Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Ian had heard Arianna’s scream tear through the trees, his blood ran cold.
For one terrible heartbeat, he thought of ambush, of enemies lurking beyond his sight, of her small body crumpling beneath unseen hands.
He had not known fear like that in years, not since battlefields and burning crofts had scarred him inside and out.
And in that instant, he swore he would not stand breathing if anything had happened to her.
He had reached the pit in a matter of breaths, fury already rising like a storm in his chest. When he saw her sitting there, dirt-smudged and wide-eyed rather than attacked, relief struck him so hard it felt like pain.
Now that he carried her safely in his arms back to camp, relief flooded through him.
“Yer hair,” he said bluntly. “Ye look like a woodland sprite who lost a fight with a bramble bush.”
Her mouth fell open. “I am injured, and ye mock me?”
“I am relieved,” he corrected dryly. “There’s a difference.”
She huffed, attempting to get down from his embrace to stand on her own. “Nay, I am nae letting ye out of me arms. And ye should be more careful,” he said, voice turning firm again.
“I was careful,” she insisted. “I simply misjudged.”
“Ye wandered,” he countered. “I told ye nae to.”
She folded her arms despite leaning heavily against him. “I can walk by meself.”
“Can ye?” he challenged.
“Aye,” she said stubbornly. “Put me down.”
He ignored her entirely.
“Ian McGuire, I said, put me down!”
“And I said be careful,” he replied evenly.
“I am nae a sack of grain!”
“Nay,” he agreed. “Ye’re far more trouble.”
She muttered something unflattering under her breath, but she did not struggle further.
Her warmth seeped through his shirt, and the scent of her, clean linen and wild meadow, settled into him.
The lingering fear twisted into something possessive and fierce; he would not lose her to foolish accidents.
At the camp, he set her gently upon a broad log he had rolled before the fire earlier. “Stay,” he ordered.
“I was already sittin’,” she said tartly.
He crouched before her, lifting her injured leg carefully onto his thigh. “Let me see.”
“’Tis fine,” she protested. “I can manage.”
“Humor me,” he said quietly.
He reached for her boot, fingers working at the laces. She stiffened. “Ian, ye neednae…”
“I do,” he interrupted.
He eased the boot free despite her protests, revealing the delicate line of her ankle. His desire rose, but relief washed through him when he pressed gently, and she winced without crying out.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
“Aye,” she admitted.
“Good.”
She blinked. “Good?”
“It means ye can feel it,” he clarified dryly. “It’s nae broken.”
She relaxed slightly at that, though she tried to maintain indignation. “I told ye I was fine.”
He examined the bruising carefully, thumbs firm yet cautious against her skin. Her foot rested in his hands, small and warm. He had held swords, axes, and the reins of battle; none had felt so unexpectedly fragile.
“I’ll wrap it later,” he said. “For now, ye’ll rest.”
She sighed dramatically. “I daenae like restin’.”
“I’ve noticed,” he replied.
A mischievous impulse stirred within him then, lightening the weight of his earlier fear. Before he could reconsider, he bent his head and pressed a brief, deliberate kiss to the arch of her foot.
She gasped sharply. “Ian!”
He looked up at her, unable to hide the glint in his eye. “What?”
“Ye cannae just…” She broke off, cheeks flushing crimson.
He smirked. “It seemed to improve morale.”
“Me morale requires no such remedy,” she sputtered.
“Yer face suggests otherwise,” he said calmly.
She tried to withdraw her foot, but he held it gently yet firmly in place. “Ye’re insufferable,” she declared.
“And yet,” he murmured, “ye’re blushin’.”
“That is the sun,” she insisted. She shot him a look that would have felled a lesser man. He only chuckled, setting her foot carefully back upon the log.
“Ye frightened me,” he admitted more quietly now.
Her expression shifted, indignation fading. “I didnae mean to.”
“I ken that,” he said. “But when I heard ye scream… I thought the worst.”
Her voice softened. “Ye thought I was attacked?”
“Aye.”
“And ye would have…?”
“Burned the forest down to find who did it,” he said without hesitation.
Silence stretched between them, charged and fragile.
“Ye cannae protect me from every hole in the earth,” she said gently.
“Nay,” he agreed. “But I’ll try.”
She smiled faintly at that, though she attempted to hide it. “Ye’re overbearing.”
“Aye,” he said again. “But I’m yer husband.”
The word hung between them, heavier now. He rose slowly, brushing dirt from his hands.
“Stay put,” he instructed once more.
She lifted her chin. “I will though I resent the command. Ye daenae have to keep repeating it.”
