Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jeane woke to golden sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the warmth of a body beside her.
For a moment, panic seized her—where was she? Whose bed was this?
Then she felt the strong arm wrapped around her waist, smelled the familiar scent of pine and leather, and remembered.
Fergus.
She was in Fergus’ chambers. He’d carried her here last night after they’d returned to the castle, refusing to let her out of his sight even for a moment.
“Easy, little mouse,” his deep voice rumbled behind her. “Ye’re safe.”
Jeane turned in his arms to find him already awake, watching her with those dark eyes. His hair was mussed from sleep, and without his usual stern expression, he looked younger, softer.
“How long have ye been awake?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“A while,” he admitted. “I couldnae sleep. I kept thinkin’ that if I closed me eyes, ye might disappear again.”
Jeane’s throat tightened. She reached up to touch his scarred face, and he leaned into her palm like a cat seeking affection.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m nae goin’ anywhere.”
“Ye were cryin’ in yer sleep,” Fergus said quietly. “Callin’ out for me.”
Jeane blinked, trying to remember her dreams. Fragments came back to her—her father’s face, the knife at her throat, the fear that Fergus wouldn’t come in time.
“I dreamt ye dinnae find me,” she admitted. “That I was forced to marry Fraser, and ye… ye gave up on me.”
“Never,” Fergus said fiercely, pulling her closer. “I would never give up on ye, Jeane. I’d search the whole world over if I had to.”
“I ken that now,” she said, burying her face against his bare chest. “I kent it then, too. But the fear… it was still there.”
“Aye,” Fergus murmured, stroking her hair. “Fear doesnae always listen to logic.”
They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, just holding each other. Jeane could hear Fergus’ heartbeat, steady and strong beneath her ear.
Finally, Fergus pulled back slightly. “Let me see yer throat.”
Jeane had almost forgotten about the cut. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck, and Fergus’s jaw clenched when he saw the thin red line where the knife had pressed.
“I should have killed him slower,” Fergus muttered darkly. “Should have made him suffer for every mark he left on ye.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Jeane said.
“It’s nae just a scratch. He held a knife to yer throat, Jeane. He threatened to kill ye.”
“But he didnae,” Jeane pointed out. “And now, he cannae ever hurt me again.”
Fergus looked at her for a long moment then climbed out of bed. He walked to a basin of water near the window and wet a cloth.
“Come here,” he ordered gently.
Jeane sat up, pulling the furs around herself—she was still wearing her shift from yesterday, stained with dirt and blood. Fergus sat beside her and carefully cleaned the cut on her throat, his touch so gentle it made her want to cry.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Nay,” she said honestly. “I barely feel it.”
He moved on to her wrists where bruises had formed from her father’s grip. His fingers traced the marks with a feather-light touch.
“I wish I could have saved ye from all of this,” he said quietly. “From yer faither, from the fear, from havin’ to run away in the first place.”
“Ye did save me,” Jeane insisted. “Ye saved me in every way that matters.”
Fergus set down the cloth and cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.
“How do ye feel?” he asked. “About… about what happened. About yer faither.”
Jeane was quiet for a moment, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions in her chest.
“I daenae ken,” she admitted. “I should feel somethin’, shouldnae I? Grief or relief, or… somethin’. But I just feel… empty.”
“That’s all right,” Fergus assured her. “There’s nay right way to feel about this.”
“He was me father,” Jeane said, her voice breaking. “He was supposed to love me, protect me. Instead, he tried to sell me to a monster. And when ye killed him, I felt… nothin’. What does that make me?”
“Human,” Fergus said firmly. “It makes ye human, Jeane. Yer father didnae deserve yer love or yer grief. He spent yer whole life hurtin’ ye. Ye daenae owe him yer tears.”
“But I feel like I should cry,” Jeane said, frustrated. “Like there’s somethin’ wrong with me that I cannae.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with ye,” Fergus insisted. “Ye’re the strongest, bravest woman I’ve ever met. And if ye need to cry, ye can. If ye need to scream or rage or just sit in silence, that’s all right too. Whatever ye need, I’m here.”
That broke something loose in Jeane’s chest, and suddenly she was sobbing—not for her father, but for the little girl she’d been. The child who had desperately wanted her father’s love and never received it. The young woman who had lived in fear for so long.
