Chapter 5
When William woke, it was dark again. He’d spent the entire day in a fevered haze, hovering on the edge of delirium.
The only thing that kept him from giving in to it was his lovely healer.
She was a lodestone, drawing him back with the cool touch of her hands and her soothing voice when the world grew confusing and hazy.
For the first time since he lay hands on Ailis, the blinding pain in his head was gone and he could breathe deeply.
His hand went to his throat. The swelling was gone and his skin was cool.
His hand dropped back to the bed in relief. It could have been worse.
Rose lay on a rush mat before the fire. He stared through the gloom, wondering if she was awake.
When had she last slept? He felt odd—restless and discontented.
And all because of her. He started to throw back the bedding and was surprised to find himself undressed.
He looked again to his little healer. He must have been very ill to forget that.
Something else pricked at his memory. Her hands passing over him, not touching him. She’d done that in the stable as well. She was no mere healer, but something more.
He slung a plaid about his hips and crossed to where she slept by the fire.
Only the firelight illuminated her, casting shadows over her face and lighting deep copper fires in her hair.
She was an exceptionally beautiful woman.
Dark auburn hair, pale skin, midnight eyes, fine cheekbones, a strong chin and straight nose.
She appeared slender and delicate, and yet she was clearly capable of great things.
What was he going to do with her? He was loath to send her away, and yet what else could he do?
He crouched beside her and touched a loose lock of hair, pushing it away from her face, as she had done to him the night before. She was a skilled healer to have kept Ailis alive as long as she did. And she’d known just what to do when he’d been choking.
Her eyes flew open. Wild eyes. Terrified eyes.
He drew his hand away slowly. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
She pushed herself to sitting, then backed away, her arisaid sliding from her shoulders.
She looked at him as if she feared him. He did not touch her, only watched her silently, waiting.
Her gaze scanned the room, confused, before returning to him, this time with recognition.
The fear in her eyes disappeared, replaced with weariness and relief.
She flexed her shoulders in a small stretch, twisting and grimacing as her back cracked.
“You are much improved,” she said, her gaze still on him, cautious.
He did not stand, remaining at her level. “Aye. It’s only bad in the beginning. Illnesses never tarry in my body.”
Her gaze roved over his chest and lower, then skittered away. “My lord…I’ll leave you so you can dress.”
She started to stand, but he put out a hand. She froze before he touched her, so he drew back. She had not been so wary of him when she’d thought him a mere groom. He didn’t like it, wanted their prior rapport back.
“I wanted to thank you for coming as you did, and clearing my throat and staying with me. I did not deserve your kindness after deceiving you.”
She lifted her midnight eyes to him. They were slightly slanted like a cat’s, with a thick sweep of cinnamon lashes. “It is I who should be thanking you. You are forgiven everything.”
He tapped a thumb to his mouth, frowning at her. This was not right. He was forgetting something. A strange tightness gripped his chest.
“What mean you?”
“You said you would come to Lochlaire and heal my father. What I did for you is paltry payment for such a gift, my lord. Do not for a moment believe I consider my debt paid—”
He stood abruptly. “What did you say? I agreed to heal your father?”
She gazed up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Aye, you did.”
He paced away from her, arms crossed over his chest. “I was feverish, delirious. Why would you take aught I said seriously?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned back. She gazed up at him with such a look of betrayal that he stopped short.
“Because you said you would.”
Of course she’d believed him. She’d come all this way; she would latch onto anything he’d said in support of her mission, no matter the state he’d been in at the time he’d said it.
He closed his eyes and scraped his hand over the whiskers on his jaw. “Bloody hell.” He opened his eyes and pinned her with a hard stare. “You are nothing but trouble, do you know that?”
Her gaze had grown sharp, her full lips compressed into a line of suppressed anger. “You said you would.”
“I was ill. I knew not what I sputtered on about.”
She got to her feet, hands fisted at her sides. “I saved your life! Or have you forgotten that now, too?”
He crossed to the carved wooden chest against the wall and lifted the lid, grabbing a clean shirt. “I haven’t.”
“And have you forgotten that I did it after you deceived me? How you and your brother must have laughed at me! Mocking my letters, then pretending to be some ridiculous groom. And a poor bit of acting it was.”
