Page 95 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
He rubbed soothing circles on her back and told her lore from the land around them, all the while letting the water lap at them and clean them.
When Helena had calmed down, they broke apart and scrubbed their flesh. Once Damien felt clean, he turned and saw Helena resting her chin on her arms on a nearby rock. Her eyes were closed, but her face seemed troubled.
“Hel,” he said as he moved closer. “Ye are far too quiet. Will ye talk to me?”
Helena slowly opened her eyes and focused on him—or tried. Then, she squinted and stood up, moving closer to him. “Your arm. We need to clean and bandage it.”
Damien made to argue, then stopped, sensing it would not go well with her. Instead, he nodded, and they clambered out. He tried not to look at her for too long as he wrapped her in thecloak, and then he grabbed his kilt and shoved his feet into his boots, not even bothering with his shirt.
The walk back to the lodge felt too quick and too slow at the same time. Hand in hand, they walked in. Damien immediately went to the fireplace and started grabbing logs, along with chaff.
“Go into that room over yonder and see what clothes ye can scrounge up.”
Helena nodded, picking up a candle and lighting it, then venturing into the room.
“A day gown and some trews,” she said when she returned, gesturing toward herself. She wearing a white gown that stuck to her in a way that made Damien swallow hard. “Let’s clean your arm.”
She tossed the trews at Damien, who shrugged and stood in front of the fire. His kilt was nearly dry, as were his boots. Watching Helena rummage around the kitchen, his heart misgave him. Something was wrong.
She returned in a moment with a small chest and looked him over.
“How are your extremities?” she asked, and Damien tilted his head. She flushed. “Your feet, your hands, your…everything.”
“Ach,” Damien said. “Better now. Seems there’s nay lastin’ damage.”
Helena bit her lip and nodded, then bid Damien to sit on the low footstool and began to dab at his shoulder. She was meticulous in cleaning and bandaging his arm, then sighed and ran her hand over his hair. Her fingers lingered on the strap of his eyepatch, and a shiver went through him.
“This is quite damp,” she said. “Perhaps you should take it off.”
“Aye, I could,” he said in a rough voice, watching her walk away with the box in her hands and tugging at his eyepatch. He hung it above the fire and raked a hand through his dark hair. “D’ye want to take a bath? I could heat some water for ye.”
Helena tossed him a look over her shoulder. “Did we not just take a bath together, My Laird?”
“Aye,” Damien said. “Well…”
Silence fell over them, and again, that tension crackled in the air, sharp as a blade.
“Hel, would ye talk to me? I am worried about ye. Hel?”
His bride-to-be had suddenly snatched up her cloak and boots, before rushing out the door. Damien blew out a breath before he followed, not even bothering to put a shirt on. She wove through the trees until she came to a rock near the waterfalls and staredup at it, then rounded on him. There was a sheen of tears on her face.
“Helena,” Damien chided. “What did I tell ye about runnin’? And after tonight?—”
“You could havedied,” she snapped, her fists clenched. “Swimming in the Shipmaw in winter? In a bloody storm? With no goddamn boots? I?—”
Damien moved closer and caught her arms, but she pulled free and shoved at him.
“I wish I could hate you right now.”
“Do ye?” Damien asked in a low voice, fighting a smile, as he suspected what was going on.
“No,” Helena said and threw herself at him, hugging him more tightly than she ever had before. “No.”
Minutes passed, and she did not let go.
Damien held her as tightly, then he pulled her back. “Hel?—”
“Say it now,” she demanded, her eyes bright with tears. “Say it without the goddamn sword of Damocles threatening us, with enemies all around, and a storm shattering the horizon.”
