Page 86 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

“Turn me hand inward,” she murmured.

Oscar followed her directions, supporting the joint until the sleeve slipped free.

For some odd reason, his restraint at that moment made her acutely aware of her exposed shoulders and his breath near the back of her neck.

“Did Muriel examine that?” Ceana asked, glancing at the cut near his hairline.

“It is shallow.”

“Shallow cuts still require cleanin’.”

“Ye may inspect it later. For now, ye need a bath.”

He helped her into the tub, supporting her left side while she lowered herself. The warm water stung the smaller scrapes along her legs.

“Bearable?” he asked.

“Aye.”

He folded dry linen beneath her bound palm and settled it on the rim. After removing the remaining pins from her hair, he slowly poured water over the strands. His palm shielded her eyes while smoke and dust ran into the bath.

Ceana closed them as his fingertips worked soap into her scalp. The pressure remained gentle, each movement steady until the tension at the back of her neck eased. He rinsed her hair and washed her shoulders, then paused with the cloth above her ribs.

“Here?”

“Lower. The left side is less sore.”

Oscar moved his hand lower. He washed her back before moving to her legs, lifting each one only far enough to pass the cloth beneath it.

“Thank ye for goin’ to Morrag,” Ceana said. “For savin’ me parents and the clansfolk.”

His hand stopped around her ankle. “Yer life isnae a debt ye owe me, Ceana.”

“Morrag isnae yer clan.”

Oscar sighed. “It is yers. That means it is mine as well.” He then set her foot into the water and reached for a clean cloth. “May I see yer arms?”

Ceana raised the left one carefully. Bryce’s finger marks had darkened across her skin. Oscar’s hand stopped before touching them. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he examined the edges with the lightest pressure.

“That part is tender,” she said, and he withdrew his fingers at once. She laid her uninjured hand over his wrist. “Bryce cannae touch me again.”

He looked at her face. His shoulders remained rigid, though his next breath came more evenly. He rinsed the soap from her skin and folded the cloth beside the tub.

“Now, kneel where I can reach ye,” she said.

“The cut has stopped bleedin’.”

“I cannae keep starin’ at it without doin’ nothin’, me Laird,” she responded, her voice a bit sharper than she had intended. “Someone needs to tend to it, and I ken it isnae goin’ to be ye.”

Oscar moved between the tub and the fireplace, then lowered himself to one knee.

Ceana wet a clean strip of linen in the tub and then wiped the dried blood from his brow, holding his temple steady with her thumb. His eyes closed briefly. Beneath the grime, she saw the deep shadows left by battle and two hard days in the saddle.

She cleaned a streak from his cheek and examined the small cut. “It has stopped bleedin’.”

Oscar did not move.

“See, that wasnae so hard now, was it?” she asked.