank you.”
This time Auld Meg grunted.
But her eyes brightened, some of the sternness slipping from her face.
“You do that, lassie.” She looked Gelis up and down, her voice taking on a confidential tone. “ ’Tis long past time the lad has a maid what kens how to handle him!”
“Dinna even think it,” Ronan protested the moment the grizzle-headed old bat swept from the room, closing the door soundly behind her.
He snatched the fat little jar from his lady’s hands and set it on the table.
Experience had taught him that the unguent’s noxious smell clung to one’s skin for days.
Sometimes even a whole fortnight.
Gelis frowned, her gaze on the jar. “But she did seem to know —”
Ronan snorted. “There is naught wrong with my ribs and, with surety, no’ with my toes!”
“You are sure?”
“I am certain.”
“Then prove it by kissing me again.”
“Lass, I will kiss you until the hills blush.” He yanked his tunic over his head, reaching for her before it hit the rushes. “Now, this night, the morrow’s morn, and all the days thereafter.”
The words spoken, he caught her to him, pulling her close against his naked chest. He captured her lips, kissing her deeply. He swept his tongue against hers, claiming and demanding, needing her all.
She leaned into him, their hot breath and the wild tangle of their tongues seeming to spur her on. His own desire breaking, he ran his hands down her back and over her hips, finally clutching and squeezing her buttocks, drawing her flush against him.
She sighed, her mouth opening wider beneath his. “Yes,” she breathed, slinging her arms tightly around him, her hips beginning to rock and press against his.
Her full, heavy breasts were crushed to him, the shifting of her thighs against his a sweet torture beyond bearing. A great shudder raced through him and he tightened his arms around her, digging his fingers into the lush curves of her hips, the sweet, plump rounds of her luscious bottom.
Ne’er had he burned with a greater passion.
And ne’er had a mere tapping at the door made him more furious.
He jerked around to glare at the door. “Be gone, old woman! You can continue your meddling on the morrow.”
