Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jeane woke up still angry with Fergus, but she knew she had to update him on Lottie. It was past time, and even if she was upset with him, he deserved to know.
She dressed and began to search for him.
He was not in Lottie’s quarters or his own. He was not in the great hall. Mary was rushing around getting things ready for breakfast, and Jeane walked up behind her.
“Mary?”
Mary startled but turned, smiling. “Aye, miss?”
“Have ye seen the Laird anywhere? I need to give him a report on Lottie’s condition.”
It was good news, and Jeane was glad. She did not know how Fergus would react if Lottie took a turn for the worse, but she did not think it would be good.
“I daenae ken,” Mary said, “but I saw him over near the forge earlier today.”
The forge? Her father had a forge, but he never made his own swords; that was for sure. He hired people for that.
He hired people for nearly everything.
“Which way is the forge?” she asked, and Mary pointed down the south hall. Jeane’s head spun as Mary rattled off directions, but she thought she had picked up enough of it.
“Thank ye,” she said to Mary, and Mary curtsied and hurried off to her work.
Jeane made her way down the south wing and out the back where the forge was located.
She could smell the iron as she got closer, feel the heat in the air. She heard a ting, ting, ting noise as she approached the opening of the forge.
Fergus stood forging a sword, slamming a stone into the metal with his back to her.
His shoulders, broad and strong, rippled with the effort, and Jeane stared at him for a long moment, watching his muscles contract.
Sweat beaded on his skin, honeyed by the sun.
Lord, he was handsome. There was a smattering of scars on his back, but it was not nearly as scarred as his front and his face. She supposed that meant that he faced his enemies head-on, and that made him even more attractive to her.
“Did I nae warn ye nae to put pressure on that wound of yers?”
Fergus froze for only a split second before he continued slamming the stone into the metal.
“This can hardly be considered pressure.”
“Aye, it is,” Jeane argued. “Ye could pull yer stitches out again.”
Fergus finished his task and turned to her, chest heaving with the effort.
“Then it’s good I have ye, isnae it? Ye can check the wound.”
Jeane walked closer to him, her heart pounding in her chest, her head spinning from the heat in the forge.
She trailed her fingers across the wound, and Fergus’ sharp intake of breath was not pain but something else. Something she did not quite recognize as desire.
It was clean, the stitching efficient. She had done a good job, and he had not pulled any of them loose.
“It’s fine,” she said.
Fergus smirked at her, showing his teeth. “Told ye it was barely pressure.”
“Are ye nearly done?”
Fergus looked down at her. “Aye. Did ye want somethin’? Another walk in the woods, perhaps?”
“It’s too dark now,” she said. “I wanted to give ye a report on Lottie.”
“Oh, aye. It’s been a few days. Is she poorly?”
“Nay, nae at all,” Jeane assured him with a smile. “In fact, I think she can start going back to her old activities. She’s been getting out of bed and going for little walks. She’ll do well as long as she takes it slow.”
Fergus broke out in a smile, maybe the first genuine smile Jeane had ever seen from him. It made him look ten years younger, almost boyish, and Jeane could not stop herself from reaching out to touch his face.
Fergus leaned into her touch, but as her thumb swept across a jagged scar on his face, he pulled away, clearing his throat.
“Is that all, then?”
His voice was back to that low bark again, as if they had not shared romantic moments together recently.
“I’ve never seen anyone forge a sword before,” Jeane said curiously, not wanting the conversation to be over.
“Yer father doesnae forge his own swords?”
“Nay. He hires people to do it.”
Fergus snorted. “I cannae imagine swingin’ a sword I didnae forge. It would seem… wrong, somehow.”
He looked at her for a moment longer before sitting down in front of his sword, beckoning her closer.
She moved toward him and squeaked in surprise when he pulled her into his lap.
“Quiet, little mouse. I didnae hurt ye.”
“Ye scared me,” she mumbled, but her cheeks flushed as he put his arms around her waist.
“See how the edges of the sword are glowin’ red? They’re still hot. Daenae touch them.”
“Of course nae.” She tilted her chin up, turning to look at him. “I’m nae a child.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “Aye, I suppose ye’re nae. Ye can use a hammer to forge, but I like the ragged edges that a stone gives me. They cut deeper.”
Jeane’s head spun. Should she be worried that a man who cut down other men had her gently in his lap right now? Was he a cruel man?
“Ye can try,” Fergus said, handing her the large stone. It was so large she could barely fit it in her hand, and when she banged the stone down on the sword, only a ping sound came out.
“I daenae think I’m very good at forgin’,” she said with a laugh, and Fergus tightened his arms around her.
Jeane beamed up at him, and Fergus’ face suddenly changed, going blank.
