Page 57 of Desiring the Highland Laird
“He’s gone, then?” the man asked.
Callum nodded, his jaw clenched as a sense of melancholy settled over him.
“Dinnae fash, my lord. I will take care of him.”
He patted Dougal on the shoulder. “Aye, ye have my thanks.”
“Yer lady waits for ye in yer chamber,” Dougal added.
He thought of Evie and her fiery red hair and flashing eyes. Eyes that had mesmerized him from the first moment he looked into them. How she had fretted over him, determined to clean the blood from his hands. He glanced down and saw his skin was still stained with it, the grit and gore still under his fingernails.
Dougal didn’t wait for a reply as he entered the bedchamber that already smelled of death. It turned his stomach. He headed down the hallway to his own bedchamber and pushed open thedoor. Evie sprang to her feet from the chair by the fire, worry creasing her pretty features. She clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for him to tell her.
But he didn’t. She knew by the look of him.
“Oh, Callum. I’m so sorry,” she said, her breath but a whisper.
The was a fire blazing in the hearth. With a weariness, he settled into the chair next to it, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He heard water splashing in the basin and then she brought it over with clean linens. She kneeled at his feet, dipping a cloth in the water. He watched her with interest as she began to clean the dried blood from his hands.
“So much…” she whispered as the linen turned pink with every swipe. “Are you hurt?”
She glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. Firelight reflected in her deep brown eyes. The one gold fleck in her right eye seemed to wink back at him. Concern creased her face—concern for him. He shook his head to indicate he wasn’t hurt at all.
No, it was his da who had taken the great axe to the gut. His da who had shoved him out of the way when MacDonald charged toward him. His da who died to make sure he lived.
She went back to cleaning his hand, doing the best she could. When she had his right hand mostly cleaned, she dumped the water in the chamber pot and replaced it with fresh from the pitcher. Then she returned with a clean linen and started on his left hand.
“Ye dinnae need to do that,” he said, his voice gruff.
He wanted to pull away, to tell her to go back to her own room, but his voice faltered and his hands remained still. He was reluctant to make her leave. Her touch was gentle, her hands soothing as she carefully cleaned his. The soft cloth moved over his skin, her movements unhurried and full of care. The warmthof her closeness and the care in her touch made him hesitate, lingering in the comfort she unknowingly offered.
“I know, but I want to.”
Surprise flickered through him. She wanted to? He watched her as she dipped the cloth into the water, then held his hand in her small one while she dragged the cloth over his knuckles, revealing redness there. Ah, yes. He had punched one of the MacDonald lads in the nose. A young lad, too, by the looks of him. Young and green and not well versed in the ways of war or battle. Callum had knocked the sword out of his hand and when he charged, thinking to fight him hand to hand, it had taken nothing more than one punch to lay him flat on the ground.
Silence hung between them, soft and heavy, like a comforting blanket. The gentle trickle of water echoed through the quiet room, mingling with the steady crackle of the fire as flames flickered and danced in the hearth. The warmth from the fire washed over him, a soothing contrast to the cool air. As she continued to tend to him, her touch careful and reassuring, a deep sense of peace settled in his chest. The gratitude swelled inside him, warming him more than the fire—grateful for her presence, grateful he didn’t have to face this moment alone.
He dared not speak of his da yet. He wasn’t ready to discuss it with her or anyone else. While Malcolm channeled his grief through fighting and war, Callum was a different sort. He preferred to brood in silence alone.
And yet, he wasn’t alone.
He had spent the long days after his mother’s and sister’s deaths quiet and alone, preferring the company of his horse to anyone.
All of this could have been avoided had Jamie not been such a lascivious knave. Why couldn’t he marry the girl to keep the peace?
When Evie finished her task, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him. “There. Not perfect but better.” A faint smile fluttered over her pretty face.
There was still blood under his nails. Still, he appreciated her.
She rose and dumped the bloody water into the chamber pot as she did before. Then she picked up the soiled linens, tucking them under her arm. She picked up the bowl and the pitcher.
“I’ll leave you be, now,” she said, heading for the door.
“Ye dinnae have to,” he heard himself say.
This stopped her in her tracks as she came even with his chair. She tipped her head down to look at him, curiosity and question in her eyes.
“I should let you rest and…be with your thoughts. Besides, I need to clean these.”
