Chapter Twenty-Six
The morning dawned bleak, with spurts of rain against Alan’s window. After Annista departed he had not slept well. How could he? Half in pain and half aroused, the one offering no answer to the other.
To be sure, he’d scarce noticed any pain while she lay atop him with her tongue deep inside his mouth. Who would have thought? He’d been hard as iron—had she been able to tell?—and would have made love to her right then. And likely torn his wound right open.
Worth it, no doubt. She’d been hot and willing in his arms. Eager.
His wife.
Was she untouched? Bound to be, despite her wild nature, a lass from a high house and good family as she was. Unbreeched but not loathe—
She was his wife. Bartered through his father’s scheming, aye, for political reasons. But his wife all the same.
There would, therefore, be naught wrong in it.
An heir would be expected.
That thought made his head swim. He wanted to give Annista his child as he’d rarely wanted anything.
But the succession—like Kallan itself—was not his to further. It never had been. And as for Annista—
Well, he’d already violated his promise not to touch, had he not?
She’d kissed him. Ah, God, she had! He relived it again, how she’d pressed her plump, warm lips to his, tasting the draught—most of which had spilled on the coverlet.
Tasting him. Liking what she tasted.
Through the connecting door, left ajar, he heard the two women in the far chamber stir and speak to one another. Annista’s voice and then Bonnie’s.
The little maid would soon recover. She’d suffered a terrible fright, aye, but the worst had not happened.
Would Annista come and check on him? Find out if, perhaps, he had perished in the hours without her?
Much as he wanted Annista to appear in the open doorway—and he lay with his gaze trained upon it, willing her to do so—she did not. Instead, his outer chamber door rattled and opened. He stiffened, realizing belatedly he was still on guard against Evan—or should be.
One of the undermaids—Bessie—slipped in. She glanced at him before going to sweep out the hearth and lay a new fire.
“All quiet, Bessie?” he asked.
“Aye, Master Alan.”
The efficient lass had the fire going in an instant and slipped out again. Mother would be next, Alan supposed, coming to fuss over him.
It was not Mother he wanted fussing over him.
He could hear the two women moving about and speaking softly in the next room. He supposed he should stir, but something in the gloom and dash of rain on the windows kept him where he was.
Evan would be out there somewhere in that rain.
Served him right and proper.
But—would the foul weather sober him up? Or send him home to wreak more havoc?
Before Alan could decide, Annista appeared at the connecting doorway. Fully dressed she was, to his disappointment, her hair bundled with some haste, shoes on her feet.
He remembered her feet last night, bare beneath the hem of her night rail as she came to him. Ah, God, what was he to do with these feelings?
“How d’ye feel this morning?” she asked as politely as if she’d never been held fast in his arms.
He tried to move and grimaced. That brought her to him swiftly, a look of concern on her face.
Did she care? Did she, truly?
The expression in her hazel eyes argued so, as she paused beside the bed and inspected him.
Climb in wi’ me, he thought shockingly, and mentally he began figuring how to remove her clothing.
“Much pain?” she responded to the grimace.
“I am well enough,” he lied. His chest screamed at him and he was—once more—hard down below.
“Do no’ lie to me, Alan MacKallan.” She conceded the point and added, “Husband.”
Their eyes met. What did that mean, then? Her use of the word sounded almost like claiming.
“Help me up,” he requested. It would give him a chance to touch her, and what was male pride compared to that?
She came readily and lent her shoulder, one arm curled fast around him.
By the time he was on his feet, he was dizzy and sweating—not all the lightheadedness caused by his condition.
At least, not that condition.
From very near, she inspected him again. “Ye need the physician. I will request your lady mother call him back.”
He needed her. He eyed her lips. Just there. He could seize them if he tried.
“Gi’ me a moment,” he asked, holding her. “I shall do well enough.”
“I can see ye be in pain.” A frown touched her brow. “Ye did no’ ha’ the benefit o’ all that draught—”
She flushed hot. Both of them remembered what had happened to most the draught.
She deposited him on the edge of the bed without ceremony. “There is more of that powder the physician left. I will mix ye another. And ye will drink it.”
“Aye, Mistress.”
That made her slant a look at him.
“How does your wee maid?”
“Gone down to her breakfast. She will be fine. Where d’ye think—” Her hands hesitated at their task. “Where d’ye think Evan is today?”
“God knows, given this weather.”
“D’ye think he will return to the manor?”
Alan did, truly. Evan was not one to long suffer discomfort, especially once he sobered. Ah, but what a rumpus that would be, with Father expecting guests.
“Here.” She handed him the cup. “Drink.”
“Must I?”
“Aye, so.”
“But ’tis bitter.” Surely she must remember that, having tasted of him. Her purpose in kissing him, presumably.
“Nay matter.”
If I drink like a good lad, will ye kiss me again? He did not ask that question but said instead, “Fine, and then ye can help me dress.”
Her eyes flew to his. “Surely that is wha’ yer man is for.”
“I do no’ ken where my man is—attending Father, presumably, since we share him. Or on guard.”
“Och, I know naught o’ men’s clothing.”
He leaned toward her. “Time ye learned, then.”
And he drank down the draught in one go.
****
Men’s clothing proved far simpler than women’s, but that did not lighten the task Annista undertook.
As it emerged—and as she’d been able to attest in the middle of the night—her husband wore very little.
And that little had to come off before he could dress for the day, a procedure complicated by his wound.
She meant to turn her back. Indeed, and she did. They had made promises, after all—one of which she’d broken the previous night—not to touch. Which, so she figured, included not touching with her eyes either.
She’d turned her back and gone to fetch the requested garments from his clothes press when a small sound had her swinging around.
Her husband had drawn his nightshift off over his head, a procedure that must have caused considerable pain. He sat on the edge of the bed.
Naked.
When she spun, he pooled the shed garment in his lap.
But she was not looking at that. For a stain of red bloomed at the bandages covering his chest.
Once more, she flew to him. Arrested her fingers just before they reached the bandaging.
“Ye’re bleeding.”
“I do no’ think so, not now.”
“Then, when?” Her eyes fastened to his. “Last night? When I—lay upon ye? Why did ye no’ say?”
One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a wry smile. His eyes still held hers, and though he did not speak, she thought she glimpsed—in those smoke-gray windows—what thoughts were in his mind. Those moments, when she lay atop him had been desirable. Too delicious. He’d not wanted to end them.
Color stained her cheeks. She stood near enough to feel his heat and to again catch his scent. To recall in vivid detail the wondrous titillation of lying with him.
By God, she wanted it all again.
But she jerked away from him and took a decided step back.
“Here are your clothes. I will go find your lady mother. I think she needs to recall the physician.”
“Annista—” He spoke her name softly. Longingly? She did not linger to find out but stepped from the chamber before she could again break her promise.