“Ye should listen to Lilliana, ye ken,” Lottie said dryly.
“And why would I do that?” he asked. He knew he sounded petulant, but he could not seem to help arguing with his sister.
It was Jeane’s fault, all of it.
“Because she’s our healer!” Lottie said, sounding exasperated. Her voice quieted. “Because she has yer best interests at heart. As do I, brother.”
Fergus felt himself softening and hated it. He looked down at Jeane, who had her hands on her hips, looking damnably adorable with her pouted lips.
He sighed. “Can ye fix it?”
“Of course, I can fix it,” Jeane said, sounding almost offended. “Take off yer tunic.”
Fergus fought a smile at how she was ordering him around but did as she bade, pulling his tunic off with one hand.
The action made him grunt in pain as his wound pulled at the edges.
He stared down at Jeane, but she would not look at him.
Typical. She thought him a monster, just like Iris. Just like everyone else.
Jeane was barely breathing as she trailed her fingertips across the edges of Fergus’ wound. She wanted to trace over other scars, spread her hands across his broad chest. The last time she had been near him, he had pleasured her with his fingers, and her face flushed at the memory.
“That hurts,” Fergus said flatly as she tested the stitches, and Jeane glared at him.
“Of course, it hurts. Ye pulled half yer stitches out.”
“I was trainin’,” he said again, as if that should placate her.
“Ye need rest to get better,” she said, and Fergus grunted in response. He was in amoodtoday, it seemed.
She could not imagine why, given what had happened between them the night before. Did he find her childish? Did he not enjoy touching her?
She swallowed hard, fighting tears at the very thought that he might not want her. What was wrong with her? This manhad kidnapped her, and she was worried about him not being attracted to her.
She grabbed her black bag and hurried to her work. She ripped the old stitches out with a seam ripper, and Fergus made a few grunts and growls to show her he was unhappy with the pain.
“I can give ye somethin’ for the pain,” she offered softly, feeling bad as she looked up at his pained expression.
He shook his head briskly. “Nay. I daenae like the way it makes me feel.”
Jeane nodded. She could understand not enjoying the fuzzy feeling that opium draughts could give ye. The wound was irritated, but it did not seem infected; there were no telltale red lines stretching out from the injury.
Thank God.
As annoyed as Jeane was with Fergus’ attitude, she would not want him ill. She cared for him in her way, even if it was complicated.
She made quick work of stitching, and Fergus did not even make a sound. When she was done, she picked up Fergus’ bloody tunic from the floor and handed it to him so that he would not hurt himself leaning over to get it.
He looked down at her for a long moment, and she started to think maybe he would thank her.
Instead, he said nothing, just stared into her eyes like he was staring into her very soul.
“The next time ye open up yer wounds, I willnae help ye,” she snapped, annoyed, and Fergus just smirked at her.
“We both ken ye daenae mean that, lassie,” he drawled, and Jeane blew out a breath in frustration.
“Ye daenae kenwhatI mean.”