Fergus held her through it all, whispering soft words in Gaelic that she didn’t understand but found comforting all the same.
When her sobs finally subsided, Jeane pulled back, wiping at her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m such a mess.”
“Daenae apologize,” Fergus said, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “Ye’ve been through hell, little mouse. Ye’re allowed to be a mess.”
Jeane let out a watery laugh. “I must look awful.”
“Ye look beautiful,” Fergus said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Ye always look beautiful to me.”
Jeane looked down at herself—dirty shift, tear-stained face, bruises on her wrists and throat.
“I need a bath,” she said.
“I’ll have one drawn for ye,” Fergus said, starting to stand, but Jeane caught his hand.
“Will ye… will ye stay with me?” she asked, flushing. “I daenae want to be alone right now.”
Fergus’s expression softened. “Aye, little mouse. I’ll stay.”
The bath was drawn in Fergus’s chambers, a large wooden tub filled with steaming water scented with lavender. Mary had brought it, along with soft towels and clean clothes, giving Jeane a warm smile before she left.
Jeane stood by the tub, suddenly shy. She’d been intimate with Fergus before, but this felt different somehow. More vulnerable.
Fergus seemed to sense her hesitation. He turned his back, giving her privacy to undress.
“Tell me when ye’re in,” he said.
Jeane quickly shed her dirty shift and stepped into the water, sighing as the heat enveloped her. It felt like heaven on her sore muscles.
“I’m in,” she said.
Fergus turned back, and Jeane was struck by the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at her.
“May I?” he asked, picking up a cloth and soap.
Jeane nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
Fergus knelt beside the tub and gently washed her arms, her shoulders, her back. His touch was reverent, careful, as if she were something precious that might break.
He washed her hair next, his strong fingers massaging her scalp, and Jeane closed her eyes, letting herself relax for the first time since the kidnapping.
“Fergus?” she said after a while.
“Aye?”
“Do ye… do ye still want to marry me tomorrow?”
Fergus’s hands stilled. “Do ye still want to marry me tomorrow?”
“Aye,” Jeane said immediately. “I just… after everythin’ that happened, I wasna sure if ye’d still—”
“Jeane.” Fergus moved around to the front of the tub so he could see her face. “I want to marry ye more than I want to breathe. Tomorrow, today, right this second if we could. The only question is whether ye still want it. After everythin’ ye’ve been through, I’d understand if ye needed more time.”
“I daenae need more time,” Jeane said firmly. “I’ve never been more sure of anythin’ in me life. I want to be yer wife, Fergus. I want to belong to ye, and I want ye to belong to me.”
A slow smile spread across Fergus’s scarred face. “Then we’ll marry tomorrow, just as planned.”
“Lottie will be so happy,” Jeane said with a small laugh. “She’s been plannin’ this for weeks.”
“Aye, me sister does love a good weddin’,” Fergus agreed. He paused, his expression growing serious. “Jeane, I need ye to ken… what happened yesterday, what I did to yer father… I’d do it again. A thousand times over. I’d kill any man who tried to hurt ye.”
“I ken,” Jeane said softly. “And I’m grateful. Nae just that ye saved me, but that ye… that ye cared enough to come for me at all.”
“How could I nae?” Fergus asked, his voice rough with emotion. “Ye’re me whole world, little mouse. Without ye, I’m just… nothin’.”
“Ye’re nae nothin’,” Jeane insisted. “Ye’re everythin’ to me. Ye’re me savior, me protector, me love.”
Fergus leaned forward and kissed her, soft and sweet, tasting of tears and promises.
When he pulled back, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“I love ye, Jeane Forrest. Soon to be Jeane O’Malley.”
“I love ye too, Fergus,” Jeane whispered. “With all me heart.”
She finished her bath, and Fergus helped her out, wrapping her in a soft towel and drying her gently. Then he helped her into a clean shift and led her back to bed.
“Rest,” he ordered. “Ye need yer strength for tomorrow.”
“Will ye stay with me?” Jeane asked, not wanting to be alone.
“Always,” Fergus promised, climbing into bed beside her.
Jeane curled against his side, her head on his chest, and for the first time since the kidnapping, she felt truly safe.
Tomorrow, she would marry the man she loved.
Tomorrow, she would start her new life.
But today, she would rest in his arms and let herself heal.