Chapter Twenty-Three
Constantine opened his eyes and looked at a ceiling he’d never seen before.
He was in a room at the Golden Crow Inn.
He sat up as memories invaded his thoughts.
His bandaged side blazed with pain. He ignored it.
Ismay. They had found her in Cannich, running from Alistar MacRae.
She’d been shot! His head ached and heart ached and made him feel ill.
He’d leaped from his horse and ran to her. His steward raced to MacRae.
“Ismay!” he cried out. She’d been lifeless in his arms. Her preciously adored face turned up to the sun, as if she were returning from whence she came.
But she wasn’t dead! She had opened her eyes and smiled at him.
Constantine had been torn about whether to carry her to his horse and race to a town with a physician, or going to MacRae and killing him, and then carrying her to his horse.
He had to leave the bastard to Hugh and get Ismay help. Lifting her in his arms, he’d held her gently in his embrace while his heart beat hard and fast against her.
But—he remembered the hot sensation of his blood seeping through his bandages. He wouldn’t die. Not until he helped her. He’d managed to mount his horse and sat in the saddle behind her.
Hugh, stained with blood that wasn’t his own, had caught up to them and led them here.
Did she live? He was afraid of the answer. Terrified, he wasn’t ashamed to admit.
“Ismay!” he called out, gripping his side.
The door opened to Hugh entering the room with a tray of food in his hands. “Do ye truly want to open that up again? I willna be able to sew ye again, Lochiel.”
“Hugh, where—?” Could he withstand the answer?
“In a room down the hall. She will be well, fear not. The healer here says the arrow entered closer to her shoulder and didna hit anything vital. She sleeps but she will recover. I am more worried about ye!”
“Dinna be,” Constantine ordered, getting out of his bed.
“Lochiel, she will live!” Hugh shouted at him, nearing the door. “What do ye think she will do without ye because ye were too stubborn to tend to yer wound and died? Would ye leave her here alone?”
Constantine stopped. It was all that could have stopped him from going to her. The worst thing he could do was leave her here alone.
“Verra well,” he pouted, stalking back to bed. “But I want reports on her every quarter of an hour.”
Hugh screwed up his face. “Do ye not remember that I was never in yer army? What is this every quarter of an hour? Ye will run me ragged.”
“Then I will be gettin’ up to see her fer myself.”
Hugh mumbled something under his breath, set the tray down with more force than was necessary, then left the room, still mumbling.
Constantine leaned back in the bed. She would recover. He was able to breathe again. He wanted to be with her. His body, spirit, and mind needed her. He pulled his shift up and had a look at his dry bandage, then at the door.
He recalled his steward’s question about leaving Ismay here alone in this world. He would stay put no matter how badly he wanted to get to his beloved.
Hugh must have stitched him up again. He was thankful for his steward.
For so long, he thought Hugh didn’t like him, since he seemed to always try to get others to agree that they didn’t like him either.
But his longtime steward had explained on their first night together, it was the best way to find out who was the Lochiel’s secret enemy.
And he had them at Tor, according to his steward.
Bethia was one. The old cook from two years ago, who disappeared not long after his talk with Hugh.
There were several others, all of whom no longer lived at Tor—or no longer lived at all.
Constantine wasn’t certain. His steward was a mystery.
He returned a quarter of an hour later and stood at the foot of his bed. “The lady is recovering. Nothing has changed.”
“How long has she been sleeping?” Constantine demanded. When Hugh didn’t answer right away, he swung his legs off the bed.
“She hasna woken up,” his steward admitted quietly.
Constantine leaped from the bed and went to the door. “Ye deceived me, Hugh.”
“Because I knew ye would do exactly what ye are doing,” Hugh said, keeping up with his steps when Constantine left the room. “Ye need to recover.”
“I’ll recover when I know she will recover as well.” He followed Hugh’s finger to where his steward pointed down the hall. When he reached her door he was overcome with relief and pressed his forehead to the cool wood.
He had opened his heart to her the day he first saw her—or him, as he had first thought. He had allowed her to go where only Alison lived and she stepped in and set up her belongings. He smiled despite his new worries over her. He became aware that Hugh was stepping away.
Constantine breathed and knocked.
When no reply came, he opened the door. His eyes fell to the bed, where she lay asleep. “Ismay, my love,” he said softly, entering the room. She didn’t stir. He went to the bed and gazed down at her. He never thought he could love again. But he loved this lass. Och, how he loved her.
