Chapter Six #2
“Not I,” he repeated. “If you hadn’t struck me, I wouldn’t have struck you, then I wouldn’t have removed your helmet and laid eyes on the most beautiful creature in this life, or any other.
At that moment, our fates entwined, Roses.
I know not why, but I know it to be true—I am bound to you forevermore. There is nothing to regret.”
My heart fairly sang at his words. My warrior wanted me here. I could stay with him, at least for a time. You will be fed, and you will be under our protection until our brother is fit enough to decide your fate.
“You did surprise me at the loch, aye,” he said softly.
I blushed again, remembering when and how I had surprised him. I’d wanted to look away from him, but he was too alluring, in my memory and even more so here and now.
“Would you like me to change your dressing, warrior? And wash you?” The heat that flushed my cheeks only burned even more fervently as I realized what my offer might have suggested.
“I would like you to do anything to me that you would like to do.”
“I’ll wash your hair for you, if you’d like,” I said.
“My hair isn’t the only thing that’s dirty,” he teased, but I was too shy to indulge him.
“I’ve assisted the Ogilvie healer,” I said. “I’ve tended many wounds.” If the pretence was that I was Effie’s assistant, then I might as well make myself useful. And there was nothing I would rather have been doing in this moment in time—or any other—than tending to Wilkie Mackenzie’s needs.
“You sewed me up like an expert,” he said. “Effie said she couldn’t have done it better herself. And that’s saying something—she doesn’t give praise lightly, especially when it comes to the healing skills of others.”
I began to peel back his bandage, making sure not to open the wound.
“Did you train to be a healer?” he asked.
I told him some of the details of my history and my family, as I had explained to his brothers. He seemed shocked by my admission that not only I but also my mother had been recruited to be Ogilvie’s mistress, and that our status had been lowered because of her refusals.
I looked up at him to find him watching me with an inscrutable expression. “You are surprisingly stoic considering the oppression you’ve endured,” he said. “I’m sure I would be more bitter had my family been treated thusly.”
I considered this. “I harbor bitterness toward only one person. And he is not here, nor do I hope to ever meet with him again. I know that my parents would be pleased that I had avenged my mother’s plight in a small way, and escaped his clutches.
I can make peace with that, and do my best to find a life for myself elsewhere. ”
Wilkie continued to watch me, and I detected in him, as I had in Kade, a sense that he respected not only my honesty, but also my point of view.
It occurred to me that I had surprised these brothers, that they might not have expected me to admit to my bold and traitorous reactions to Ogilvie; I also got the sense that they felt my actions entirely justified.
I didn’t feel as though I needed this assurance, but I was grateful for it nonetheless.
Wilkie followed a line of thought, speaking it aloud. “’Tis true that Ogilvie is well known for his fondness for keeping numerous mistresses. So much so that he’s never taken a wife. Not a particularly stout plan for the future of the Ogilvie clan, if he produces no legitimate heirs.”
“Nay,” I agreed, hoping to change the subject away from the man who had been all but my nemesis for several years. “Your wound is healing well, warrior.”
It was. The edges of the cut were already beginning to knit together. I walked over to the basin and filled a bowl with the still-warm water. I used a clean cloth to wash the area around the wound, taking care to be gentle with him.
“Your potent healing paste recipe may have saved my life, according to Effie,” Wilkie said. “That, along with your sewing skills.”
“I could share the recipe with her if she’d like. I’ve made it often for Ismay.”
“Write it down and she can add it to her book.”
“I— Well, I don’t know how to write. But I can dictate it to her.”
“Is that so?” he asked, and there was astonishment in his voice, and maybe a thread of pity. “Were you never taught to write, lass?”
“Nay,” I said quietly.
“Can you read?”
“My mother started teaching me once, but there was too much other work to be done. We never had enough time for the lessons.”
He touched a fingertip to my chin and tipped my face up to him. “Well, that, sweet Roses, is something we could remedy.”
I couldn’t help smiling at him. “You’re going to teach me to read, warrior?”
“Aye,” he said smugly, as though he’d found a new mission in life. “That I am.”
I felt overjoyed at the thought of Wilkie teaching me, making an effort for me, and spending his time with me in any capacity at all.
If his intention was to teach me to read: that would require time.