He pulled the shirt over his head. “I told you—I never mocked your letters.”
She smirked. “And you’re such an honest man, I should believe you, aye?” Her gaze hardened. “You owe me.”
“Ah,” he said, a grim smile curving his mouth. “Now you’re beginning to sound like the virago in the letters.”
Her mouth dropped open in insult. “Virago! I see.” Her tone was biting, her skin flushing with fury. “Well, I think you are a knave. No! A blackguard.” Though she didn’t smile, she stood straighter and lifted her chin a notch, obviously well pleased with her insult.
He held back the smile threatening to surface and crossed the room to stand before her. “Anything else? Now that you’ve had time to think on it?”
She raised a scathing brow. “A son of a—”
He raised a finger. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“But you’re not me, and if you were you’d know that healing my father is the most important thing in the world to me.”
William didn’t like the tightness forming in his chest. “How old is your father?”
“What does that matter?”
He raised his brows expectantly.
She sighed. “Eight and forty.”
“Not ancient, but neither is he young. Everyone must die, Rose. I know you love your father, but I cannot heal the infirmities of old age.”
“He is not infirm, and it is not old age that is killing him!”
William inhaled deeply and decided to try another tack. “When a person begins to age, this makes them susceptible to many illnesses. I suppose I could keep healing them, one after the other, but I cannot make the body stronger or younger and so they will continue to deteriorate—”
Her eyes flashed. “Do you think me daft, to speak to me in this manner? I, too, am a healer. I cannot perform miracles, but I am competent, I assure you.”
William rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, I do not think you daft. I do, however, think you cannot see this clearly. You said in one of your letters that your family had only recently been reunited after a long separation. Could this be clouding your judgement as a healer?”
She gazed up at him with such pleading, such disappointment in her lovely eyes that he found himself wavering, being led by something far baser than intellect.
“But you said you would.” Her voice was soft with defeat. She lowered her gaze and turned away, folding her arms beneath her breasts and gripping her elbows.
He couldn’t remember saying it, and yet it was likely he had.
He did not make a practice of trailing after lasses like lost puppies, but he’d done it with this one.
In fact, since Deidra’s birth, he’d left women alone entirely.
But since Rose MacDonell had forced her way into his life, he’d said and done things he knew he should not.
“What else did I say in my fever?” he asked grudgingly.
She looked at him over her shoulder, from beneath a fan of cinnamon lashes. His body responded immediately to the look, tightening and growing warm.
“You said I was pretty.”
“I suppose I wasn’t too far out of my head then, was I?” he muttered dryly. He still could think of little but how damned appealing she was and how he wanted to tumble her on the bed behind him.
She lifted a shoulder with elaborately feigned disinterest. “I wouldn’t know, my lord, as you’ve been naught but dishonest with me.”
“Shaming me into it now, are we?”
She just gazed back at him, unblinking.
He rubbed his forehead, then sighed again. “Very well. I will go to your Lochlaire and try to heal your father.”
She let out a gasping breath and clasped her hands together in stunned disbelief, then jumped at him, grabbing his hands in hers.
“Oh, thank you, Dumhnull—I mean, my lord! You will not be sorry, I vow it! I will take care of you afterward, just as I did today. And you will be paid, of course. And anything else you wish that we can provide is yours. You only have to name it.”
“A kiss,” he said, surprising himself, but once the words were out, he did not take them back; in fact, everything in him was suddenly focused on her mouth, the soft, plump swell of her bottom lip that he wanted to taste.
Since he’d met her he’d wanted to kiss her, touch her, bed her, with a single-minded intensity that startled and troubled him.
She stopped her excited rambling and stared up at him, her throat working, but no words issued forth. Her hands stiffened in his and she tried to pull away, but he held firm.
He leaned toward her, using his hold on her hands to pull her closer. He could feel the whisper of her skirts along his lower body, the prelude to something soft and yielding igniting sharp lust in his blood.
“That’s hardly adequate payment,” she said, her gaze dropping to his mouth, then darting back to his eyes.
“Nevertheless,” he said softly, “it’s the payment I demand.”
She parted her lips to make another protest, but he silenced her with his mouth.