Page 67 of Laird of Flint
He’d been brought to the laird’s chamber. The physician had given him wine. He’d drifted off shortly after that.
So who was in the room with him now?
The fire had gone out. It was too dark to see.
It must be either the laird or the physician.
He edged carefully onto his back again and closed his eyes, listening and willing the pain to subside.
That was definitely a woman’s breathing. He’d heard it enough times to know. He strained his ears, trying to detect more.
In the distance, muted bells rang, waking the breather.
“Prime,” she announced to no one.
He recognized her voice at once. Lady Carenza. But he wondered why the lass would care about monks’ hours. Unless she needed to pray several times a night to atone for stealing her father’s coo.
Not wishing to startle her, he feigned sleep as she scrambled out of the pallet and crossed the chamber.
He heard her poking at the hearth. The shadows on his closed eyes lifted as fresh firelight illuminated the room.
She poured something and approached him.
“Sir,” she whispered faintly.
Sir? Was she calling himsir?Surely they were on less formal terms. After all, she’d apparently spent the night in this chamber with him.
He ignored her.
“M’laird.”
M’lairdwas worse. They were practically accomplices in crime.
He didn’t move a muscle.
She softly cleared her throat. Twice.
He continued breathing evenly. Which was no easy task when she reached out and pressed a finger to his brow. Even more difficult when she tapped it twice.
She withdrew her finger and finally mumbled, “Hew. Hew. Wake up.”
Ah, there it was. The arousing allure of a woman murmuring his name. He pretended to stir and let his eyes flutter open.
His mind’s eye hadn’t done her justice. She was still disheveled and sooty, with red-rimmed eyes and tangled tresses. But the concern in her face and the kindness in her gaze made her as lovely as an angel.
“Drink this,” she said. “Peris said ’twill help with the pain.”
What helped with the pain was her heavenly presence. With her beside him, he almost forgot he felt like he was burning in Hell.
“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the cup before he remembered his injured hand.
“I’ll hold it.”
He took a sip. It tasted nasty. “’Tis bitter.”
“’Tis the opium. But it seems to work, aye?”
He nodded and forced it down.
