Another truth he would be keeping to himself.
Isabella folded her hands in her lap. “I mean, how did he break the skin? There is so much blood.” She looked askance at the smeared stains on the floor. They tracked a path along the grooved floorboards from under the bed to where she now sat.
Hamish grimaced, keeping his surging temper under wraps. “He wears a ring.” He indicated his right hand.
“Ah.” Understanding dawned across her delicate features.
“He will not hurt ye again. I will make sure of it.”
She did not ask how he would do this. And he was grateful, for he had no proper explanation. All he knew was that he would go to his grave protecting this woman. How he longed to put an arm about her shoulders and coax her head onto his chest. He could inhale the citrusy fragrance of her golden hair and all would be well in his world.
Hamish rose abruptly to his feet and fetched over the pitcher. “Dinna move,” he instructed her. “I will be as quick as I can.”
He dropped to his knees, dampened a linen cloth and dabbed gently at the wound, cleaning away the blood that had encrusted on her cheek. Isabella closed her eyes, so he had full view of her curling eyelashes and porcelain skin. His gaze lowered to her slender neck, but he could not allow himself to go further; not after the liberties that Alaric had wreaked upon her.
His hand shook and he told himself to concentrate on the task at hand, rinsing the cloth and applying minimal pressure until the cut was finally cleaned.
Hamish prayed it would not leave a scar. He could not bear for Isabella’s pure beauty to be marred by his neglect of her safety.
He sank down onto his knees and dropped the cloth into the pitcher. “I am finished.”
Still, she did not open her eyes. “Thank you, Hamish.”
“Are you in pain?” The thought troubled him.
“Only a little,” she replied hesitantly.
“Then why do ye not open yer eyes?” He wanted to look into their blue depths; to see the thoughts racing across her quick mind. Some said that the eyes were the window to the soul, and if that was the case, Isabella had shuttered her soul away from him.
She gave her head a little shake, her long hair rippling over her shoulders like a waterfall over rocks. “I cannot tell you.”
Purely on impulse, Hamish gently placed his hand on top of hers. “Please.”
Her breathing came faster, but she opened her eyes and he was immediately a prisoner of her transfixing gaze. “You will think me touched in the head.”
He could not help it. He reached out and touched her face, his hand slipping into her golden tresses. She leaned into his palm and he closed his eyes, unable to countenance his good fortune.
“Stay like that,” she whispered. “’Tis easier to speak if you are not looking at me.”
With his eyes closed, Hamish was near defenseless. She could reach for his sword or strike him over the head without his foreknowledge. But somehow, he trusted her.
“Speak then,” he whispered back.
She leaned closer, so her clean citrus scent almost overwhelmed him. “I was enjoying having you near me. I wanted to prolong it.”
Shivers of anticipation ran down his spine. “I was enjoying it, too.”
He should say something more profound. Words had always come easily to him, but now he floundered for them. He tried again. “I always enjoy being with ye, Isabella.”
He smelled smoke from the fire and heard the raggedness of her breathing. He dared not open his eyes lest he scare away whatever this magical thing was that was happening between them.
He felt the moment she moved away and severed the connection between them. Full of regret, he opened his eyes to find her staring blankly into the flames.
He sensed her next words before she said them. “You enjoy threatening me?”
“Nay. Never that.” His knees ached, but not more than his knuckles. Hamish swung his legs from under him and tentatively stretched them out. Now he was more on a level with Isabella.
Now, he fancied, they might have the honest conversation he had planned.
