Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Bloody hell, Me Laird, ye’re going to kill me,” Aiden complained as Fergus swung the wooden sword, clashing it down on Aiden’s stick.
Aiden preferred a walking stick to a wooden sword because it was quicker. Not today, though.
Fergus pushed him back against the fence, roaring as he swung the sword again, swinging it with all the anger and frustration he felt after the night before. The stick cracked in two, and Aiden cursed again.
Fergus could not stop thinking about Jeane—about her swollen lips, mouth parted as she looked up at him with lust-blown brown eyes. About her hot, wet womanhood beneath his fingers...
Lord, he wanted her. He wanted her so badly he could not think straight, and she had told him she wanted someone else. At least, that was what he had taken away from the conversation. She would not marry him but wanted him to find her a husband?
He pictured a faceless man in his mind, a man standing beside Jeane in her wedding dress, and rage rushed red through his vision. He swung his sword again, and Aiden’s trusty stick shattered into splinters.
Aiden looked up at him with wide eyes. “Me Laird. Ye wouldnae hit an unarmed man, would ye?”
Fergus took in a deep breath and moved away from his friend, not truly wanting to hurt the man. He was just trying to survive this whirlwind that was Jeane Forrest and somehow break the hold she had on him.
It must be his scarred, awful face. It was the only explanation of why Jeane would not marry him. She wanted him; that much was clear. He was good enough to kiss her, but she did not want to be associated with him. Did not want people to see them together.
He had lost so much that day. His confidence, his happiness. His friend. His looks. Even his betrothed.
He thought about Iris, the woman who had rejected him that day, her eyes wide and terrified as she looked at his scars.
Fergus’ chest felt tight, anger warring with pain inside him.
He wanted to keep hitting, keep throwing his sword until he could no longer think.
Because all he could think about was Jeane, how she was going to leave him.
How she could never love a man as damaged as him.
Fergus panted, breathing hard after his assault on Aiden. Distracted, one of his men stabbed him in the side with a wooden sword, making him growl in sudden pain. It hurt worse than usual, and when he looked down at his tunic, he was shocked to see blood seeping through the fabric.
Shite.
He must have opened up the wound that Jeane had stitched up.
He would have to find her, get her to fix it again.
The thought made his heart flip over in his chest. As angry as he was right now, he still wanted to see her.
Wanted to see those doe-brown eyes looking up at him, her upturned chin, that defiant way she had about her.
“Me Laird,” the man, a younger one named Ewan, breathed. “I’m sorry—”
“It was me fault for being distracted,” Fergus said quietly. “Consider yerself lucky I didnae accidentally kill ye.”
Ewan nodded, looking down at the ground.
Fergus waved a hand to dismiss him, and Ewan took off, hopping the fence and making himself scarce.
Everyone should make themselves scarce around Fergus, at least for today, with the mood he was in.
Fergus placed a hand against the wound to give pressure and started to walk back toward Lottie’s quarters, hoping that he would catch Jeane dispensing his sister’s morning medication.
Aiden followed Fergus back into the castle, much to Fergus’ dismay. Aiden was his friend, but Fergus was in no mood for his teasing.
“I’ve never seen ye so distracted, Me Laird.”
Fergus grunted in response, slowly walking up the stairs, the pain making him even more short-tempered.
“It’s that healer of yers, isnae it?” Aiden teased, and Fergus had a brief fantasy of knocking him on his arse.
“Daenae test me today, Aiden,” Fergus warned in a low, calm voice that made Aiden’s eyes widen in fear. “I’m in nay mood.”
“Aye, I can see that,” Aiden mumbled, but when Fergus glared at him, he lifted his arms as if surrendering.
“How has the guard been? Have we taken any prisoners?” Fergus asked after a moment.
“One,” Aiden said. “Waitin’ in the dungeon for ye, Me Laird.”
Fergus almost smiled. “Aye.”
He was looking forward to interrogating the man. He could take out his anger on someone who deserved it for once.
Lottie’s door was open, and Aiden brightened when he saw Lottie sitting on the edge of her bed.
“Ye look… better,” Aiden said, and Fergus was pretty sure he was going to say “beautiful” but thought better of it, given Fergus’ bad mood.
“Aye?” Lottie asked, breaking out in a smile that made Fergus’ chest ache.
He saw her at six years old, when their parents died, her eyes streaming tears as she looked up at him, asking what they would do now.
She did look better; her cheeks were still too flushed, but she was not deathly pale everywhere else as before.
Aiden reached out as if to take Lottie’s hand but then seemed to think better of it, moving away.
He did sit next to her, though, with a chaste foot between them.
Lottie leaned into him, smiling up at him with the moon in her eyes. Aiden stared back at her for a yearning moment then flushed beet red.
Fergus fought back a smile, and when he looked at Jeane, the corners of her lips were twitching, too.
“Am I better, Liliana?”
Jeane paused for a moment and then smiled at Lottie.
“Nae yet,” she warned. “Ye still need plenty of rest.”
She turned, looking startled when she saw Fergus.
Fergus gritted his teeth. Was she revolted by the way he looked? His scars?
“What have ye done?” she fussed, walking over to him and yanking up his tunic. She tsked. “Ye’ve opened up yer stitches.”
Fergus did not respond, just drew in a sharp breath when her fingers danced over the edges of the wound.
“Maybe ye didnae do as good a job as I thought,” Fergus snarled, and he knew he was being difficult, but he could not help it.
He was sulking like a child.
