Eilidh gave the healer a conspiratorial look.
“Aye, I do ken. But ye kenme, sir, so ye must trust me to bully him back to his bed at the first sign of weariness.”
And then the healerlaughed. Ciaran was starting to wonder if this was a dream. Or, hell, maybe hehaddied, and this whole endless time in bed was purgatory.
The lass was clearly a witch. She made reality feel not quite real.
“I have nae doubt,” the healer said fondly, packing up his things. “Ye ken where to find me if ye need me.”
“Thank ye, Master Healer!” Eilidh called gaily.
Ciaran could see, however, that there was mischief in her eyes as she turned back to him.
“What?” she asked, laughing herself at his no doubt astounded look.
“Ye… Ye are an enchantress,” he declared. “Able to bend men to your will.”
She laughed, then reached down to help haul him to a seated position. She was surprisingly strong, and his ribs protested only minimally as he shifted his weight.
“The master healer?” she asked, wrapping a warm arm around his back and tucking herself under his arm so that he could lean on her. “He’s sweet as honey, deep down inside.”
“Perhaps deep, deep,deepdown,” Ciaran grunted, his doubt evident.
Eilidh laughed again, the sound sending a faint rumble through Ciaran from the places they were pressed together. Slowly, she guided him to his feet, then waited as he paused to test his balance. Being injured these past weeks had been bad enough; the only thing worse would be falling on his arse in front of this pretty and strange young woman.
Eilidh had poked her head into his sickroom several times over the past few days, but there had always been someone else in there with him, so he hadn’t had a chance to speak with her since that first day, when he’d been scarcely lucid.
Now that they had a moment alone, though, he didn’t know what he ought to say.
Instead of saying something wrong—he’d always been better with a sword than with his words—he just let himself lean on her as they moved slowly through the Keep. He was not nearly as humiliated as he ought to have been, using the lass like she was a living crutch. She felt… surprisingly natural under his arm like this. If he ignored the aches and pains in his body, he could almost pretend that he was embracing her, not relying upon her.
Except that thought wasn’t necessarily any more comforting, so he turned his attention to his surroundings.
The place was clearly well-maintained. The stones of the walls had been laid with care, and it was clear that such care had never waned. The banners, resplendent in clan colors, were not faded where they hung neatly on the walls. Ciaran assumed that dust dared not gather in corners, lest it be swept away by assiduous maids.
He felt a pang, unable to keep from remembering when Gunn Manor had been the kind of place over which he could have such pride. But that was a time long lost to him and his kin.
Eilidh was watching him, he realized, peeking up from under his arm. He worried over what his face might have revealed while he wasn’t paying attention.
“A fine place,” he commented, hoping that this sounded sufficiently mild.
Regardless of whether his tone was successful, the observation proved sufficiently distracting. Eilidh smiled proudly at their surroundings.
“Aye,” she agreed. “The Buchanans were more than kind to take us in.”
Ciaran couldn’t stop himself from scoffing.
“Kind?” he echoed. “I doubt it was mere kindness that led a laird to house four maidens alone in the world.”
No, the late Laird must have been a bloody good strategist. He’d had the daughters of one of the most powerful clans in the Highlands running straight into his arms, and he’d been smart enough to see past the brewing war to the longer benefit of allying with the Donagheys. And now one of those lasses was married to the current Laird, proving the rippling consequences of that one choice.
Wars passed—every warrior knew that; it was the thing that kept him going. But memories were long, and the Donagheys wouldn’t forget the debt they owed the Buchanans. Maybe it wascynical of him to think so, but Ciaran had long since learned that cynicism so often proved true.
Eilidh, though, was frowning.
“Laird Buchanan was truly kind,” she insisted. “He took us when we were running for our lives, and he didnae begrudge us when Finlay Gordon came here and quite literally burned down their livelihoods in a single night. They’ve only just got the distillery rebuilt after months, and still, the people here have been naught but welcoming to us. That is true kindness.”
She sounded irritated that he would think anything else, and a strange part of Ciaran was tempted to agree with her, just to soothe that temper. He brushed away that bizarre impulse, though.
