Jeane woke to golden sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the warmth of a body beside her.
For a moment, panic seized her—where was she? Whose bed was this?
Then she felt the strong arm wrapped around her waist, smelled the familiar scent of pine and leather, and remembered.
Fergus.
She was in Fergus’ chambers. He’d carried her here last night after they’d returned to the castle, refusing to let her out of his sight even for a moment.
“Easy, little mouse,” his deep voice rumbled behind her. “Ye’re safe.”
Jeane turned in his arms to find him already awake, watching her with those dark eyes. His hair was mussed from sleep, and without his usual stern expression, he looked younger, softer.
“How long have ye been awake?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“A while,” he admitted. “I couldnae sleep. I kept thinkin’ that if I closed me eyes, ye might disappear again.”
Jeane’s throat tightened. She reached up to touch his scarred face, and he leaned into her palm like a cat seeking affection.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m nae goin’ anywhere.”
“Ye were cryin’ in yer sleep,” Fergus said quietly. “Callin’ out for me.”
Jeane blinked, trying to remember her dreams. Fragments came back to her—her father’s face, the knife at her throat, the fear that Fergus wouldn’t come in time.
“I dreamt ye dinnae find me,” she admitted. “That I was forced to marry Fraser, and ye… ye gave up on me.”
“Never,” Fergus said fiercely, pulling her closer. “I would never give up on ye, Jeane. I’d search the whole world over if I had to.”
“I ken that now,” she said, burying her face against his bare chest. “I kent it then, too. But the fear… it was still there.”
“Aye,” Fergus murmured, stroking her hair. “Fear doesnae always listen to logic.”
They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, just holding each other. Jeane could hear Fergus’ heartbeat, steady and strong beneath her ear.
Finally, Fergus pulled back slightly. “Let me see yer throat.”
Jeane had almost forgotten about the cut. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck, and Fergus’s jaw clenched when he saw the thin red line where the knife had pressed.
“I should have killed him slower,” Fergus muttered darkly. “Should have made him suffer for every mark he left on ye.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Jeane said.
“It’s nae just a scratch. He held a knife to yer throat, Jeane. He threatened to kill ye.”
“But he didnae,” Jeane pointed out. “And now, he cannae ever hurt me again.”
Fergus looked at her for a long moment then climbed out of bed. He walked to a basin of water near the window and wet a cloth.
“Come here,” he ordered gently.
Jeane sat up, pulling the furs around herself—she was still wearing her shift from yesterday, stained with dirt and blood. Fergus sat beside her and carefully cleaned the cut on her throat, his touch so gentle it made her want to cry.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Nay,” she said honestly. “I barely feel it.”
He moved on to her wrists where bruises had formed from her father’s grip. His fingers traced the marks with a feather-light touch.
