Page 15 of Healing the Highland Sinner
He ran up the stairs again then strode down the hallway. The door squealed softly as he pushed it inward and when he crossed the threshold and into Rosalind’s room, he felt his stomach clench and his heart begin to race. The air was dusted with the light fragrance of flowers—roses, maybe—as well as the sea that floated in through the window, which was open slightly, making the curtains flutter in the soft breeze that drifted through.
Everything in her room was clean and tidy. She was obviously a woman who craved order. Several books stood on the table beside her bed and all her clothes hung neatly in a closet. He wassurprised to see a number of beautifully crafted dresses mixed in with the rough spun wool tunics and cloaks. Several pairs of boots sat at the bottom of the closet and a trunk beside those was open, revealing several pairs of breeches.
The one thing he noticed about all her clothing was that it was all nondescript. Neutral in color and without anything remarkable about them. They were plain and muted. It seemed perfect for the woman who did not want to stand out. Clothing so drab and unremarkable likely made it easier for her to slip in and around the crowds down in the harbor. She could move about almost as if she was invisible.
“Let’s go, Ellair!” Rosalind’s voice drifted up from downstairs. “Bring me the bleedin’ ointment already!”
Without giving thought to what he was doing, Ellair crossed the room and picked up Rosalind’s pillow. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply, savoring the floral scent on the fabric. It was definitely roses, but with some other underlying note that was light and appealing. He remembered too well the scent he’d caught a whiff of when he’d leaned close to her the previous night—right before she’d clocked him in the jewels.
Knowing he could not tarry any longer, Ellair dropped the pillow then found the small pot she had sent him to retrieve. Holding onto it tightly, he left her room and made his way back downstairs to find them both looking at him.
“What did ye dae lad, stop and smell her clothing?” Ciar asked.
“What? Nay,” Ellair responded. “Why would ye even say such a bleedin’ stupid thing then, eh?”
Rosalind looked at him with a curious but amused expression on her face, then shook her head as she took the small pot from him. Ellair sat back down and watched as she spread some of the foul-smelling ointment onto Ciar’s hand. He grimaced and sucked in a breath as the salve penetrated the wound.
“Stop bein’ such a bairn,” Rosalind said.
“It bleedin’ stings, it daes.”
“Then ye should’ve been more careful with that knife then, eh?”
Ciar grumbled like a chastised child, drawing a soft laugh from Ellair—which earned him a dark scowl. Ellair just grinned. It wasn’t hard for him to see the bond of affection between the two. They behaved like a big brother and sister. It made him think of his own brother, his twin Cormac, whom he’d had to leave behind to go on this mission. He missed him fiercely.
For so long, Cormac was all he’d had in the world. After their parents had died, they had both been wounded in battle and taken captive. Ellair had hovered near the brink of death until Cormac had made a deal with Laird John MacAulay, serving as his assassin and saboteur in exchange for the medical care that had brought Ellair back to life. If not for his brother’s sacrifice, Ellair knew he would be long dead. It was a debt he could never repay.
Eventually, Cormac had tired of being MacAulay ’s hired sword and had turned on him. He’d killed the former Laird, paving the way for John’s son, Domhnall, to become the new Laird. Domhnall was kind where John was cruel, and he had seen something in Ellair. They had become friends. Good friends. After Cormac married and moved away, Domhnall had been as a brother to him and eventually named him his war chief.
That was how Ellair had come to find himself sitting in a common room with a large man with a bloody hand and a woman who was beautiful and mysterious. A woman who intrigued him in ways no other woman had. It was dangerous, of course. Mooning over her like a lovesick bairn was playing with fire and tempting fate. And yet, she drew his gaze anyway, whenever she entered the room.
“Ellair!”
Ciar’s deep, booming voice pulled him out of his head and snapped him back to the moment. He found the big man and Rosalind both looking at him incredulously. He blinked stupidly and offered them a grin.
“Aye?”
“Serve the meal while I finish bandagin’ this donkey’s hand,” Rosalind said.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Of course.”
As she worked, Ellair moved the bit pot from the hearth to the table then dished out the rich, brown stew inside. He spotted large chunks of fish in the broth and inhaled the savory aroma. After that, he cut hunks of bread from the loaf and put them down on the plates then grabbed the small pot with the butter in it and set it down in the middle of the table. The aroma of the stew filled the air, making his mouth water and his stomach rumble. He was hungry.
“’Tis nae much,” Rosalind said. “And I’m nae much of a cook.”
“She’s really nae,” Ciar said, then yelped in pain as she squeezed his wound.
“Hold yer tongue or ye’ll go hungry,” she grumbled, earning a laugh from the big man.
“It smells better than anythin’ I’ve eaten in a long while,” Ellair offered.
Rosalind quickly rinsed off her hands in the pot of water he’d brought in then dropped all the bloodied cloths into it and moved it close to the door.
“Ye can take that out when we’re done eatin’,” she said.
Ellair nodded. “Aye. I’ll dae that.”
“Good. Then let’s eat.”
