“Me name is Jeane Forrest,” Jeane whispered.
His dark eyes narrowed. “Forrest? Ye’re Laird McKay’s daughter. Ye’ve been missin’ for?—”
“Three days,” Jeane answered for him. “And I cannae go back, ye understand?”
She clutched at his tunic, desperate for his agreement, for some sign that he would not send her back.
Fergus’ eyes searched her face, but then he nodded, seeming satisfied.
“I cannae begin to understand yer reasons, but ye must have good ones to be so sure. As long as ye cooperate, I will keep yer secret.”
Jeane let out a sigh of relief, letting go of Fergus’ tunic. She realized the man had put his arms around her waist, and she flushed as his thumb brushed across her hip.
She moved away from him.
“Ye should let me check yer wounds. Change the bandages,” Jeane insisted, and Fergus scoffed.
“It’s nothing.”
Jeane lifted his tunic slightly to see the wound still weeping blood.
She raised an eyebrow. “More than nothing.”
Fergus winced as the fabric fell back down over the wound.
“All right. Ye can patch me up. But then ye’ll meet me sister.”
Jeane nodded, and she and Fergus walked toward the main castle.
When she walked in, Jeane could not help but compare the castle to her father’s. The McCloud castle was twice the size ofthe McKay castle with extravagant furniture placed all around and soft furs decorating the backs of the chairs and couches. It was warm inside with a fire going in the large fireplace. Jeane longed to go and warm her hands, but Fergus tugged her behind him up the staircase.
They arrived at his bedchambers, and Jeane blushed. She had never been unescorted in a man’s bedchambers before, not even her father’s.
She took in a breath as she passed the threshold, blinking up at Fergus, who was removing his tunic with one hand. He reached past her to close the door, his abdomen nearly brushing her hand.
She shivered at the almost-touch.
“Are ye cold?” Fergus asked, his scarred, tight abdomen distracting Jeane. She was supposed to be looking at the wound, but the muscles across his chest and stomach were difficult to look away from.
She shook her head although she was a little.
“Here,” he said, placing soft furs around her neck.
She could not help but nuzzle against it. “Bear?”
“Fox,” he corrected her. “Me father was a big fox hunter.”
“And ye arenae?”
He shook his head. “Nae as much, nay.”
He looked almost sad, his mouth turning down at the corners.
Jeane looked at him, tilting her head to one side, intrigued. “Are ye close with yer father?”
Fergus’ expression seemed to go blank. “I used to be.”
Jeane wanted to ask more, but Fergus didn’t seem like he was in the mood to talk. Not about his father, anyway.