My future, at least for the short term, might not be daunting and unknowable; it could be charmed, if Wilkie was near. “I would very much like that.”
Once Wilkie’s wound was cleaned, I smeared the healing salve across it with the lightest touch so I wouldn’t pain him.
“Your touch,” he said softly. “’Tis so light, yet so sure.” The husk to his voice and the words themselves fed a curious sensation into my lower stomach, not one of lack of food but of longing.
And I was beginning to understand what my body was craving.
“If I bring the basin to this bedside table, can you lean over it?” I said.
“Aye.”
With some effort, both with the weight of it and the fullness of it, especially with my still-sore arm, I carried the basin to his bedside.
He adjusted his position, so he could lean over the large bowl.
I held his head and unwound his braids, then I used a smaller bowl to wet his long hair, savoring the feel of its thick, silky texture.
I used some soap to scrub his hair, and I massaged his head gently, which caused him to sigh.
“Your hair is so lovely, warrior. Thick and soft.”
“Is it, now? How should I take that? A warrior with lovely hair.”
“’Tis so very black. Why is your hair so black?” I teased him, mimicking his earlier question.
“I don’t know. The loch, perhaps,” he mused, smiling. “’Tis inky black, and I’ve taken a swim in it almost every morning of my life.”
“Isn’t it cold?”
“Invigorating,” he corrected. “Good for the constitution, according to my father, who may also have had something to do with the color of my hair. His was equally black.”
I wanted to ask him about his father, but I knew the former Laird Mackenzie had been killed a year earlier in the ongoing battle between the Campbell clan and the occupiers of Ossian Lochs, the king’s expansive Highland estate; this had been discussed regularly by Ogilvie and his men.
I didn’t want to upset Wilkie or to stir up sad memories.
I was touching my warrior, holding his head, running my hands through his hair, and I preferred to relish the moment.
There would be time for that discussion—I hoped—another day.
I rinsed, making sure to wash him clean of all the slippery soap. Finding a cloth, I dried his hair and combed it with my fingers, and braided the two small braids at his temples.
“There, that’s better,” I said.
He lay back on his pillows.
“Would you like me to wash your hands?” I asked him. Ismay always reminded me to wash patients’ hands; she insisted it was a necessary step to prevent infection.
“If it would please you,” he said, his blue eyes smoldering with heat and teasing encouragement. When I hesitated, he added, “It would very much please me.”
I squeezed the excess of soapy water from the cloth and gently washed his hands.
The look in his eyes as I carefully cleaned his hands—that, along with my own unabashed desire—led me then to wash his sculpted arms, his bare chest and his stomach, where he was ticklish. I love that he’s ticklish, I thought.
“I am allowed to be here with you, like this?” I said. “Where are your sisters?”
“I assured them I am capable of chaperoning you myself, and asked them to take their leave.”
“Is that what you are?” I couldn’t help but smile. “My chaperone?”
“Aye. My first task was to ensure that you were warm in the night.” His crooked grin tugged at my heart.
“Well, you succeeded very well in that task. I can assure you of that. I may never have passed a warmer, more comfortable night.”
“And to keep you safe from would-be intruders. Well-protected.”
I let the wet cloth slide over his shoulder and down the hard surface of his brawny arm. “Also a task very well executed. I commend you for that. I felt very safe indeed.”
“Next, ’tis my duty to make sure you have been well fed.”
“I have not had such a feast since...well, for a very long time,” I told him, quite truthfully.
“As your chaperone,” he said, “I take my duties very seriously, you must understand. I’ll not have a single need of yours overlooked.”
“You are very thorough,” I agreed, enjoying his game.
“All of my needs have been admirably attended to.” I had washed all of him above the waist. I laid my cloth down by the basin.
I fitted a new dressing into place, and he sat up as I wound the bandage around his torso, allowing my fingers to graze across his skin.
Once his bandage was secured in place, I pushed him gently back to lie against his pillows.
“I thank you, m’lady, for your healing touch,” he said, bowing his head to me in a gesture of playful formality. “But there is one more detail I believe needs addressing.”
“I wish I could heal you with my touch,” I murmured, drawing my fingers around the edges of his new dressing, registering only then his last statement. “What is this detail you speak of? There is nothing else I need.”
“I’m just getting to that,” he said. A hint of amusement played across his lips. “Keep touching me. I feel better already.”