But she pushed the memories aside. He’d lost the right to affect her.
If it was any consolation—and it was—the removal of his clothing didn’t seem to be any more enjoyable for him. He stiffened and clenched his teeth in pain when they tried to move it past his shoulders. A task that was proving impossible. “Cut it off,” he said tightly.
Jeannie’s brows wrinkled. “Are you sure?” It was a fine garment, expertly worked, and by the look of it costly. Now that she thought about it, everything about him bespoke wealth. From the weaponry his men had removed and set beside him when they laid him down on the bed, to the gold scabbard at his waist, to his clothing. He’d done well for himself—very well. She’d never doubted he would.
“’Tis no matter,” he dismissed without a second thought. “And the sark as well. It will be easier than trying to lift it over my head.”
Jeannie reached down and slid the jewel-encrusted dirk from its scabbard, surprised by its weight. She turned it around in her hand, marveling at the workmanship. A weapon like this was fit for a king. Carefully, holding the dirk to his neck, she prepared to score the leather.
“Remember your promise,” he said. She eyed him quizzically. “To Conall.”
Not to hurt him. Her mouth quirked in spite of herself. “I’ll do my best, but the temptation might prove too difficult to overcome.”
And then, as if to emphasize her words, she held the edge of the blade to just below his jaw and in one decisive stroke, sliced from the neck to the edge of his shoulder.
To his credit he didn’t flinch. Not once. Not even when she slowly slid the blade along the opening at the neck of his shirt. Nor when her fingers accidentally brushed his bare skin.
But she did. The moment her fingertips met smooth, hot skin, she felt the jolt from head to toe. The intense awareness. The full body reaction. The sensation that every nerve ending had come alive. The same thing she’d felt all those years ago.
The weakness infuriated her—her body’s reaction seemed the ultimate betrayal. She could, however, control what she did with that reaction. She was no longer an innocent girl with stars in her eyes. So she buried it under years of hurt and disappointment where it belonged.
She could feel his eyes on her, and knew that he’d sensed her reaction, but she kept her focus on the task at hand. She continued wielding her blade through the material and after a few more minutes of struggling and cutting, the cotun and sark lay in shreds at his side.
She stood back to admire her handiwork and choked on the involuntary gasp. The bottom of her stomach dropped to the floor. She’d like to claim that it was from the bloody hole a few inches left of his right hip, but it wasn’t the wound that knocked her senseless.
It was the wide span of tanned chest and arms. Forsooth, he was incredible. As imposing a specimen of masculinity as she’d ever seen.
His countenance wasn’t the only thing that had changed with maturity. The lean build of youth had given way to thick slabs of finely chiseled, heavily built muscle. It was as if he’d been chipped from stone, each cut precise and honed to perfection, without an ounce of spare flesh on him. From the tight bands layered across his stomach, to the smooth round curves of his arms, he was built for one purpose: battle. And if the numerous scars that lined his chest and arms were any indication, he’d seen his fair share.
Heat spread over her, her limbs suddenly heavy. She couldn’t seem to look away.
She wasn’t the only one to notice. Mairghread might be approaching three score in years but she wasn’t blind, and such a display of masculine strength and power could only be admired.
He was no longer a boy, but a man. A warrior. Jeannie felt a pang in her chest. A stranger. This was not the boy she’d foolishly given her heart to, but a man who’d lived a life that she knew nothing about. The years stretched between them, separating, snapping any connection they’d once shared.
Her gaze fell.
For the next hour Jeannie worked alongside the healer, trying to undo the harm caused by her pistol and overeager trigger finger. When it became clear that they would need to dig out the ball, Jeannie started to call for one of his men to hold him down, but he stopped her.
His fingers circled her wrist. She fought a gasp, but the big, callused hand felt like a brand on her skin. She was at once cognizant of his strength. He could crush her bones with one squeeze.
“It won’t be necessary,” he said.
Jeannie eyed the healer, having some familiarity with recalcitrant patients of the Highland persuasion. Mairghread rolled her eyes and mumbled something about stubborn laddies.
“Are you sure?” Jeannie asked, carefully pulling her wrist free. Her skin tingled, and she had to resist the urge to rub the warm imprint of his touch away.
“Aye,” he replied grimly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had a bit of lead in me.”
She had to bite her tongue to prevent further questions, though when Mairghread began digging with her dirk, Jeannie doubted he would have been able to answer. His jaw locked, and every muscle in his neck and shoulders clenched against the pain that the knife must be causing. Sweat gathered on his brow, but he held perfectly still and said nothing—not one cry, not one grunt.
But his eyes burned into hers, holding her gaze the entire time. Jeannie’s pulse raced, her heart pounded in her too-tight chest through every agonizing minute, feeling as if she was seated on the edge of a precipice. When it was over, she was sure she was more exhausted than he was.
Mairghread assured her that the ball would not kill him—and as long as fever did not set in, he would recover well enough. Jeannie shuddered at the thought of fever. Now that the initial shock and anger of seeing him had faded, she didn’t want him dead, just gone.
After cleansing the wound with water and giving Jeannie a piece of linen with which to hold against the bleeding, Mairghread left for a few minutes to retrieve some herbs and salves from her storeroom near the kitchens.
Jeannie kept her gaze focused on the wound, but was deeply conscious of being alone with him. Of the uncomfortable silence broken only by the even sound of his breath and the erratic beat of her heart that not even her strong will could tame.