“My love, wake up. I am already oot of my mind withoot ye. Wake up.”
Standing at the side of the bed, he leaned down and resting his elbow on the thin pillow under her head, he whispered close to her ear.
“Ismay, I canna go on withoot ye in my life. Ye have made everything fresh and new to me again. Ye promised to stay with me. Someone once told me that a person who gives her word and keeps it can be trusted. Keep yer word to me, lass.”
He gazed as one utterly captivated by the beauty she possessed. He ran the tip of his index finger along her nose, the shape of her lips. “Wake up fer me, my light, my love.” His whisper became a plea against her temple. “I’ll wait right here fer ye.”
He waited for two more days, barely leaving her side except to use the garderobe. Hugh saw that his meals were served in her room, and finally accepted the fact that Constantine was not returning to his bed.
The same healer who gave them no new news about Ismay’s condition, advised Constantine that in the absence of fighting or bouncing in the saddle, his wound was healing nicely. But what did it matter as long as his wife remained asleep?
He had the urge to grab the healer by the throat and demand he find out why she wasn’t waking up. But that kind of behavior would disappoint Ismay. She saw him as more than brawn and battle skill. She saw a man—a chief, who was trustworthy not to hurt her. No use in beating up the healer.
He sighed and sat in the chair beside her bed. He looked at her and didn’t move his gaze when Hugh showed the healer out.
“I dinna want to be a soldier any longer, love,” he told her while she slept.
“I want to settle doun with ye and father our bairns. Aye, seven of them.” He smiled at the thought of his sons and daughters: wee May, their first lass, Arailt, their first son.
He imagined them all sitting around their mother and father.
“Seven?”
Constantine leaped from his chair and almost landed in bed with her. “My love!”
She stared at him as if he had sprouted another eye. “Seven babies?”
His smile was wide and eager when he nodded. “I’ll make the house bigger, but not yet. First, I want to enjoy living there with ye and makin’ our brood.”
The storms in her glorious gray eyes had finally settled and were like glass seas when they fastened on him. “Fergive me fer frightening ye, husband.”
Her voice fell like jingling bells in his ears, his soul. He gathered her hands in his and held them to his lips. “Ye kept yer word and came back to me,”
“I dreamed of ye,” she told him with the remnants of sleep in her voice.
“Well, not ye precisely. ’Twas more like…
I sensed yer presence against the door like a shadow that had found its light.
I wanted to wake and greet ye, hold ye, kiss ye”—she paused to blush—“but I couldna wake up. I made ye wait, and fer that I am sorry.”
He held a finger to her lips. “I love ye, Ismay. Thank ye fer comin’ back to me.”
He waited a little while before he called Hugh and gave him the good news. He wanted more time alone with Ismay.
“How do ye feel?” he asked. “Does yer back hurt? Yer chest? Anything?”
“My back—MacRae!” she exclaimed as if remembering her wound brought the culprit back to her thoughts.
“Hugh took care of him,” Constantine let her know. “He left him fer dead so he doesna know if he made it or no’.”
“Hugh?”
He nodded and recalled how much the steward had done.
“I’ll decide about him myself when I hear his reasons,” she let him know.
“Aye, my love,” Constantine let her have her way. He always had and he always would.
He leaned in, fixing his gaze on her mouth as he moved closer to it. This close, he could see the fading bruise on her jaw that had made him vow to find MacRae and if he was alive, make certain he never hurt her again.
He bent his head a little more and ran his nose over her cheek, breathing in the sweet scent of her. He closed his eyes, unable to stop himself from kissing her. Just once.
Hugh opened the door, a familiar habit he’d picked up of not knocking first. When he saw Ismay awake and trying to sit up, he raced to the bed and aided her before Constantine could reach his arm out for her.
Constantine’s glare on him went unnoticed as the steward propped her pillow behind her and asked her a dozen questions about if she felt well.
“Why did ye not send fer me to let me know she had awakened?” the steward demanded, turning to aim his own fiery glare at the Lochiel.
Constantine stared at him for another moment and then ended it with a growl and got up from his chair. He offered it to Hugh so that the steward would stop leaning over her.
Luckily, the steward accepted the seat. “Ye had us in a bad way, lady,” Hugh told her.
“Hugh,” Constantine said to stop him. Why was he trying to make her feel guilty for making them worry?