Page 51 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

A smile twitched his lips, if only for a moment. Aye, he could envision Aileana stanching her wound, then picking up tools to help another.

“The danger has passed, sister. ’Tis safe for ye to come out.”

He jogged back up the steps, leaving the womenfolk, and dashed back into the hall. Where had she set up surgery? The hall was abandoned, save his pair of wolfhounds pacing and whining. He shoved back through the castle doors and scanned the yard. There, beneath a shed, he saw his reluctant bride, arms deep in tending an injury. Her hair was mussed from her labor, her sleeves removed, blood upon her fingers and wrists, yet she worked diligently and doled out instructions to two of his serving lads. Relief, once more, assailed him, and he exhaled hard to see that she seemed well. And nay hiding in terror, but strong and bonny. What a boon for him. A woman like her poured forth her passion in spades.

As if sensing his stare, she lifted her gaze to his, noticing him…and smiled. A big, broad smile of relief that lit her face with such natural beauty, the madness of the skirmish faded. And did he see her chest convulse? Was she shedding tears? He swallowed hard, to know she was pleased with his return. Aye, so she was well—in body, at least—but the skirmish had upset her. He nodded to her, smiling back, and was landing his stride to go to her when Angus jogged up, intercepting him.

“We took out two balingers,” Angus finished. “Before MacLeod found his sense and retreated.”

“Good. Have the men secure our boats ashore so as to keep thieving MacLeod hands from sneaking back tonight and stealing what we sank.” He clasped his cousin’s shoulder. “I ken ye were nay keen on my wife when I first brought her home, but I thank ye for carrying her to safety.”

“Of course, cousin.” Angus dipped his head curtly. “I will say, I misjudged the lass based on her surname and saw yer handfast as a delightful political retaliation.”

James shifted uncomfortably, glancing to his woman, who was consumed by work once more. “In a way, it was, but…” He let whatever sentiment he might utter go. Words couldn’t express what her actions today meant, that she would help save the lives of men who had attacked Urquhart.

“Lady Aileana makes a fine chatelaine for our people. Five men were wounded. Thanks to her, they’ll live to see another sunrise, for Sir Lewis took an arrow to a blood vessel and risked bleeding out.”

James’s chest puffed up proudly, a reaction he couldn’t help. In fact, it looked like his man, Lewis, his trusted archer and guardsman that she stitched now, was gazing up at her, smiling in spite of the pain. “She makes me proud to call her my wife.”

“And we’re proud to call her our lady,” Angus replied, solemn faced. “Truly. Grant or no.”

Grant or no. Fok, but he’d been caught up in this illusion again, thinking of her as his own when he’d finally forced himself to accept the reality that she was going to leave. She wasn’t his woman. He’d not even spoken more than a handful of words to her since they’d lain together in the snow, their emotions, hurt, and need to be close intertwining them in a long, unending kiss, wishing he could summon her to his chambers or visit hers, as a husband truly would, while trying hard to prime his mind for her inevitable departure.

She peered out of the shed with such anxiousness on her face, it compelled him toward her. And that fear he’d felt when he’d seen her cowering on the shore, knowing one stray arrow would be enough to kill her, hastened his step until he jogged. He needed to see and touch her with his own eyes and hands, to know that she was well and hadn’t lied to their people about being injured to avoid sympathy.

Her skirts were dirty, a makeshift apron around her waist smeared with blood and grime. And on her face, she wore distress. For him? He arrived at the shed, his men lined up and bandaged, and snagged her around the waist, twirling her backward against a support, barely registering the tears brimming her eyes, and sank into a desperate kiss before he could think otherwise. His tongue pushed boldly into her mouth, his gauntlets gripping her head and waist possessively, and he shuddered with relief when she returned the desperate grip upon him. Carried upon the wave of initial panic, they allowed it to ease to simmering, and he pulled back to rest his forehead to hers.

“Angus reports that ye’ve made me proud, woman,” he growled.

She swallowed hard, her brow marred with sweat. “Ye needed a healer, duties of which I can perform.”

He kissed her nose, her fairie kisses, feeling such tenderness overwhelm him, feeling her sighs against his cheek, and he proceeded to kiss each one, gently, with painstaking care.

“Why did ye nay tell me ye’d be leaving and for the purpose that ye did?” she whispered, returning gentle pecks to his cheek.

He searched for an answer. Frowned.

“I remember a lass who ran from me with tears in her eyes after I kissed her, and when I heard yer grievance about my sire’s attack on Urquhart…” He cleared his throat. “I knew I had no right to ever ask ye to stay again. And it stung me to be near ye and no’ be able to kiss ye again for fear that my heart was on the line. I ken the terms of our handfast are real, lass, and it stabs my pride to be reminded of it, that ye’d choose to go home over me.”

She opened her mouth to launch an argument, but he talked over her, quelling her, “Ye have good reason. I never should have forced yer hand to begin with. Regardless, I still wish to end this turmoil betwixt our people, and offering back what I stole was the first step toward establishing that.”

Confusion marred her face. “Even if I go home?”

He nodded.

“Even though my brother raided ye, too?”

He swallowed hard, unable to answer honestly. He’d not done it for Seamus Grant. He’d done it because it was right.

“Why now, of all times?”

He closed his eyes, forehead still pressed to hers, and forced a response through tightened lips. “I’ve come to ken ye. I’ve come to understand that the origin of our clans’ feud has no relevance today. I’ve come to understand, by hearing yer anger and hurt, that yer lands were never mine, and I was wrong to vie for them, as was my faither. And blast it, but seeing ye upon the shore, as the MacLeods attacked…”

Her lips pressed back to his instead. She strained on the tips of her toes to reach upward. He held still, feeling her grip on his neck and shoulders tighten, offering a piece of her affection, and he capitulated, sinking into the kiss. Gratitude and relief released like a coil needing to spring, to feel her desire acted upon.

“I’m glad ye’re home,” she whispered against his lips.

“I’m glad to come home to ye—”