Neither of them said anything. Finally, he nodded. He would do his damnedest to make it up to the lad. As soon as he got him out of that castle.
The grim line of his mouth must have given his thoughts away.
She stiffened, as if bracing herself. “How did he seem, Eoin? Did he look”—her breath hitched—“well?”
His chest twisted, and he forced aside thoughts of the eager way the boy had taken the water and beef. “The lad is fine, Margaret,” he said firmly. “Perfectly hale as far as I could tell.”
She scanned his face intently, as if desperately wanting to believe him. “Then he is not suffering? He’s so small, I fear...” She turned to meet his gaze. “He has enough to eat?”
He didn’t answer her directly. “The castle has only been under siege for a short time. I’m sure whatever food there is is going to our son. He is not suffering.”
Yet. But how much longer?
She nodded, as if satisfied, but he wondered whether she’d noticed his careful response.
He shifted a little on the bed, wincing when the pain shot through his leg. It didn’t hurt that badly—until he moved. But he could feel the tight pounding of the swelling building in his leg. Despite all his protests to the contrary, he wasn’t completely certain it wasn’t broken or torn.
Margaret made a sharp gasp of horror that sounded a little bit like a squeak. “I forgot to bind your knee! The man who left to fetch the healer told me what to do. I’m afraid I’m not giving you a very good impression of my nursing skills.”
“Magnus MacKay,” he said, before he could stop himself. But he supposed she would find out soon enough anyway, when the big Highlander returned with Helen. “Helen—the healer—is his wife.”
She nodded, and then tilted her head to him contemplatively. “I should have guessed he was a Highlander from his size. Were the rest of the men you were with Highlanders as well?” She gave a mock shudder and laughed. “I felt as if a ghost had walked behind me the first time I saw them all.”
Eoin cursed inwardly. Her jests were too damned close to the truth. Having her see his brethren in their helms and armor had been unfortunate. He’d wanted his son to recognize him so had dispensed with the nasal helm. But the blackened armor had become all too connected to Bruce’s “Phantoms,” as people called them.
Not wanting to risk any more questions, he shifted again—purposefully. The resulting wince he made because of the pain made her gasp again—this time with a muffled oath—and she hastened to fetch the cloth to bind his knee.
She returned quickly, but then stopped and paused, staring down at his leg. She bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly. “I need you to remove your chausses. Do you need help?”
He resisted the urge to shout, “Hell no.” Instead, he shook his head. “I can manage.”
The pain it caused him would be infinitely preferable to the pain of having her hands on him. Offering to help him remove his tunic had been bad enough—although he’d also wanted to prevent her from seeing his tattoo—but having her hands so close to...
He shuddered.
Clenching his teeth against the pain, he sat up and began to work the ties of the chausses. He had to move around quite a bit to get them off, but in a few minutes all that was between him and a whole heap of trouble was his tunic and a thin pair of linen braies.
He hadn’t thought the injury looked that bad until she exclaimed, “It looks horrible. It’s almost twice the size and already discolored with bruising. It must hurt terribly. Are you sure you don’t want something for the pain?”
What he wanted right now would only cause more pain. He shook his head. “Just wrap it.”
She did, but even that wasn’t a good idea. She had to sit on the edge of the bed to lean over him, and every time she did her breasts grazed tantalizingly close to his cock, and her silky hair slid forward across his chest. He ached to bury his face in both of them. He was holding himself so tightly he forgot to breathe.
“Are you all right?” she asked, turning her face to meet his as she finished securing the bands of linen around his knee. “Am I hurting you?”
“Aye,” he said with a grimace, “but not in the way you mean.”
Clearly, she didn’t understand.
“It’s not my knee, Maggie.”
It took her a moment, but then her eyes widened and fell on the place he meant—only causing him more pain. And a groan.
“Oh,” she said softly. Their eyes met. He could see the questions looking back at him. Questions he couldn’t answer. “Eoin, I...”
He heard her hesitation, and understood it because he felt it, too.
“It’s probably not a good idea,” she finished.
