Page 71 of Laird of Flint
“Nay!” Peris erupted, then thought better of his outburst. “Nay. I can manage. ’Tis an act o’ service and a labor o’ love.”
“One for which God will surely reward ye,” she cooed.
“Reward?” he scoffed, then added in a mutter, “Och aye, I’m certain of it.”
Carenza quickly ushered him out of the chamber. “Will ye send someone up with a bottle o’ wine and a cup?”
He grunted in reply.
After the door closed, Hew opened his eyes. “Peris seems…ill-at-ease.”
“Ye were awake?”
“Enough to hear the edge in his voice.”
“’Tis likely exhaustion. He was in the infirmary again all night.”
“The hunting accident?”
“Aye. Peris fears the man will die.”
“That’s two in a sennight.”
“Aye.” She started picking up the shards of the cup. “By the way, we’re even now.”
“Even?”
“I saved your life again.”
“You did?”
“Aye.” She placed the broken pieces on the table. “When I came in, Peris was addin’ a deadly amount of opium to your wine.”
“What?” Hew glowered in outrage. “Did he mean to poison me?”
“I’m not sure. It may have been an accident. But I couldn’t let ye drink it.”
“Did you knock the cup out of his hand?”
“I did.”
His mouth curved slowly up into a heart-melting, delicious, conspiratorial smile. And she found there was something liberating about not having to keep up appearances for Sir Hew. Something thrilling about sharing her mischief with him. So she couldn’t help but grin back.
Lady Carenza’s charming innocence was going to get her into trouble. The lovely lass had no idea how her smile lit up a room, plucked heartstrings, and made a man grow hard with longing.
Hew felt that way now.
Sometime last night, she’d bathed and dressed. Aside from the garish wine stain marring her skirts, she looked flawless. The color of her gown matched the jewels of her eyes. Every strand of hair framed her face perfectly. Every inch of her skin was radiant. She smelled like a field of summer flowers.
He longed to court her with pretty phrases and gentle caresses. To whisper praise into her ear and slip the silky strands of her hair between his fingers. To sweep her into his arms—his burns be damned—and cradle her winsome body against his chest.
But his careless vow of chastity kept him in a prison of his own making. He would have to avert his eyes and temper his desires.
“How are ye feelin’?” she asked. “Any better?”
He nodded. His arms still stung. His hand burned. But the pain seemed negligible when compared to the throbbing in his braies.
“I need to change your poultice,” she said.
