"So, husband,” she murmured, “ye will have to stay near your wife for a change. Nary a place to run to."
"Islaen,” Iain groaned as he fought his way to consciousness and thought he heard his wife's voice.
Praying that he had been too groggy to understand her words, she smiled at him when he opened his eyes. Carefully helping him to sit up a little bit she gave him a drink of water. She decided that he was too pale and hoped that that would soon pass.
"How did I get here?” Iain rasped as he laid back down.
"Robert, Phelan and Murdo brought ye here. They felt it better for ye."
"'Tis bad?” He gingerly touched the bandaging at his side.
"Nay, ‘tis deep though, and ye must rest to heal right. Rest and be still so that ye dinnae pull out the stitches. Ye have lost enough blood. No need to start any more flowing out of ye."
"Ah, Jesu, we nearly had him, Islaen.” He gripped her hand when she took hold of his in a gesture of sympathy. “I grow so verra weary of this game."
"So do I, Iain, and I havenae played it near as long as ye have. Are ye sure the mon isnae a sorcerer?"
"Or some ghostie, eh?” He smiled faintly. “Nay, though I oft find myself wondering. Howbeit, if we cut him, he bleeds. I think only living flesh does that,” he drawled. “They were careful bringing me in, were they? Ye cannae afford a bad turn now, lass."
"Robert was quick to catch me ere I really had time to think the worst. He was watching for me."
"Good,” he murmured weakly, feeling strongly inclined to go to sleep again. “Ye get some rest, Islaen; I will be fine."
"I ken it, Iain.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I will just sit here until ye are asleep again. I but needed to see ye wake once to ease my worries. Do ye need anything? Want anything?"
"MacLennon's head on a salver,” he jested sleepily then grasped Islaen's hand more tightly. “Dinnae think ye can do it."
She smiled and held his hand between hers, bringing it up to her lips. “I swear I shall be a verra good lass."
"Swear it?” he asked, opening his eyes enough to look at her with tired sternness. “Ye have ne'er done anything so reckless whilst I have been with ye, but I have this feeling ye might give some wild idea a thought."
"Mayhaps an I didnae have twa lives to consider each time I do anything."
"Ah, of course. Of course,” he murmured, falling asleep almost as soon as he had finished speaking.
She sat beside him for a long while simply watching him sleep. Occasionally she reached out to brush the hair off of his forehead and gently test for any signs of fever. Islaen had a feeling that it was not simply his wound that made him sleep so deeply. There were signs of exhaustion upon his face. She hoped his weariness would not weaken him too much thus furthering the chances of infection and fever. It was not until Storm nearly forced her from his side that Islaen gave up her vigil, leaving Tavis to watch over Iain for a while.
Islaen glared at her husband and seriously considered hitting him with the tray she held. He was nearly healed enough to have his stitching removed but she was sorely tempted to give him a few new wounds. She decided he was worse than even her brother Colin who made the most miserable patient of all her kin and told him so.
"Weel, why dinnae ye lay about in a bed all day after cursed day and see how ye like it,” he grumbled.
"I dinnae like it and I suspicion I wasnae a verra good patient when I had to, but I do think I at least tried not to make life miserable for everyone."
Iain watched her as she moved angrily around the room, tidying it up. Slowly his temper faded. He knew he was being miserable but could not help himself. Glancing at her ever-rounding belly, he decided it was far past time for him to exercise a little more control of his temper. She could not afford such upsets at this time.
"Forgive me,” he said softly, smiling crookedly when she turned to look at him. “'Tis just that I cannae abide this lying about."
She sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand in hers. “Ye neednae apologize, Iain. I understand your anger.” Smiling faintly, she said, “Ye will be up and about soon and then ye can curse your weakness instead of me."
"Impudent wench."
"Aye, most like.” She got the salve from the bedside table and rubbed a little upon his wound to ease the itching she knew came with the healing. “These can be removed soon. The wound has closed weel."
Her light, gentle touch enflamed him. He had been too long without her. Wounded or not he was determined to ease that need. Grasping her around the waist as she put the salve away, he tugged her into his arms.
"Iain,” she gasped, “be careful. Your wound..."
"'Tis not only my wound that tries my temper, lass,” he interrupted.
