Page 65 of Laird of Flint
Samhain had been cut short after Carenza’s accident. But before the clanfolk retired, they took the time to snatch branches from the bonfire to light their own hearths for good luck. The sacrifices from the harvest had worked to appease the dark spirits. No evil entity had dared to venture past the bright fire of the living to do harm. Unless you counted the wicked flames that had licked at Carenza’s gown.
Now, with Hew sleeping soundly, Peris and her father chatted quietly by the fire.
“O’ course he’ll stay at Dunlop to mend,” her father announced.
Carenza was afraid of that.
She could feel things happening in her heart that did not bode well for the future. Things like the way it had softened, knowing Hew had sacrificed his own safety to keep her from harm. Things like how it pounded when she beheld his bare chest, bold and magnificent. Things like the way it ached when she thought of the kind warrior wasting away in a monastery instead of taking a wife.
She sighed. She needed to listen to the voice of destiny. Hew’s fate was spoken for. By a higher power than she possessed.
It was hard to remember with temptation so close at hand.
“But he’ll miss All Saints Day,” she argued, “and All Souls Day.”
“Tis best not to move him in his condition,” her father said. “Besides, the physician is already here.”
“But they have an infirmary with beds at Kildunan,” she told him. “Ye can have your bedchamber back.”
She knew she was grasping at straws. Her father was perfectly content to sleep on the rushes in the great hall with his clanfolk.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said.
“He’s goin’ to need watchin’ o’er, day and night,” the physician warned. He held up the vial. “He’ll need drops o’ this every few hours.”
“Right,” Carenza agreed. “At Kildunan, they have dozens o’ monks who are up all night, prayin’. Surely they can—”
“I insist,” her father insisted. “’Tis the least we can do for the man who saved your life.” To the physician, he said, “Ye’ll o’ersee his care. And if ye’re called away, Lady Carenza can look after him.” He uttered the words with far more enthusiasm than Carenza deemed appropriate.
She clenched her teeth even as she curved her lips into a pleasant smile, as if that weren’t the worst idea in the world.
It was obvious what fueled his satisfaction. The laird schemed to make a match between her and her Samhain hero. A feat that would be so much easier with the prospective bridegroom sleeping in the laird’s chamber for several days. And Carenza serving as his nursemaid.
“’Tis settled then,” the laird decided.
She wished she could say the same thing about her heart.
An hour later, after she’d dressed for bed and given Twinkle a last treat for the night, a maidservant scratched at her door. As fate would have it—or perhaps as her father had arranged—a messenger from the monastery had come to Dunlop to summon the physician. A wealthy patron had arrived at Kildunan’s infirmary. He’d fallen from his mount in a hunting accident, and it was feared he might die.
Wrapping her arisaid around her, Carenza went to her father’s chamber, where Peris gave her hasty instructions for Hew’s care. He was to be given a cup of wine with three drops of the tincture—no more, no less—at each canonical hour. The dressing for his hand—a poultice of butter and honey—should be changed daily. And he should be watched for fever and signs of infection.
A pallet was brought in for her, though she could hardly sleep. Not with the magnificent warrior of Rivenloch slumbering so near. She crept close and gazed down at him.
He truly was a stunning figure of a man. Even in repose, there was a fierceness in his face that probably made his enemies quake. He had a few light scars—one on his brow, one high on his cheek, one along his jaw—where a blade had kissed his flesh. But they only added character.
His pulse throbbed in his throat. His ribs rose with each slow breath. As her gaze traced the smoothly sculpted muscle of his chest, she felt heat rise in her face.
This was not good.
Catching her lip under her teeth, she stealthily pulled up the coverlet to cover him. She told herself it was because he might be chilled. But she knew the truth. She found Hew attractive. Alluring. Irresistible. And she knew the fewer temptations she had to face, the better.
Perhaps she should invent a new history for him. One that would portray him as a repugnant villain instead of an irresistible hero.
Hew of Rivenloch probably ate kittens for breakfast, she decided. He wrestled with wolves to prepare for battle, killing them with his bare hands. And he drank the blood of his enemies.
After all, he and his clan had come from Viking parentage. They were probably berserkers who raped and pillaged their way through the countryside. Burning down churches. Sacking castles. Destroying villages. Stepping on spiders.
It was only right to despise the vicious son of Vikings, who wreaked havoc wherever he roamed. Any civil person would hate the hound-beating, horse-whipping, lamb-slaying savage who never traveled without his killing axe. It was natural to loath the deceitful and duplicitous monk who had invaded her home and deluded her father.
