Page 23 of His Forgotten Highland Bride

Nay, he’d not use it on her. At least, she didn’t think so.

The heavy thud of a boot made her jump, but she was prepared for the one that followed. Then the quiet hiss of fabric slipped over his body as he removed his kilt.

She hadn’t breathed as she listened for the quieter sound of his shirt being pulled over his head. Instead, she felt his weight on the bed and the shifting of the blankets as he got settled on the other side.

A soft moan left his lips, and she couldn’t help but ask at least one of her many questions. “Are you in pain?” she whispered.

“Nay. The opposite. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve slept on a mattress. I’ve forgotten how wonderful it feels not to have the hard earth as a bed.”

“It seems you’ve forgotten many things,” she said, unable to hold her tongue.

If she thought to prod him into a conversation, she would have failed for no longer had she made her biting remark than his breathing evened out in sleep. She was even more irritated that he could find peace so easily while she lay there, unable to settle. It didn’t help when his calm breathing picked up and turned to frantic cries for help. His body tossed and jerked as he fought off the demons that haunted his sleep. Unable to let him suffer, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm and rubbed his sweaty skin. “Shh,” she said. “You’re safe now, Ronan.” She repeated the words several times until he stilled and relaxed with a soft whimper.

She wasn’t sure what had happened to her husband in the five years he’d been gone, but it was clear he had been injured, and the damage was not just in his leg.

***

Ronan woke late in the morning. He hadn’t slept so soundly since he’d been fevered from the wound to his leg. Shane had worried he wouldn’t wake up, so close Ronan was to death during those days. Eventually, he came through it, feeling like the devil himself and wishing maybe he hadn’t. This morning, he wasn’t weakened or in great pain. Just the average amount of pain he’d become accustomed to.

His wife was gone; he wasn’t surprised. Not only did she not seem the type to laze about in bed, but he imagined she had been counting down every minute until the sun rose so she could flee the room they’d shared.

He didn’t know what he’d expected when coming to their room the night before, but it wasn’t the shy woman who removed her robe under the covers. She appeared to be the same untried lass he’d bedded five years ago, in actions rather than looks.

His wife had grown beautiful—not in the way a man noticed right away, but in the way that made her more lovely every time he looked at her. He wondered briefly if it would continue to be like that as they grew older. Maybe his uncle was right, and she was a witch who’d cast a spell on Ronan.

Thinking such a thing made him question Ewan’s other claims that his wife had bedded half the warriors. He hadn’t missed how she’d worded her answer the night before. That no man had slept in the room since him. Ronan knew well enough that one didn’t need to spend the night sleeping to take part in bed sport. After all, he’d never slept with a woman the night through until his wedding night. Not that it had been the whole night.

He’d dozed for some time with her in his arms, and then, as the sky was just being touched by the first light of the new day, he’d slunk from the bed, grabbed his knapsack, and headed downstairs.

His grandsire had been waiting for him, and Ronan recalled how he’d worried the man planned to return his offer to allow Ronan to go to France. But while he’d asked if Ronan was sure he wished to leave his young bride’s bed for a life as a soldier, he’d merely nodded and asked Ronan to be careful and come back when he wrote for him.

Ronan had done precisely that. But now he wondered what his wife had been up to all that time. The men had followed her and stood by her door, but the way they watched their lady was not with the admiration of a lover but that of a protector. Ronan had seen how fiercely they respected her.

He didn’t know the younger men but remembered Will and Hugh. They wouldn’t follow a leader who hadn’t earned the right to rule the clan.

So which was it? Was she a power-hungry witch, or did his grandsire trust her over his son to care for the clan until Ronan returned to claim his birthright? He’d looked for bruises on her throat the night before but saw no sign of the injury her guard had spoken of. Had Ewan threatened her life as the man had said?

Someone was lying. But if it had been Ewan, why hadn’t Brenna told him the truth? The answer whispered in his ears. She knew I wouldn’t believe her. The guard had asked if Ronan was ready to hear the truth.

“Yes,” he said as he dressed. “Yes, I bloody well am.”