Page 22 of Laird of Twilight
“Sorry. Was it too obvious?”
“Yes, quite.”
“I am not good at this. Here, may I?” She reached up to tug on his neckcloth. “Your cravat would make a fine bandage, if you will part with it. The rain and mud have all but ruined it, but part of it will serve nicely. Then you need not search.”
Nor did he need to search for a bride now, if he went along with this.
“Very well.” He reached up to undo the knot in the cloth, his hands brushing hers. Her small fingers worked the soft knot under his hands. He assisted, bowing his head, his brow brushing the top of her head. Her hair was smooth, glossy, smelled of rain and blossoms. She looked up just then, and their noses bumped.
He sucked in a breath. So did she. Too vividly, he recalled wild kisses behind potted shrubberies at Holyroodhouse.
“Please,” she said, breathless.
A surge went through him, hard and sudden. “Oh. The cravat.” He worked the last knot free.
She drew it away slowly, soft linen and then air upon his neck, sensual as a caress, setting up a fire in him that only willpower smothered. “Some men may feel at odds without a neckcloth.”
“I have a dozen cravats. This is an old one.” It was new. He could not sound more of a dolt. Her touch unsettled him, whirling his usual composure off balance. He felt like stalwart iron drawn to a curving magnet.
“Miss MacArthur, sit down.” He pushed on her shoulders. She winced, sat. At least her injury was genuine, he thought. “We had best wrap the ankle.”
She lifted her injured foot to the stool, bringing up the hem of her skirts. Then she rolled down her stocking and slipped it off to reveal her swollen ankle and neatly muscled calf. James watched, his body surging distinctly, inconveniently.
But the painful look of her bruises startled him out of a very male thought. Kneeling, he gently wrapped the cravat around her foot and ankle, circling and crossing to provide snug support. The cloth was too long; he tore it, tying the ragged ends to fit. He had rather liked that cravat, but he was not about to mention it.
“Thank you. That feels better.” She wiggled the bare toes peeking out. “If you did not complete your medical studies, where did you learn to do this?”
“War. I helped the doctors in the regiment when I could.”
She watched him. “Quatre Bras was a terrible ordeal.”
He looked up, startled, silent.
“The Royal Highlanders,” she said. “The Black Watch…they were so brave, held their own, the day before Waterloo. But they lost so many men when the French came at them, where they held ground there.”
His hand grew still on her foot. “How did you know I was at Quatre Bras?”
“Sometimes I see things in my mind, like a dream. I saw this, and heard the name of it. I know a battle took place the day before Waterloo, where the Scots held the day. And you were there.”
“Who told you?”
“The knowing told me so.”
“Knowing?” He met her direct silvery gaze. “Not this again, Miss MacArthur, as you did in Edinburgh. Do not play me for a fool. What is your scheme, to pretend a vision about my past?”
“I would not scheme. I saw something just now.” She leaned forward. He leaned back, tense. “I saw you on a battlefield, in a kilt and a red coat. I heard ‘Quatre Bras.’ I did not know until just now that you were ever there.”
He tugged at the torn ends of the neckcloth a little too fiercely, simmering with anger. She gasped. “I am sorry,“ he said quickly, and loosened the knot.
“You tried to save him,” she said then. She closed her eyes. Her cheeks went pale. “I see a flash of steel, a blow. A horseman. A Frenchman jumped the line of Highlanders, was shot down. You were trapped—your leg—under the horse. You were injured. Could not save him. He called to you—Jamie—”
”Enough!” He stood. “Did that nitwit Philip Rankin tell you this?” He was livid. Anger burned clean through him, a ring of fire. Now he felt the passion of outrage.
He preferred calm passions, the love of an excellent library collection, or a case of rock specimens neatly labeled, or thoughts and theories expressed on the written page. Safe, solid, reliable passions. Not the muddy emotional tumult he felt now.
“No one told me,” she said, opening her eyes. “I saw it in my mind just now.”
“You could easily assume that I was part of a Highland regiment in the war against Napoleon. The Black Watch is a good guess. And Quatre Bras, seven years ago. Very good, Miss MacArthur.” He clapped slowly. “But to tell me your guesses are Highland divination...you need a better explanation than ‘the knowing.’”
