“Let’s have a look at that cut on yer forehead,” she said, a curt edge to her voice now.
Ailean stiffened. When the sting came, he hissed.
She leaned in close—so close he caught the hint of rosemary.
A familiar scent. Her clothing smelled of lanolin and dye, but her skin was different.
He remembered their last encounter in her dye-house at Dounarwyse. How he’d taken her against the wall, buried his face in her neck, and breathed in that same perfume.
She bathed with rosemary soap. It would forever remind him of her.
“Ye’ll need four or five stitches at least,” she said, then pulled a face. “One for each MacDonald who attacked ye.”
“Well, that’s fitting,” he said, trying to lighten the moment. “A stitch for each bastard I bested.”
She huffed and eyed him. “Why do ye always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act as if nothing bothers ye. As if ye’re invincible.” Her gaze sharpened. “Ye clearly aren’t.”
Silence fell as she gathered the needle and catgut.
Ailean watched her thread it. “It’s my way of managing, I suppose,” he admitted finally. “It’s easier to make light of things.”
She inclined her head. “Ye think showing others who ye really are is a sign of weakness?”
He grimaced. “Isn’t it?”
“Sounds like a sure way to end up miserable,” she replied with a shake of her head.
Their gazes held before he cleared his throat. “Yeknow who I am, Fiona,” he said softly.
“Do I?” she replied, her manner stiffening. “I don’t think ye ever really let me in.” She moved closer then. “Grip the table. Hard. This will hurt.”
It did.
Each stitch burned. Fire raced down his face. But he didn’t flinch this time. He just gripped onto the table until his fingers ached.
“Ye’re doing well,” she said. Grudging respect laced her voice now. “I was wrong. Ye’re not a bairn about this.”
He made a sound, half laugh, half groan.
Eventually, she finished and cleaned the wound. “These will need to be removed in a week. Come to the tavern, and I’ll do it.”
“Thank ye,” he said, still breathless from pain.
She inclined her head, scrutinizing him. “How do ye feel?”
“I’ve felt better. My head hurts.”
She frowned. “Ye need rest.”
As she turned away, he caught her wrist gently. “I’m glad ye came to find me in the tower,” he said. “It means more than ye know.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I was out for a walk and saw that shifty group of men struggling down the hill. I had to check on ye. I’d have done it for anyone.”
“And were ye relieved to find me alive?” He knew he shouldn’t ask the question, yet he couldn’t help it.
