Page 85 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

Ness raised her head at the protest.

Paisley looked from Oscar to Ceana. “Will ye stay with her?”

“Aye.”

Oscar lowered himself beside the bed until he was level with the children. “Ye both did well to keep her company. Ye may come back at first light if she is awake.”

Tommy tightened his grip. “How will ye ken she will still be here?”

“Because I will be here.”

Ceana saw the promise in Oscar’s gaze and the careful distance he kept from the bruises on her arms. It was clear he had given the children the answer he needed for himself.

That thought made her skin prickle a little.

Paisley climbed out of bed first. She drew a night rail from beneath the blanket and placed it on the stool beside the fireplace.

“Mairi warmed it,” she said. “I thought ye might be cold after the bath.”

“That was wisely done.” Ceana touched her hand. “Thank ye.”

A small smile curved Paisley’s mouth before she collected Ness’s lead.

Tommy bent over Ceana’s uninjured hand and pressed his cheek against her knuckles. “Ye will be here when I return?”

“Aye.”

Oscar placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “She will.”

Paisley led Ness out of the room. Tommy followed, looking back before pulling the door shut. Their footsteps lingered outside, then retreated down the corridor.

Oscar remained where they had left him.

“Do ye still want the bath Muriel recommended?” he asked.

“Aye. I can smell smoke in me hair.”

At his call, servants carried in the portable tub and set it behind the screen near the fireplace. Ceana remained covered while they brought buckets of steaming water and clean linen. Oscar tested the water with the inside of his wrist, added cooler water, then placed a low stool beside the tub. He arranged the towels and comb within reach before dismissing everyone.

Once again, the door closed.

Oscar looked toward Ceana. “Can ye stand?”

“With yer arm.”

He offered his forearm and allowed her to set the pace. The first step pulled sharply beneath her ribs. Her breath hitched, and he stopped before she could attempt another step.

“Back to the bed?”

“Carry me to the stool.”

His gaze searched her face. Once she raised her arms as far as the bruises allowed, he slid one hand beneath her knees and supported her back with the other. He kept clear of her upper arms as he lifted her.

Ceana rested her cheek against his chest. The smell of blood and smoke clung to his clothes, and his heart pounded hard beneath her ear. He set her on the stool without lingering.

“Will ye help me with the fastenings?” she asked.

“Aye,” he responded and kneeled behind her, slowly loosening her gown. Each lace passed slowly through his fingers. When the sleeve caught around her strained right wrist, he stopped.