“I wish I could have saved ye from all of this,” he said quietly. “From yer faither, from the fear, from havin’ to run away in the first place.”
“Ye did save me,” Jeane insisted. “Ye saved me in every way that matters.”
Fergus set down the cloth and cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.
“How do ye feel?” he asked. “About… about what happened. About yer faither.”
Jeane was quiet for a moment, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions in her chest.
“I daenae ken,” she admitted. “I should feel somethin’, shouldnae I? Grief or relief, or… somethin’. But I just feel… empty.”
“That’s all right,” Fergus assured her. “There’s nay right way to feel about this.”
“He was me father,” Jeane said, her voice breaking. “He was supposed to love me, protect me. Instead, he tried to sell me to a monster. And when ye killed him, I felt… nothin’. What does that make me?”
“Human,” Fergus said firmly. “It makes ye human, Jeane. Yer father didnae deserve yer love or yer grief. He spent yer whole life hurtin’ ye. Ye daenae owe him yer tears.”
“But I feel like I should cry,” Jeane said, frustrated. “Like there’s somethin’ wrong with me that I cannae.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with ye,” Fergus insisted. “Ye’re the strongest, bravest woman I’ve ever met. And if ye need to cry, ye can. If ye need to scream or rage or just sit in silence, that’s all right too. Whatever ye need, I’m here.”
That broke something loose in Jeane’s chest, and suddenly she was sobbing—not for her father, but for the little girl she’d been. The child who had desperately wanted her father’s love and never received it. The young woman who had lived in fear for so long.
Fergus held her through it all, whispering soft words in Gaelic that she didn’t understand but found comforting all the same.
When her sobs finally subsided, Jeane pulled back, wiping at her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m such a mess.”
“Daenae apologize,” Fergus said, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “Ye’ve been through hell, little mouse. Ye’re allowed to be a mess.”
Jeane let out a watery laugh. “I must look awful.”
“Ye look beautiful,” Fergus said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Ye always look beautiful to me.”
Jeane looked down at herself—dirty shift, tear-stained face, bruises on her wrists and throat.
“I need a bath,” she said.
“I’ll have one drawn for ye,” Fergus said, starting to stand, but Jeane caught his hand.
“Will ye… will ye stay with me?” she asked, flushing. “I daenae want to be alone right now.”
Fergus’s expression softened. “Aye, little mouse. I’ll stay.”
The bath was drawn in Fergus’s chambers, a large wooden tub filled with steaming water scented with lavender. Mary had brought it, along with soft towels and clean clothes, giving Jeane a warm smile before she left.
Jeane stood by the tub, suddenly shy. She’d been intimate with Fergus before, but this felt different somehow. More vulnerable.
Fergus seemed to sense her hesitation. He turned his back, giving her privacy to undress.
“Tell me when ye’re in,” he said.
Jeane quickly shed her dirty shift and stepped into the water, sighing as the heat enveloped her. It felt like heaven on her sore muscles.
“I’m in,” she said.
Fergus turned back, and Jeane was struck by the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at her.
