Chapter 4 #2
His dark eyes narrowed. “Forrest? Ye’re Laird McKay’s daughter. Ye’ve been missin’ for—”
“Three days,” Jeane answered for him. “And I cannae go back, ye understand?”
She clutched at his tunic, desperate for his agreement, for some sign that he would not send her back.
Fergus’ eyes searched her face, but then he nodded, seeming satisfied.
“I cannae begin to understand yer reasons, but ye must have good ones to be so sure. As long as ye cooperate, I will keep yer secret.”
Jeane let out a sigh of relief, letting go of Fergus’ tunic. She realized the man had put his arms around her waist, and she flushed as his thumb brushed across her hip.
She moved away from him.
“Ye should let me check yer wounds. Change the bandages,” Jeane insisted, and Fergus scoffed.
“It’s nothing.”
Jeane lifted his tunic slightly to see the wound still weeping blood.
She raised an eyebrow. “More than nothing.”
Fergus winced as the fabric fell back down over the wound.
“All right. Ye can patch me up. But then ye’ll meet me sister.”
Jeane nodded, and she and Fergus walked toward the main castle.
When she walked in, Jeane could not help but compare the castle to her father’s.
The McCloud castle was twice the size of the McKay castle with extravagant furniture placed all around and soft furs decorating the backs of the chairs and couches.
It was warm inside with a fire going in the large fireplace.
Jeane longed to go and warm her hands, but Fergus tugged her behind him up the staircase.
They arrived at his bedchambers, and Jeane blushed. She had never been unescorted in a man’s bedchambers before, not even her father’s.
She took in a breath as she passed the threshold, blinking up at Fergus, who was removing his tunic with one hand. He reached past her to close the door, his abdomen nearly brushing her hand.
She shivered at the almost-touch.
“Are ye cold?” Fergus asked, his scarred, tight abdomen distracting Jeane. She was supposed to be looking at the wound, but the muscles across his chest and stomach were difficult to look away from.
She shook her head although she was a little.
“Here,” he said, placing soft furs around her neck.
She could not help but nuzzle against it. “Bear?”
“Fox,” he corrected her. “Me father was a big fox hunter.”
“And ye arenae?”
He shook his head. “Nae as much, nay.”
He looked almost sad, his mouth turning down at the corners.
Jeane looked at him, tilting her head to one side, intrigued. “Are ye close with yer father?”
Fergus’ expression seemed to go blank. “I used to be.”
Jeane wanted to ask more, but Fergus didn’t seem like he was in the mood to talk. Not about his father, anyway.
“Sit down.”
Fergus smirked. “Ye like bossin’ me around, lass?” He paused. “Jeane.”
Her name coming off his lips made Jeane shiver again, despite the furs.
“Lie back, let me see the wound,” she said, and hissed when she saw how deep it was. “It doesnae appear to have hit anythin’ vital, but ye need stitches.”
She had not had the tools to stitch him up in the forest, and she had been worried the man might bleed out while they were riding here.
“Then do it,” he ordered.
“I will need supplies—”
He cut her off. “Molly!” he called as they heard footsteps going past the room. “In here.”
A young girl with long, braided red hair opened the door, startled, and nodded at attention.
“Me Laird?”
“Bring Morna’s things.”
Fergus sat down on the edge of the bed.
A large black bag was brought into the room, and Jeane rummaged through it, finding some of what she needed. Fishing line for the thread and a sharp needle but nothing to clean the wound with.
“Bring a bowl of hot water and some cloth,” Jeane said to Molly, who just nodded, her blue eyes wide as she looked at Jeane. When Molly brought the steaming water, Fergus remained lying down on his bed, looking up at Jeane.
“Do yer worst, lass.”
“It’ll hurt,” she warned, but as she stitched, the only sign of pain Fergus gave was a grunt here and there.
“Are ye doin’ all right?”
“I’ve had worse.”
The wound came together, and the stitching held when he sat up. It had stopped bleeding, and now, it was clean with no telltale irritation.
Jeane washed the blood off her hands in the bowl of water.
She turned back to Fergus, putting the poultice marked “wound” that she found among the healer’s things across Fergus’ wound. He did not make a sound as her fingers swept over his abdominal muscles, but they tensed all the same.
Jeane felt her breath hitch as she finished the work, bandaging the wound all over again with clean cloths this time instead of her ripped dress.
“Jeane?”
“Aye?” She turned, and Fergus put a finger under her chin, lifting her face to his.
Jeane, on her knees beside him on the bed, froze. He was so close that his nose nearly brushed against hers when he ducked his head slightly.
“Thank ye,” he said quietly and then stood easily, putting on a fresh tunic and striding out of the room.
He looked back at her, clearly expecting her to follow.
His thank ye had been so gentle, gentler than she would have imagined he could be, and it only made her more determined to get to know this man. She didn’t want to be his prisoner, but the other option was going back to her father, and that meant she might lose everything—her sanity, her life.
Perhaps Fergus could help her. Protect her. Maybe she wanted him to be her protector.
Jeane stared at him for a moment before getting to her feet, following the Laird to wherever he might take her next.
“What’s wrong with yer sister?” she asked as they walked. The castle seemed endless, unlike the small halls of her father’s place.
“She’s been sick for five days. I was going to find a healer after trainin’ yesterday, but ye saw what happened,” Fergus responded, not looking at her.
“She’s nae improvin’?”
Fergus shook his head. “She’s gettin’ worse.”
“Has she always been sickly?”
Fergus shook his head. “Nay. But Aiden’s brother has. After we meet with Lottie, I will be takin’ ye there.”
Jeane frowned. It seemed she would be doing plenty of work for Fergus, but she supposed that was what she was here for.
“What’s her trouble?” Jeane asked. “Cough? Fever?”
“Both,” Fergus answered quietly. “She’s nae sleepin’, either. Wakes up every night coughin’ so badly she cannae breathe.”
Aiden, the man Jeane had met earlier, was standing in the doorway of Lottie’s room, holding a tray of food.
Fergus nodded at him, apparently nonplussed that the man was in his sister’s bedchambers.
As they breached the doorway, the woman on the bed came into view. She had dark hair and eyes, like her brother, and she was gorgeous, with a heart-shaped face and a thick braid of shiny hair over her shoulder. She seemed to be around Jeane’s age, maybe a year or two younger.
She and Fergus could have been twins, and it would not have surprised Jeane. Her face was too pale, though, sweat breaking out across her brow as she coughed.
The cough sounded wet which alarmed Jeane.
Aiden set the tray down next to her, kneeling to readjust the furs over her shoulders. He looked at her with his brows knitted together, clearly concerned.
Jeane fought back a smile. Aiden was clearly sweet on Lottie, and suddenly, he did not seem so intimidating and frightening.
“Stop fussin’ over me,” the young woman said. She looked up at Fergus when he rapped on the doorjamb. “What are ye doin’ here? Who’s this?”
“I brought ye a healer. She will be workin’ with us from now on.”
Jeane gritted her teeth. She had made no such promise. She looked over at Fergus, about to retort, when Lottie spoke up.
Lottie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, lovely! A healer who isnae an old hag.”
“Ye shouldnae speak ill of the dead,” Aiden scolded, but Lottie ignored him.
“We’ll be the best of friends,” Lottie chattered, and Fergus snorted out a laugh before putting a hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “What’s yer name?”
Jeane wracked her brain, hesitating, but Fergus answered for her.
“Liliana Murdoch,” he said easily, as if he had made it up on the spot.
Jeane looked up at him, surprised, but did not correct him. He was keeping her secret.
Maybe Laird McCloud was not so bad after all.