How was she supposed to know what he was thinking?
Fergus looked down at Jeane and wanted to press his forehead against hers, wanted to press his mouth against hers, but he could not. She did not want him, was repulsed by him, and he had to accept that, no matter how much it hurt.
He knew in that moment, with her doe-brown eyes looking up at him, that he wanted her to stay with him always. That he was in love with her.
I love her, Fergus thought, just that simply. He loved her as he had never loved his previous betrothed and he would never love any other woman. He loved her fire and her sweetness, her doe-brown eyes, and her ample curves.
Bloody hell.
How was he supposed to keep her when she wanted a husband? How could he keep her from having other suitors? Maybe he could wait outside the castle walls, just kill any potential suitor that might come through.
But that was not sustainable. It was ridiculous. He could not just kill a man for wanting Jeane. Well, he could, but it would be frowned upon, even though he was laird.
“Try again,” he urged her, and Jeane lifted the stone higher, slamming it down with a satisfying ting this time.
She cackled wildly. “I did it! It changed the shape of the sword!”
It had, of course, barely changed anything, but Fergus found her adorable. The sword was done.
“Now, take these gloves,” he said, putting them on her. They were way too big, of course, but they would protect her hands. “And we can take the sword over to the water. Finish up.”
“Ye’ll let me finish it?” she asked excitedly, and Fergus fought a smile.
“Aye, lass.” He slowly put the gloves on her, his fingertips lingering on hers.
She gasped in a short breath, and he willed his manhood not to stir beneath her.
He stood. “Go ahead, pick it up at the hilt.”
She carefully picked it up, holding it far away from her chest as they crept to the large barrel of water. She startled when she dropped it into the water and it began to boil then she jumped back into his arms.
Fergus held onto her hips to steady her, letting out a long breath through his nostrils. He wanted to take her right here, against the wall, show her who she should belong to, that he should be her husband.
Nay one will ever love ye as much as I do, little mouse.
But he did not say it. Could not say it. She would tell him he was a monster, just like Iris had, and he was not sure he could take it. Not from sweet Jeane.
“I understand why ye enjoy this,” she said softly, not moving away from his touch but turning to face him. “I rarely feel so at peace. Ye can throw yerself into the work.”
“Exactly,” Fergus agreed, surprised that she understood. “There’s always so much going on. It’s nice to do somethin’ mindless.”
“Aye,” Jeane said with a nod. “Me father always expected me to stay in the house, ye ken?”
Fergus swallowed hard but said nothing. He did not rightly know what kind of man her father was, but he had not heard good things about Laird McKay.
“He would never have let me into the forge.”
“Maybe he was just tryin’ to protect ye,” Fergus offered, but Jeane shook her head.
“Nay, he doesnae care that much,” she muttered.
Fergus touched her white-blonde hair, pushing a lock back from her face. “How could anyone nae care about ye?”
Jeane smiled softly. “I daenae ken, but me father never has. He’s only ever criticized me. Expected me to be perfect. Invincible. And after all these years, ye ken, I’ve never let him see me cry.”
She tilted her head up as if proud.
Fergus just listened, not wanting to interrupt.
“Me father, all he wants is for me to be married. Run a household. He doesnae understand when I wander in the woods or run around outside. He willnae let me have friends.” She paused as her voice started to shake.
It was steady when she spoke again. “I had friends once. Such good friends. He encouraged me at first and then ripped them away. He wants me bound. He wants me trapped all the time.”
“And ye daenae wish to be married?” Fergus asked.
“Nae to the men me father wants me to marry. They’re men like him. Men who would criticize me. Who wouldnae understand me.”
“I understand ye.”
She looked up at him curiously. “Do ye, Fergus? Do ye understand that I need me freedom nearly as much as I need bread and water?”
“Aye. I ken ye’re a free-spirit, lass.”
She smiled. “That’s what me friends would have said. That I was a free spirit. They used to accuse me of being a changeling, just like ye did.”
Fergus hummed in the back of his throat.
“I nay longer think ye’re a changelin’.”
“Nay?”
“Nay. I think ye’re a witch.”
Jeane laughed out loud, throwing her head back, and Fergus’ heart ached with how beautiful she looked doing it.
“A witch, aye?”
“Aye. An evil one.”
“Evil? I havenae been evil to ye, Fergus.”
“Haven’t ye? Ye’ve bewitched me, havenae ye?”
She smiled. “You daenae act bewitched.”
“I assure ye, little mouse, I am,” he said honestly. “I’m bewitched by yer beauty, bewitched by that freedom ye want so badly. Every time ye look at me, me heart flips in me chest.”
Jeane looked up at him, and Fergus leaned closer, waiting for an opening to brush his lips across hers.