Page 67 of The Guardian's Bride
“You want me to tend to your ankle,” he murmured. It was as if he offered a reprieve, a chance to breathe, consider. “Foot,” he said, tapping his knee.
She shifted on the bed to set her foot across his knee, adjusting her shift over her legs. Cradling her foot, he traced his fingers over the bruise and the swelling. An aromatic scentwafted up, a trace of the healing ointment she had rubbed there earlier.
“Do you have bandaging?” he asked.
“I brought some here should I need it for Colban.” She stretched toward the small table by the bed and he reached past her to grab the linen strips. With her foot propped on his knee, he wound the lengths around her ankle with nimble fingers.
“You have done this before,” she said in admiration at his easy skill.
“Aye. When I was running in the hills with Bruce and his men, there was no surgeon or healing woman if someone was injured in a skirmish. We did what we could. There.” He tied the end securely around her ankle. “Try that.”
She stood, carefully walking away and back to test. “That does help,” she said, sitting beside him again.
“So. That is some of my debt erased, I hope.”
She huffed. “You have no debt to me.”
He kissed her brow. “What is this, then? Not repayment. Not only lust, though there is surely that,” he said with a lilt. “Whatever we both want, lass—this may not be the time to pursue it.”
“I know—but I like wondering,” she said, and craned up for a kiss, her words suddenly lost in his lips. She caught her breath as his hands slid from her waist up her ribcage, fingers stretching easily to capture the sides of her breasts. She arched as he explored, kissed her, cupped and teased until she moaned against his mouth. His hands stilled, slid down, his lips parting from hers.
“But we must think what—” he began.
“I do not want to think” she said quickly. “I am usually so cautious—but I just want to feel—wanted and—” She needed courage to say what came to her.Loved—by you.
“You are,” he murmured. “I care for you. It feels as if we are playing a game of Ard-Rì, and the board has spun about. My pieces are yours, yours are mine.”
“What do you mean?” She wanted to be close, to feel his hands upon her, his lips on hers. She nudged her nose to his. He kissed her, came away.
“I mean, in my clumsy way, that I want to think about this—just when you want to push on and think later.” He touched her hair, tugging playfully at a loose wave over her shoulder. “You are careful, thoughtful. Beautiful. And I can be a rogue. But I want to be careful with you, not hurt you, or make the wrong move.”
“I am not delicate, sir.”
“You are stronger than either of us knows, I think. So here we sit, my bluebell and I,” he said, putting his arm around her again, “both wanting this. But I will not treat this woman hastily. She is too important to me.”
“You are important to her too,” she admitted. “Very much so.”
“Listen. You are in my thoughts every moment now. You are in my heart, do you know that? It has been so for months.”
“Months? Since Holyoak?”
“When you left, I wanted to find you to thank you for saving my life. But not just that. I could not stop thinking about you. I wanted to see you again. And I wondered—if you—felt something too.” His hand soothed over hers. She rubbed her thumb on his. “I did,” she said. “I thought about you long after I left. I needed to know how you were. I wanted to see you again. Seeing you at Yester—felt like a miracle. You were there just when I needed you.”
Head tilted, eyelids long, he looked thoughtful. “Fate.”
“Fate,” she agreed. “It felt that way. Feels that way,” she amended.
“When I thought I might die, lying there,” he said, “I told you something. Perhaps you do not remember.”
“I do. You spoke of stones and—doves and secrets. I did not understand it. But you were fevered and seemed desperate. What you said did not make much sense, but once I felt sure you would live, I did not worry about it. It was not mine to know, but yours. Nor did I share it with anyone.”
“Do you recall what I said?” He took his hand away, cool air instead of warmth.
“A little of it. But you did not need me to remember it once you were better.”
“Need you,” he murmured. “I do now.” He pulled in a breath. “I wanted to find you when I left Holyoak—because I was a little in love with you.”
She caught her breath. “It can happen with healers and patients. But it is gratitude more often than not.”
