“I’m not an angel, and don’t think twice about it.”
He tilted his head. He hadn’t thought twice, and he only spoke once.
She picked at a loose thread in her skirt. “I can’t go anywhere at the moment, anyway. Actually, I’m glad to have your company. I don’t know what I’d do here all by myself.”
“Ye should have stayed with the MacDonalds.”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “And have Tavis continually trying to help me and hanging off my every word?”
His newly bearded jawline twitched in anger. Had Tavis been so forthright to a married woman? “Did he—”
Abigail’s eyes widened. “What? No. He’s just a kid . . . a lad.”
“He’s old enough to marry.”
“He’s not old enough to marry me, and anyway, he and his whole family thought”—she pointed to Iain and then to herself—“we were already married.”
“Ye should have told me.”
She ducked her head and her hands shook as she straightened the blanket over him. She smiled. “I’ve read about you Highland types.”
“Aye? What have you read?”
“You are all womanizers. What do you call it? Wenching, that’s it. You all go around wenching.”
He laughed, but a cough quickly followed. He held up a hand. “Don’t be jesting. It hurts me to laugh.” He gave her his best smoldering smile. “Women do have a penchant for a handsome Highlander.”
“Like you?”
“Do you think I’m handsome then?”
She scoffed and shook her head, turning her gaze away as if seeing something other than a stone wall. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Aye. It matters.”
Had he seen a spark in her eyes before she averted her gaze? Aye. He had. She was having sinful thoughts as much as he was. That kiss the last night with the MacDonalds had sent his body into a whir, and he was sure she felt the same.
He drew his brows together. But that was after he had saved her. She could have merely been thankful. It might have been her appreciation that she had showed him.
She went over to the pot over the fire. “I’ve made a broth with the oats and meat Mary gave us.”
Iain thought perhaps he could beat this fever. He smashed his lips together. Unlikely. He had seen fever take many. The heat spared no one—warriors, men, women, or bairns.
Why the hell did he have to meet her when he was near death?
Why couldn’t he have met her when he was a brawny, healthy man, a man, lasses admired?
All he wanted was to kiss her. He hardened his jaw. If he wanted the chance to have Abigail in his arms, he needed his strength.
Iain tried to eat as much of the broth as he could, but the act of swallowing made him gag. The effort weakened his already feeble body. He groaned a small, frail noise no man would want to have the bonniest lass in the world hear.
Abigail ignored his distress and continued to pour the brew down his throat. As if her speaking would take Iain’s mind off his discomforts, she spoke of her family. Names Iain found as strange as she was. Max, Garrett, and Izzy.
“Max tried to teach me and Izzy to fight, but we’d all end up laughing because we couldn’t do what she said.”
Iain spluttered and fell back, the broth spilling over the rim onto his chest. Max was a she? What sort of name was that for a lass?
“Max is your sister?”