Jeane huffed out a breath, ushering him to a nearby chair in Lottie’s room.
Aiden perched on the end of Lottie’s bed, feeding her barley soup, which Mary must have brought in earlier.
“Have ye given me sister her medicine?” he asked. “Because if ye—”
“Lottie is all taken care of,” Jeane assured him. “She actually listens to me, unlike ye.”
He huffed out a breath through his nostrils, annoyed. “I have to train. I cannae just sit around, waitin’ for the wound to heal.”
“Aye, well, it’s only been a few days since I stitched it; ye could have rested at least a wee bit.”
“I have things to do.”
“Ye cannae do any of those things while ye’re bleedin’, can ye?” she shot back.
Lottie and Aiden looked over at them, bemused expressions on each of their faces. They were in their own little world most of the time, focused on each other, but now, Fergus was annoyed by their curious gazes.
He glared at them, and they turned back to each other, Lottie shaking her head.
“Ye should listen to Lilliana, ye ken,” Lottie said dryly.
“And why would I do that?” he asked. He knew he sounded petulant, but he could not seem to help arguing with his sister.
It was Jeane’s fault, all of it.
“Because she’s our healer!” Lottie said, sounding exasperated. Her voice quieted. “Because she has yer best interests at heart. As do I, brother.”
Fergus felt himself softening and hated it. He looked down at Jeane, who had her hands on her hips, looking damnably adorable with her pouted lips.
He sighed. “Can ye fix it?”
“Of course, I can fix it,” Jeane said, sounding almost offended. “Take off yer tunic.”
Fergus fought a smile at how she was ordering him around but did as she bade, pulling his tunic off with one hand.
The action made him grunt in pain as his wound pulled at the edges.
He stared down at Jeane, but she would not look at him.
Typical. She thought him a monster, just like Iris. Just like everyone else.
Jeane was barely breathing as she trailed her fingertips across the edges of Fergus’ wound. She wanted to trace over other scars, spread her hands across his broad chest. The last time she had been near him, he had pleasured her with his fingers, and her face flushed at the memory.
“That hurts,” Fergus said flatly as she tested the stitches, and Jeane glared at him.
“Of course, it hurts. Ye pulled half yer stitches out.”
“I was trainin’,” he said again, as if that should placate her.
“Ye need rest to get better,” she said, and Fergus grunted in response. He was in a mood today, it seemed.
She could not imagine why, given what had happened between them the night before. Did he find her childish? Did he not enjoy touching her?
She swallowed hard, fighting tears at the very thought that he might not want her. What was wrong with her? This man had kidnapped her, and she was worried about him not being attracted to her.
She grabbed her black bag and hurried to her work. She ripped the old stitches out with a seam ripper, and Fergus made a few grunts and growls to show her he was unhappy with the pain.
“I can give ye somethin’ for the pain,” she offered softly, feeling bad as she looked up at his pained expression.
He shook his head briskly. “Nay. I daenae like the way it makes me feel.”
Jeane nodded. She could understand not enjoying the fuzzy feeling that opium draughts could give ye. The wound was irritated, but it did not seem infected; there were no telltale red lines stretching out from the injury.
Thank God.
As annoyed as Jeane was with Fergus’ attitude, she would not want him ill. She cared for him in her way, even if it was complicated.
She made quick work of stitching, and Fergus did not even make a sound. When she was done, she picked up Fergus’ bloody tunic from the floor and handed it to him so that he would not hurt himself leaning over to get it.
He looked down at her for a long moment, and she started to think maybe he would thank her.
Instead, he said nothing, just stared into her eyes like he was staring into her very soul.
“The next time ye open up yer wounds, I willnae help ye,” she snapped, annoyed, and Fergus just smirked at her.
“We both ken ye daenae mean that, lassie,” he drawled, and Jeane blew out a breath in frustration.
“Ye daenae ken what I mean.”
Aiden cleared his throat, and for the first time since she had touched Fergus’s chest, Jeane remembered she was in Lottie’s room.
“Me Laird,” Aiden said calmly, “ye havenae eaten.”
Fergus glared at Aiden for a moment. “I will eat when I’m ready.”
Aiden raised his hands. “All right, but Aileen will have yer head.”
Fergus grunted at the mention of the cook, but something in his expression had changed. He walked over to Lottie, patting her on the head and making her grimace.
He did not even glance back at Jeane before leaving the room.
She huffed out another breath, and Lottie giggled.
Jeane turned to her. “What’s so funny?”
“Me brother,” Lottie said, a grin still on her face. “He’s never argued with anyone like that.”
“We werenae arguin’,” Jeane lied.
“Uh-huh,” Lottie hummed. “He usually just tells Aiden to get out when they have a disagreement. Seems like he enjoyed arguin’ with ye.”
Jeane felt her cheeks heat up, and she looked down at her hands.
“The Laird doesnae seem to like me very much,” she mumbled.
“Nay, he likes ye well enough,” Lottie said easily, and Jeane just figured the girl was trying to make her feel better.
She sighed. “I will take me leave.”
Lottie nodded. “Ye will be back tomorrow?”
“Aye.”
The two women smiled at each other, and then Jeane left the room, heading down the hallway with dragging footsteps.
She had to avoid him from now on. She couldn’t keep going like this.
She wanted him, but she couldn’t reconcile that fact with the fact that the Laird had kidnapped her.
Forced her into servitude. Tried to force her to marry him.
And the worst part was she wanted Fergus to like her. That was the rub.