Chapter Twenty-Two
Alan woke in his own bed, as he recognized when he pried his eyelids open.
The chamber lay dim and dusky, and he had a vague sense of time lost. The order of events slipped away into a confusion of images—Annista bending over him, her eyes wide with distress.
Himself on horseback. Blood and pain. The need to hold on.
A flash of his brother’s face contorted in a vicious grimace as Evan leaped at him.
Och, aye—he remembered that.
Somehow, he had got safe home.
He stirred, and one of the shadows that occupied the room moved also, beside him. His mother it was, as he could feel as soon as she laid her hand over his.
“Son?”
Ah, but she rarely called him that. Alan, always, except when she wanted him to do something. Like wed the Catholic lass in Evan’s place.
Evan.
He eyed his mother. Small she looked in her gown and white cap, her face writhed with concern.
“Ye be safe,” she reassured him, perhaps glimpsing the panic in his eyes. “Ye were brought home safe, and the physician has been. ’Twas a near miss to your heart, so he says, and may ha’ nicked your lung, but ye will recover.”
The physician? How much time had he lost?
“Annista—” he croaked.
“She did a braw job o’ going after ye and getting ye home.”
“Where is she?” He was supposed to be keeping her, his wife, safe. Yet here he lay and she off somewhere.
“D’ye want her? I will call for her.”
Mother rose and moved swiftly to the chamber door, which she opened, and spoke to a maid.
Alan moved in the bed and groaned. He hurt all over—not just where Evan had stabbed him. Aye, he remembered that. They’d fought first. Fists and feet.
Mother came back, crossed the chamber, and went to the connecting door. The one he and Annista had promised to keep locked.
It opened readily to Mother’s touch and she leaned through to speak.
In only a few footsteps, Annista entered the chamber.
She looked a mere shade of herself, grim and worried, and he thought aye, she’s come from her maid’s side. To mine. I should ha’ let her be.
Annista shot a glance at Mother before moving to perch on the edge of Alan’s bed.
“How d’ye feel? Och, ’tis a foolish question, that. Only look at ye!”
“I’m told I will live.”
Mother laid her hand on Alan’s arm. “Since Annista is here wi’ ye now, I will go speak wi’ your father.”
Hastily, Alan said to Annista, “I do no’ wish to keep ye—”
“’Tis well enough. Bonnie is better now, and anyway she is sleeping. Cora is sitting wi’ her.”
Mother nodded and hurried out. Alan and Annista gazed at one another.
“I hear ye got me home safe,” he said then.
“I did only wha’ I could. ’Tis fortunate Chieftain did no’ run awa’. Or that—that he did no’ tak’ him.”
Alan nodded. “I am that grateful to ye.”
“The physician says ’twas a near thing. The blade passed between your ribs and narrowly missed your heart.” She hesitated. “So, how do ye feel?”
“Like I’ve been dragged over sharp rocks by a bullock. But I’ll recover.”
He wished she’d reach out and touch his hand. Instead she sat with her fingers folded in her lap like the demure miss she most definitely was not.
Och, but they’d promised not to touch each other save out of necessity. Just as they’d sworn to keep that connecting door shut.
It stood open now, behind her.
“I am sorry,” he said slowly, still pushing his way through the fog that filled his mind, “that ye ha’ been dragged into all this.”
She gave an odd little shrug. “At least I was no’ forced to marry your vile brother.”
“Ye are grateful for that, are ye?”
“Aye, I am.”
Their gazes met again and this time held. What he saw in her eyes made him feel as if he’d been struck in the chest again.
“Where d’ye think he will go? Evan, I mean.”
Alan shook his head and regretted it. “There are scores o’ places, none o’ them warm or comfortable.”
“Did ye give him as good as ye got? He is also battered?”
“Aye, I’d ha’ got the better of him if he’d no’ pulled the knife.”
She leaned toward him and widened her hazel eyes. “Fro’ now on, ye will ha’ to go armed. For he could be anywhere and could get the drop on ye.”
Did she care? Did she, truly?
“Though,” she added, “it seems a shame for a man to go about warring on his own lands.”
“They are no’ my lands so much as Evan’s. He has always felt that, as ha’ I.”
She inched closer on the bed. Alan found himself wishing she would slide in beside him.
“Surely all this will cause your father to feel differently about him. Can he no’ toss him out o’ the succession in favor o’ ye?”
“’Tis no’ how it works, at least no’ in my father’s mind.”
“It should be.”
“Many things should be that are no’.” But he smiled at her, feeling the pull on his battered face. “I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Can I get aught for ye? A cold cloth? A drink?”
“Your company.” The words surprised even him. “If ye will. Unless ye maun go to your woman.”
“Nay—I can stay a while.” As if in answer to his wishes, she slid farther onto the bed so she sat beside him and leaned her back against the tall headboard. With the bed curtains partly closed around them, it seemed isolated. Even intimate.
“Rest, if ye will,” she told him. “I will keep guard.” Leaning her head toward him, she confided, “I ha’ a knife o’ my own.”
“Do ye, then?”
“Aye. And if your brother comes to finish wi’ ye, I will serve him as he has ye.”
“Nice,” Alan admitted as his eyes slid shut, “to ha’ someone tak’ my part.”
“We maun, perhaps, tak’ each other’s part, since there seems no one else willing to do so.”
Did he truly hear her say that? Or was it an imagining as he floated off to sleep? Mayhap just wishful thinking again.
****
When Alan awoke once more, his mind was clearer. Awareness returned even before he opened his eyes. He remembered all of it, the encounter with Evan and what had come after—Annista, lying beside him.
He’d had dreams, distracting ones that seemed to have involved repeated encounters with his brother. The past? The future? Who could tell?
When he opened his eyes, his surprise flared, for Annista remained beside him.
She slept, slumped toward him on the bed. He could hear her breathing softly in the quiet room and the sound affected him on a deep level. Roused a spate of tenderness.
Did this woman require tenderness?
Doubtful. Would she welcome it from him? Equally doubtful. Yet—she looked so young and vulnerable while asleep. And he could not deny what he felt.
The room had slid into shadow so he could see her but dimly, the only light being the fire that burned well down. Beyond the window lay only darkness. Night?
He hurt, as he discovered when he tried to move. Whatever draught the physician might have given him had clearly worn off. His face had swollen and the wound in his ribs screamed at him. He must look a right mess.
Did he care? Nay, for Annista lay beside him, and she was beautiful. Odd that he’d not thought so at once upon meeting her, for it was true.
He inspected her slowly by the doubtful light. Dress torn and soiled. Hands not overly clean. Hair tumbled and wild.
Lips two perfect buds waiting to be kissed. Cheeks pale and delicate. Bosom—
Nay, do not think on that. Only—she looked to have the most perfect breasts.
Her hand lay on the coverlet not far from his. He moved his fingers the required distance and cradled hers.
She stirred, mumbled something. A tiny frown marked her brows.
She does not welcome my touch. Even in her sleep she counts the promise we made.
But then her hand twisted beneath his, and she clutched his fingers. Hard. Like a woman who meant never to let go.
Alan lay breathless, a man transfixed.