Page 32 of The Guardian's Bride
“What you will, Grizel, my bluebell,” he said, smiling.
“Bluebells are poisonous,” she muttered.
“I know, my dear.”
Rowena smoothed theblankets over the narrow, sagging bed, patted the pillows, and sat, rubbing her lower back, glad to be rid of the helmet and surcoat that she had wriggled out of and dumped on the bed. She looked up to see Aedan MacDuff tilting a brow at the discarded things.
“You will need to stuff that under your gown again if someone comes here.”
“I trust Hamish will guard against visitors.”
“He will. Did you have to make him a MacDonald, then?”
“Friends of English, some of them. He could not be Hamish MacDuff.”
“Indeed.” He drew the sword from the scabbard at his back and sat, the leather stool all but disappearing beneath him. Then he pushed long fingers through his hair and beard, a thoughtful, troubled gesture. A frown shadowed his hazel green eyes.
Hearing thunder and a distant crack of lightning, Rowena went to the room’s small square window and opened the wooden shutters while rain pattered against the building. “Are we safe here?”
“From thunder and rain? Most likely.” His frown was distracted.
“From the guards under our feet?”
“I think so.” He rose, took a dry reed from a batch, bent to light it from the squat iron brazier where flames crackled, and lit two tallow candles to brighten the room. Then he crossed to stand beside her at the window, resting a hand on the wall. A damp breeze blew inside, sifting his hair, wafting her veil.
“The air feels good after being confined for weeks,” he said.
“I was only in that cell for a short time. I cannot imagine weeks there.”
“Eh, I am used to dungeons. But when rain cleans the air, it feels very good.” He drew a long breath, exhaled.
“Used to a dungeon? How often have you been in such a place?”
“Now and then. Are you worried you have thrown in your lot with a rogue?”
“Fairly sure I have,” she said.
He huffed a little laugh and was quiet, a tower of a man, broad and brawny. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Yet she felt no threat in his presence, just his steadfast shelter. A sweet, curious thrill sank through her. She sensed a thread of danger too, dark and low, but never turned toward her.
“Aedan MacDuff,” she murmured. “Why are they after you?”
“My name tells you that.” Even quiet, his voice thrummed.
She frowned. “I know MacDuff is an ancient clan, and they say there are no Scottish kings without Clan Duff—the kingmakers.” She looked up at him.
He drew a sharp breath and closed the shutter. “The rain will wet us both.”
“We will not melt. Tell me. Are you one of the kingmakers?”
“Not me.” He turned toward the table that held the basin, towels, soap. “We should wash before the water cools.”
Sensing he was reluctant to discuss the MacDuffs, she nodded. “I will step outside until you are done.” She turned for the door.
“Grizel, you forgot your wee condition. Let me go out first. You do not want to use that water after me.”
She had to admit that. “Aye then. Just outside?”
“Nearby. I want to hear what those fellows are saying downstairs.” He opened the door, then closed it behind him.
