Reade bit at his lips, chewing them bloody, and forced himself to relax his arm. He dropped his head and focused on an image of Blair in his mind, with her wavy chestnut hair and impossibly blue eyes, her firm breasts and smooth hips, her laughter and her cautious smile, to remove his mind from his body. He took a deep breath and loosened his curled fist, resting his arm as much as he could.
True to her word, Mona worked quickly. First, she doused the wound with her own bottle of whiskey, and he hissed as it burned deeper than anything he imagined. Her nimble fingers then pinched and pulled, tying him back together, and the burning faded under her ministrations. When she was done, she returned to her pots that clinked as she dipped the corner of a linen into golden honey. She smeared it across the sewn wound, igniting another burst of burning pain in his arm, then wrapped the linen around the wound. Taking a second linen, she did the same with it and tied it off at the back of his arm.
Reade exhaled slowly as the pressure from Hewie and Maddock disappeared. Mona patted his head like he was a wee lad as he glanced at her handiwork. The wound was securely swathed, ready to heal.
“Dinna use the arm much for the next few days. No sword play for certain. Once the crust of the scab falls off, wait two more days, then cut out the catgut. Once ye do that, ye can pick up a sword again. Say a fortnight.”
Reade exhaled again, relieved that he would retain the use of his arm. Resting it as Mona instructed would be easy enough.
“And dinna get it into your head to do anything else. Ye and your obstinate ways. Will ye no’ learn, laddie?” Mona chastised as she cleaned up her implements.
Seamus chortled from the corner of the room. “Nay, I dinna believe he’ll ever learn, Mona!”
The men were laughing heartily at Reade’s expense when Sorcha entered the hall. Reade’s irritation faded over his concern for Blair. He rose on unsteady feet as she swept closer to the men.
“Mother! How is Blair?”
Sorcha’s lips had pulled into an odd side smile which curled up farther at his question.
“I think ye should see to her yourself.”
“Mother –”
Sorcha pointed to the steps. “Go. And dinna fall on your face.”
Reade went.
His chamber door wasopen a crack as if beckoning him to enter. A low fire crackled at the wide hearth, warming the room. Spring had enveloped the land in her blooming embrace, but here in the Highlands, nights rarely gave up their chill. A lone candle also flickered next to the immense bed, where Blair sat in her shift atop the thick blankets, still pale, but not as much as she had been in the wood. Her hair was freshly brushed back from her clear brow. To Reade, she resembled an angel he’d seen once in a stained glass at Dunkeld Cathedral when he was a lad.
Her eyes roved over his body as he moved toward his wardrobe. They swirled like the sky before a storm, full of worry, fear, and fatigue. He wanted to race to her, draw her into his arms, but his one-sleeved tunic and his kilt were caked with dirt and mud. From his wardrobe, he grabbed a pair of fresh braies and tossed them on the end of the bed. With his good arm, he unbuckled his belt and lifted his plaid from his shoulders with a grimace, then let the entire matted kilt drop to the floor at his feet.
His tunic, well that was another matter. His right arm only lifted partway, and his tunic got stuck halfway up. Reade cursed silently. He couldn’t even undress himself!
“Here, allow me,” Blair said in a quiet voice as she rose from the bed and padded over to him. Her slender arm bent his left one, guiding it out of the sleeve. Then he bent at the waist so she might pull the rest over his head. She took care not to brush against his injured arm and held the ratty material between her finger and thumb. It was less a tunic and more a soiled scrap of fabric.
“Do ye wish I might try to mend it?” she asked with a slight tone of mockery in her voice. Reade didn’t blame her. The garment was beyond salvaging.
“Nay. ‘Twould sever better as kindling, do ye think?”
A slight smile broke her cautious face, and she stepped to the hearth and tossed what remained of his tunic into the flames that gobbled it up with ease.
Blair returned and studied his injured arm. “What did the healer say about it? Will ye yet have use of the arm?”
Something deep in Reade’s chest rumbled, and he gripped her arm with his good hand, shoving her close to him.
“I dinna have a care for my arm! What of ye?”
She dropped her gaze briefly before lifting her eyes back to him. They were clearer than before, but still narrowed. She was unable to completely let go of her wariness. Had this day scarred her mind the same way it had scarred his skin? Reade loosened his grip and slid his arm around her back, a comforting embrace for whatever troubled her thoughts.
“What of ye?” he repeated, tempering his voice.
She dropped her chin to her chest again, and his heart raced in his chest. Was she sicker than he’d thought? Had something else happened?
“Back on the trail, ye asked me why I chose ye. Why I decided to stay when ye offered me my freedom.”
Her voice wavered as she spoke, and she rested a slim hand against his broad chest. Reade splayed his fingers against her back, as if trying to cup her entire backside with one hand. Her skin was warm under the thin fabric of her shift.
“Aye. And ye told me.” But one of the answers he had hoped for – that she cared for him, perchance loved him – had not been in her list of reasons. Mayhap she was going to share that with him now? Though he had not said it aloud, he had grown to care for her, love her despite their complications, and he hoped she might feel the same. His heart quaked again.
