Chapter 29 #2
She had to stop thinking so much. Her thoughts were hard, unforgiving, like slaps across her soul.
“Madelyn,” he whispered, holding her hand tightly, “Madelyn, please . . .”
She began to gasp for air.
Was there anywhere safe?
The next thing she knew, she was sobbing.
It was excruciating. Her muscles protested every breath, her breath came in as if it were barbed, her body convulsed of its own accord.
She pulled her hand away from Patrick’s and covered her mouth, lest the entire countryside hear her weeping like a madwoman.
Patrick put his mouth against her ear as he whispered words of comfort, words she recognized for the most part, but many she didn’t.
She should have learned a few nice words, apparently.
She wept until she could weep no more. Then she hiccupped, which was even worse than weeping. And then even the hiccups stopped. She lay in his arms and merely drew in ragged breaths.
“Sorry,” she managed.
“Nay, ’tis I who am sorry,” he said. “For many things.” He pulled her more securely against him.
“Take your rest, Madelyn. I’ll keep you safe.
” He leaned up for a moment, reached over, and put his sword on the ground in front of her.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he said quietly as he lay down again and drew her close.
Madelyn looked at the blade gleaming dully in the faint daylight. In the matter of her body, she believed him fully.
In the matter of her heart?
She couldn’t bear to think about it.
She woke sometime later to find herself warm for the first time in almost a month. It was such a pleasure, she didn’t dare move, just in case she would break the spell. So she kept her eyes closed and savored the feeling.
Patrick stirred, then leaned up on his elbow and pulled the hair back from her face.
“How do you fare?” he asked softly.
“Wonderfully.”
“Liar.” He sat up. “We need water. There has been a stream near here at various points during the centuries. I need to go look for it before it grows completely dark.”
“Are we really in Moraig’s house?”
“Aye. Such as it was.”
Thinking about Moraig reminded her of everything the old woman had said.
She’d been telling the truth. Everything she’d said had been true.
She looked at Patrick and found it almost impossible to take in that this was a man who had been born centuries in the past, who had grown up in a time of swords and bloodshed.
But how could she now deny it?
Why hadn’t she seen it before? She’d been blind, preoccupied with other things like seeing castles and learning about their history—when all along she’d been walking next to a piece of that history and never known it.
She should have. It was her job to notice things that other people didn’t, to root out the facts, to uncover details that her targets didn’t want uncovered.
Yes, she should have seen it. For all his polish, there was something elementally raw underneath that polish. It was certainly more pronounced in his brother, that wildness, but it still ran true beneath Patrick’s surface.
“Will you be all right? Or would you like to go outside as well?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can move yet.”
“I’ll hurry then. Water, then I’ll find something to ease your pain.”
She nodded, then watched as he took his sword in his hand and left the hut. He looked at her once more with a reassuring smile before he closed the door—such as it was—and left her alone.
She found she didn’t like it at all. She managed to get herself into a sitting position.
That alone about killed her.
She wanted to sit against the wall, but she couldn’t. So she sat in the middle of the floor and sniveled as quietly as she could. She had serious doubts that she would ever again walk as a normal person should.
It took Patrick forever to come back. At least it felt like forever, and when he did come back, the noise of him at the door startled her so badly she squeaked in fright. He opened the door and peered in.
“Only me.”
She bowed her head and whimpered. It seemed like she just couldn’t do anything else. She supposed she would have to run out of tears eventually. She didn’t have that much water still in her system to be wasting it on luxuries like tears.
Patrick knelt down next to her. “The stream is still there.” He had made a cup out of bark. “The best I could do. I’ll make as many trips as you need. Drink slowly.”
She tried. A good deal of the water ended up down the front of her dress, but she supposed that couldn’t be anything but a good thing.
“More?” he asked.
“Please.”
He disappeared, then returned, this time with a handful of weeds. He helped her drink, then paused. “Do you need to, well ...”
