She opened one eye, then the other, and for the barest moment, Ciaran let himself imagine that he could have this more than once, that there would be more days waking with her beside him, tousled and sweet and warm.
And then she blinked in alarm and bolted upright, making him wince.
“Oh, no! Oh, Ciaran, was I pressing on your wound? Oh, God, did I disturb your bandages? Let me check, let me check.”
Following this rush of words, she leaned up and over him to look at the wrapping on his far shoulder, which was undisturbedby any of her motions. Her posture while doing so did put her bosom—which was modest, but this did not stop Ciaran from reacting to it—directly in his line of sight. He supposed he could have looked away, but he was only a man.
“There’s no blood on the bandages,” she said with a sigh of relief.
“Aye,” Ciaran agreed gruffly.
That would be because every ounce of blood in his body had rapidly traveled below his waist, where he was fortunately obscured enough by the thick woolen blanket that the healer had provided that she wouldn’t be able to see any telltale evidence.
When Eilidh returned to perch on the edge of his bed, there was such a tender look on her face that Ciaran’s lustful thoughts were rapidly replaced with far more sentimental ones—thoughts that were all the more dangerous for their poetic qualities.
“Thank ye for caring for me,” he said gruffly.
He hoped she thought he meant just for acting as a healer during his injuries, but deep inside, he knew he meant more than that. He lifted his good hand and brushed his knuckles against the back of her cheek.
No weapon—no sword or rifle or mighty steed—had ever made him feel as powerful as he did when she leaned into that touch with a quiet, happy hum.
He was going to lean up to steal a kiss, no matter how much it would definitely hurt—he was, he reiterated to himself,only a man—but before his lips could come in contact with hers, she pulled back, an agonized look on her face.
“Good Lord, Ciaran,” she said, pulling his hand down from her face to clasp it between her palms. “I amsosorry.”
He frowned. “Lass, what in the hell are ye on about? What doyehave to be sorry for? As I recall it, ye dragged me half dead back to the Keep—again.”
The words came out harsher than he had intended them, both on account of his wounded pride and in utter rejection of the idea that she might, even for a moment, feel responsible for any of this utter mess.
“But ye were hurt because of me in the first place. If it werenae for me, Gordon’s men wouldnae have ambushed us.”
She looked tortured over the knowledge, and her anguish was like another bloody arrow, this one piercing his chest.
Tell her, some foolish, sentimental voice inside him urged.Just tell her the truth before this goes any further.
He tugged his hand from hers, then rubbed his face. These were the last moments where she would ever look at him like this. He would tell her everything, and then she would be lost to him forever.
He opened his mouth, his chest tightening with preemptive sorrow?—
And the door creaked open, drawing both of their attention.
Davina’s red head poked in through the door. She wore a cautious, sympathetic look, and in her caring expression, Ciaran could see the faint resemblance between the sisters.
“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, clearly relieved, even though her green gaze traveled curiously at the scant space between Ciaran and her youngest sister. “Good. Ewan is convening everyone in the war room. He is expecting ye.”
Eillidh had never been in the study that Ewan and James had turned into their war room, though Vaila and Ailsa were both frequent attendees of the meetings that occurred therein. It wasn’t as though Eilidh had been forbidden from joining them—Davina did from time to time, even though she was neither theLady of the Keep like Ailsa, nor a professed warrior like Vaila, and even Mairi peeked in her head on occasion—but she’d never wanted to before now.
She didn’t really want to now, actually, but she couldn’t afford to pretend any longer. She couldn’t keep acting like the war would disappear if she closed her eyes and wished for it to be so.
Still, she didn’t like the pallor on Ciaran’s cheeks as he sat, straight-backed and looking down at the map that sprawled across the great table. Tiny carved markers dotted the Highlands, denoting the movements of allies and known enemies alike.
“It doesnae make any sense that Gordon would send a small patrol to try to abduct someone from the Keep,” Arran argued, looking furious and frustrated. “He couldnae have known that Eilidh was likely to ride out—and he didnae send nearly enough men to mount a frontal attack. It’s sheer idiocy.”
“He’s a goddamned madman who doesnae think the lives of his men mean much of anything at all,” Ewan countered. “It’s easy to be unpredictable when ye dinnae care if ye lose half your army because ye just plan to buy more. That unpredictability is half of what makes the blackguard so bloody dangerous.”
“But I dinnae think he isstupid,” Arran returned. “Evil, yes. Mad, certainly. But he is too strategic to waste men on something that will get them killed and get him nothing in return. He’s much like my father in that way,” he added in a bitter aside.
At the end of the table, James’ head was bent over patrol logs, a fierce scowl etched across his face.
