“Not too fast.” She moved the mug away. He reached outfor it again, his fingers brushing hers. Her heart picked up in tempo as her whole hand tingled at his brief touch. She put her reaction down to her excitement that he was awake at last. “Wait for a moment and then you can have more.”
When she returned the cup to his lips, he clasped his hand gently over hers while he drank his fill.
“Thank ye. Who are ye?”
“No one. It’s late. Go to sleep now and we’ll talk in the morning.”
And then I can find the orb and travel home.
Chapter 7
Her tone equaled one of authority. Iain didn’t want to make her angry before he knew if she was human or faerie. His head ached, but after dozing on and off for what seemed like a long time, he felt well enough. However, his side throbbed, but he would have to look at it to know how badly Thomas had maimed him.
He recalled the battle and the final confrontation with Thomas. A smile twitched the corners of his mouth at the memory of slicing Thomas’s ear. Theeejitlet his anger take over, and his wrath impaired his aim as his sword sliced Iain’s side. He grimaced, but the cutwasn’t sufficient to fell him. His head pounded at another recollection. Someone, not Thomas because he’d had him in his sightsat the time,had clubbed him over the skull, hard. If they suspected he lived, the English would search for him, especially Thomas. Even with his injury, he hoped he was still strong enough to fight if he needed to.
He closed his eyes for less than a minute before slitting them open again and watching the lass.
The angel, or witch, Iain wasn’t entirely sure, sat slumpedin the chair, her heavy lashed lids half-covering her view as if she were about to fall asleep. But every now and then, her lids lifted a little when she glanced to the door as if she expected someone to walk in at any moment. Mayhap she wasn’t alone. Iain scoured his memory since he’d left the battlefield with her, but couldn’t remember anyone else, no voices or sounds other than his and hers.
He took in her form. She had a strange beauty about her. He found it almost impossible to pin down what color her irises were. They kept changing from the deep blue of the ocean to a soft sky azure. With her alabaster skin, he knew without a doubt thatshe didn’t work in the fields. His gaze locked on her lips, the hue of primrose petals and so plump, she appeared to be continually pouting. Would they taste as sweet as they looked?
He stared at her. The damp curly tendrils of dark red hair falling over her face made his fingers itch to push it back so he could see her moreclearly. His gaze roamed down her braid she had brought over her shoulder, and his chest tightened.
She had disrobed and sat nearly naked, but she seemed so comfortable, as if she normally woreso little in front of a man. The snip of black lace bordering shiny material nowhere near covered her upper body.
She had bunched her skirt up, exposing long, shapely legs from the knee to her bare feet. Feet with perfectly pink-colored nails. His eyes snapped to her hands. How had he missed those nails?
Surely that was proof she must be a wood nymph. Only then would she have the power to harness the colors of the flowers.
Mayhap she wasn’t even there. Had he succumbed to the fever? Was he imagining the nymph?
Orwasshe sent to take me to the afterworld?What an exquisite guide. There was no way his imagination—and he judged he had a wonderful imagination—could have conjured up a beauty such as her.
Forcing his gaze away from her face, he noted her slender arms and smooth hands. She was no worker. But what sort of high-born lass dressed so immodestly?
He moved, and the shot of pain in his side reminded him none too politely of his injury. He groaned but ripped off the dressing and peered at the wound. It was superficial. The tenderness would go away with the healing.
She leapt up. “Keep still.”
He ignored her and cautiously shifted his legs off the bed and sat up. He pushed the dull ache out of his mind by focusing on his predicament. If he was indeeddead, he would already have gone to his maker.
She could not be an angel, this lass who spoke strangely. Mayhap from an English province he had not been acquainted with. She had to be Sassenach, which to Iain’s thinking, meant she was probably a spy. Why were they still in the croft? They should have moved from the area before that moment. Was she waiting for someone? Cumberland, perchance?
He glared at her, and her eyes widened in surprise as she stepped backward.
“Who are ye?”
“Who areyou?”
“I asked first, witch.”
“I am not a witch, but if I was, you’d be a toad right now.”
Iain pulled the blanket around him and got to his feet. A flash of dizziness washed over him, but he shook it away. Food and exercise would get his strength back. He had to return to his homelands. The English would be routing out all Jacobites and any who had aided them.
She stood straight-backed before him, wearing only that lacy piece and the skirt. Her eyes took on a stormy hue.
“Are ye a follower of the English?”