“Pee? No, thank you. Not yet.”
“Let me know.”
“I will.”
He sat down and began to sort his weeds. She looked on with interest.
“Dinner?”
He shook his head with a smile. “Healing herbs, if you can believe it.”
“You’re very resourceful.”
He grunted. “Aye, that’s me. These are good for all sorts of aches. I’ll make you a plaster of them in a minute. But first, let me see if I can ease you some.” He helped her lie back, then sat down and gently pulled her feet into his lap.
Madelyn shivered. All right, he could drop her like a hot potato—after he’d rubbed her feet for a few years. She closed her eyes. He was gentle, but it was still quite painful.
“They took my boots,” she said.
“I daresay they would.”
“And my socks. And Jane’s coat.”
“Anything else?”
The way he said it, so casually, made her eyes open of their own accord.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Did they hurt you?”
The chill in his voice chilled her. She suspected she might feel sorry for anyone who had hurt her. Maybe those Fergussons he’d done in had gotten off lightly. She suspected a rapist would have fared much worse.
She smiled weakly. “Outside of the obvious?”
“It takes little for a MacLeod to execute a goodly bit of vengeance on a Fergusson,” he said easily. “I can go back. They do leave the keep occasionally. Alone. Unprotected.”
“I think you executed enough vengeance.”
“That was . . . collateral damage,” he said in English. Then he switched back to his mother tongue. “They deserved what they received. Now, is there aught else I should see them repaid for?”
She stared at him, wondering if she wasn’t seeing for the first time the man he’d been for a good part of his life, the medieval clansman he always wore buried underneath black jeans and cashmere sweaters.
She was fascinated and quite unsettled all at the same time.
“Anything,” he repeated.
“Patrick, they called me a MacLeod whore. They didn’t call me a Fergusson whore. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Aye, quite,” he said dryly.
She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the feeling of his hands on her feet. It wasn’t hard. “Trust me, I was too far beneath them to merit rape,” she said. “They just used me as their urinal. And it’s all in the past anyway. Tell me of your past. I’m quite interested.”
He hesitated. “You could consider it fiction.”
“Good grief, Patrick, I just spent a month and a half in a cage. I learned Gaelic to keep myself from going crazy. I’ve become all too familiar with the bowel habits of a medieval Scottish laird, his disgusting sense of humor, and his hatred for anyone bearing the name MacLeod.
We’re either really in the fourteenth century, or everyone around us is delusional and we’re all sharing the same delusion.
How likely is that? Get on with the story.
Either that or hand me your sword so I can poke at you with it to inspire you. ”
“You couldn’t lift it.”
“Want to test that?”
He looked down. His hands on her feet were incredibly gentle as he began.
“I’ll give you the tale,” he said with a smile.
“Finally. Now, do you mind if I close my eyes? I’m still listening. You wouldn’t think I’d be tired, what with all the rest I’ve been getting, but I’m tired just the same.”
“I understand.”
“And keep talking in Gaelic. I need the practice.”
“As my lady wishes.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. She meant to listen.
She really did. But she found that before he even started to speak, the feel of his hands on her feet was too much for her feeble will to remain lucid.
She felt herself sinking back into blissful oblivion, and she was powerless to resist the pull.
Maybe she should have been worried about the fact that she was hanging around in a dilapidated shack with a man who, while really tough, would probably be no match against an entire clan of furious Fergussons. But despite that, she felt safe.
And at the moment it felt as if it would last forever.
She opened her eyes a slit and looked at Patrick, just to make sure she wasn’t imagining him. He was staring at her with an expression it took her quite a while to identify.
Fondness? No.
Relief? No, not that, either.
It was something far more intense, something that made her pulse quicken and her temperature rise.
He looked at her as if he just might love her.
She smiled weakly, then closed her eyes quickly, before she saw anything else she would have to interpret.
For the moment, she felt safe.
That was enough.