Page 37 of The Guardian's Bride
“I do, with my sister and our aunt, who look after my wee son. It grows late, lass. We need sleep.” Thunder boomed distantly as he spoke. “Bed or floor?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Bed for you, floor for me.” He waved toward the bed. “That looks too small. I would break it, crash through the floor, and fall on the guards downstairs.”
“One way to be rid of them.”
He laughed and dropped his plaid on the floor, kneeling to spread the cloth, bare torso golden in candlelight as he moved. He lay down, wrapped part of the plaid over himself, and folded his hands behind his head. Rowena settled on the bed, arranging the blanket, plumping two small pillows.
“Are you comfortable? Here.” She tossed one of the pillows toward him.
“Oof,” he said as it hit him in the face. The scar on his arm caught the light.
“Your arm looks good,” she said, leaning to peer at the puckered scar. “I meant to look closer earlier, but there was no time.”
“Fine. A bit stiff now and then.” He flexed his arm, fisted his hand, sinew and muscle shifting beneath smooth skin. “The other scars are healed too. All is well.”
“May I?” She moved to the floor, sitting like a child with crossed ankles, spreading her skirts, and leaned close as he tiltedhis face to the light. Brushing back his damp brown curls, she touched his cheek. “It looks good. Your leg is stronger too?”
He began to pull at the waist of his trews. “Here—”
“Oh, do not,” she said with an embarrassed laugh.
“You have seen it. Here, just the side.” He loosened the draw cords and pulled down the fabric to show part of his hip and upper leg, the plaid covering the rest. The skin of his thigh was pale and taut, the partial track of the scar pink and rippled.
Time flowed back to the night months ago when she’d sat with him, willing him to live, doing all she could. “It looks well-knit.”
“Good work well done.” He tugged up the trews. He was such an honest soul, she thought, with no arrogance and so at ease that she felt relaxed too. Yet they were all but strangers except for an oddly intimate bond in the past.
“Does it hurt? We walked a fair distance today.”
“Aches a bit. Could be the rain.” As if to punctuate his words, lightning crackled and rain pounded anew on the rickety shutters. “I owe you and your wee stone too.”
As he tightened the waist cords, Rowena noticed the firm pattern of muscle flexing across his abdomen, and felt keenly aware of how close they sat, and of a sweet tension rising between them. She wanted to be even closer. The thought felt nicely wicked, unexpected, and compelling.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, eyes keen.
“Just—the coincidences between us. It feels as if we were meant to meet.”
“Perhaps we were.” His voice reverberated, low and delicious.
A tremor of anticipation swirled within her as she met his gaze. Suddenly the two candles flickered and went out, and she gasped. Aedan reached for her hand in the dark and she startled.
“Lady, I am no threat to you.”
“I know.” Her voice was strangely wobbly. “This day has been so strange. Thrown in a dungeon, running off with a stranger—”
“We are not strangers.” He held her hand. “The troubles will pass, and you will soon be home, I promise.”
“You, as well.” She pressed his hand, needing that soothing touch, that subtle thrum of power and attraction spiraling through her.
“You are a lass to admire, I think. A practical one, steady and cautious, a lass who does not falter, who helps others. And who keeps her heart to herself.”
“Sometimes,” she said, echoing him earlier. “And you are steadier and more certain than me. Humble and kind, too, though you hide your feelings. And you make me laugh.” She smiled, tentative in the darkness.
“A bargain. You heal me, I heal you—your seriousness. It is the least I can do.” He brushed a tendril of hair from her brow.
Thunder sounded like boulders on the roof. She looked up. “The walls are shaking.”
