“Sit down.”
Fergus smirked. “Ye like bossin’ me around, lass?” He paused. “Jeane.”
Her name coming off his lips made Jeane shiver again, despite the furs.
“Lie back, let me see the wound,” she said, and hissed when she saw how deep it was. “It doesnae appear to have hit anythin’ vital, but ye need stitches.”
She had not had the tools to stitch him up in the forest, and she had been worried the man might bleed out while they were riding here.
“Then do it,” he ordered.
“I will need supplies?—”
He cut her off. “Molly!” he called as they heard footsteps going past the room. “In here.”
A young girl with long, braided red hair opened the door, startled, and nodded at attention.
“Me Laird?”
“Bring Morna’s things.”
Fergus sat down on the edge of the bed.
A large black bag was brought into the room, and Jeane rummaged through it, finding some of what she needed. Fishing line for the thread and a sharp needle but nothing to clean the wound with.
“Bring a bowl of hot water and some cloth,” Jeane said to Molly, who just nodded, her blue eyes wide as she looked at Jeane. When Molly brought the steaming water, Fergus remained lying down on his bed, looking up at Jeane.
“Do yer worst, lass.”
“It’ll hurt,” she warned, but as she stitched, the only sign of pain Fergus gave was a grunt here and there.
“Are ye doin’ all right?”
“I’ve had worse.”
The wound came together, and the stitching held when he sat up. It had stopped bleeding, and now, it was clean with no telltale irritation.
Jeane washed the blood off her hands in the bowl of water.
She turned back to Fergus, putting the poultice marked “wound” that she found among the healer’s things across Fergus’ wound. He did not make a sound as her fingers swept over his abdominal muscles, but they tensed all the same.
Jeane felt her breath hitch as she finished the work, bandaging the wound all over again with clean cloths this time instead of her ripped dress.
“Jeane?”
“Aye?” She turned, and Fergus put a finger under her chin, lifting her face to his.
Jeane, on her knees beside him on the bed, froze. He was so close that his nose nearly brushed against hers when he ducked his head slightly.
“Thank ye,” he said quietly and then stood easily, putting on a fresh tunic and striding out of the room.
He looked back at her, clearly expecting her to follow.
His thank ye had been so gentle, gentler than she would have imagined he could be, and it only made her more determined to get to know this man. She didn’t want to be his prisoner, but the other option was going back to her father, and that meant she might lose everything—her sanity, her life.
Perhaps Fergus could help her. Protect her. Maybe shewantedhim to be her protector.
Jeane stared at him for a moment before getting to her feet, following the Laird to wherever he might take her next.