“I expect no less,” he replied.
She sat upon the log with her hair tangled and her cheeks still flushed, stubborn and fierce and very much alive.
And Ian knew, with a certainty that settled deep into his bones, that he would not endure a world where that fire in her was extinguished.
“Rest it for the day, and ye’ll be walkin’ about tomorrow as though naught happened.”
Arianna tilted her head, mischief sparking in her eyes despite the dirt smudged across her cheek. “If I must stay off me foot,” she said slowly, “that means ye must be at me beck and call.”
He arched a brow. “Must I?”
“Aye,” she replied, settling back against the log as though it were a throne. “I am injured, after all.”
A slow grin spread across his face. He rose to his full height and gave her an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm wide. “I am at yer service, Lady McGuire.”
She lifted her chin regally. “See that ye remember it.”
“As me lady commands,” he said solemnly, though amusement danced in his eye.
He reached into one of the leather bags and withdrew a small flask, uncorking it with a practiced twist. “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “This will ease the pain.”
She accepted it with exaggerated grace. “How thoughtful of me servant.”
“Daenae grow too fond of the role,” he warned lightly.
She brought the flask to her lips and took a cautious swallow. She coughed once before recovering. “Mercy,” she gasped. “Ye mean to cure me ankle or set me throat aflame?”
“Both,” he replied dryly.
She took another smaller sip, color rising to her cheeks that had little to do with the alcohol. He watched her for a moment longer than necessary before turning to go gather the scattered wood she had dropped.
“Yer servant fetches firewood now,” he announced grandly as he left to the pit she had fallen into. “Be swift about it,” she called back. “I grow cold.”
“Aye, me lady,” he replied.
He found the scattered branches and gathered them, then returned to camp. He set them down in the fire ring.
“Would ye also like berries and fanned air?” he teased.
“If ye can manage it,” she said sweetly.
He chuckled, striking flint to steel until sparks caught upon dry moss. Within moments, smoke curled upward, and the fire leapt to life, crackling warmly. He fed it carefully, building it steady and strong.
“There,” he said, straightening. “Warmth for the Lady McGuire.”
She extended her hands toward the flames. “Acceptable,” she declared. “Ye may keep yer position another hour.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself, and moved to make the tent comfortable.
Arianna watched shamelessly. “Ye perform yer duties well,” she observed.
“I aim to please,” he replied, tightening a rope. “Though I was unaware tent-pitchin’ would earn such praise.”
“In me court, it does,” she said primly.
He finished securing the canvas and stepped back to inspect his work. “The Lady shall have shelter from wind and rain.”
“Will me servant also fluff the blankets?” she inquired.
He crossed toward her slowly, stopping just before the log where she sat. “Careful,” he murmured. “Yer servant may grow bold.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “Would he dare?”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “He might.”
For a moment, the teasing edge softened into something warmer. He reached down and adjusted her cloak gently around her shoulders. “Truly, though,” he said quieter, “rest it.”
She studied him, the humor fading slightly. “Ye fret too much.”
“Only when it matters,” he answered.
She swallowed, then forced brightness back into her tone. “Very well. Continue yer tasks, servant.”
“As ye command,” he replied, though his gaze lingered on her face.
He returned to the fire, adding thicker logs until the flames burned steady and bright. The scent of smoke mingled with the meadow air, and the clearing felt smaller, more intimate.
“Tell me,” she called, taking another small sip from the flask, “does me servant often bring ladies to this secret meadow?”
He paused mid-motion. “Nay.”
“Never?”
“Never,” he said firmly, glancing at her over his shoulder.
She seemed satisfied with that, though she masked it with a lofty nod. “Good. I should dislike sharin’ me domain.”
He laughed under his breath. “Yer domain?”
“Aye,” she insisted. “I have claimed it.”
“Have ye now?”
“I have,” she said, gesturing toward the flowers and trees. “And ye are but a humble attendant within it.”
He approached her again, slower this time. “If I am humble, me lady,” he said softly, “it is only before ye.”
She lowered the flask, her fingers tightening around it. “Careful, servant,” she whispered. “Ye verge on impropriety.”
He bent slightly, bringing his face level with hers. “Then perhaps the Lady should dismiss me.”
She held his gaze, breath shallow. “I think… I shall keep ye.”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “Wise choice.”
He straightened and reached for the flask gently, taking it from her hand. “Enough for now,” he said. “I’ll nae have ye dizzy atop a bruised ankle.”
She sighed dramatically. “So strict.”
“So protective,” he corrected.