Page 58 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder as he whispered, “I’ll return soon, lass. Daenae move.”
She mumbled something soft, unintelligible, and turned over, pulling the blankets tighter around her. Her face nestled back into the pillow with a content sigh.
Rhys allowed himself one more look before slipping from the room.
The keep was quiet. Corridors still cool and blue with early light as he made his way down toward the South wing, where Finn’s chambers were located.
His boots barely echoed as he made his way slowly toward the rooms, his mind racing.
If Finn truly escaped, is there reason for attack?
Should attack just based on how he’s treated Amara… he’s been a feckin’ disgrace for a faither…
Need to ken where the vulnerabilities are at the Keep and how Finn escaped…
He found himself at the chamber door sooner than he anticipated, the abruptness had halted him in stride.
“Shite –”
A soft yellow light danced on the stone floor at his feet from under the door, and he knocked softly before pushing inside.
Mabel, the healer from town, was hunched over Finn, inspecting the dressing wrapped around his ribs with tender care. Thekeep healer, Mack, sat off to the side muttering to himself and grinding herbs in a mortar.
“Is he well?” Rhys asked quietly.
Mack and Mabel both straightened, wiping their hands on their smocks almost simultaneously.
“He’s been feisty, me laird,” Mabel said. “Complained about the broth bein’ too bland and told me me stitchin' looked like a blind man’s weavin'. He’s healin’ though, me laird.”
Rhys huffed a humorless laugh.
“Ribs will heal. He’s lucky. A few inches the wrong way and we’d be plannin’ a burial instead,” Mack said, his voice as serious as always.
“He’s past the worst of it,” Mabel said.
Rhys nodded, glancing at his cousin’s sleeping form. Pale but breathing steady.
Good.
He walked further into the room and clasped Mabel on the shoulder briefly in thanks, and then he moved toward Mack.
“I’m going downstairs. Can I send Cookie up after I’m through?”
“Aye, me laird. That’ll be much appreciated,” the greying man said, his shoulders rolling back stiffly with a seemingly renewed sense of purpose.
Rhys grinned before turning on his heel and walking out of the room. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until his chest heaved with each step he took back down the corridor.
Cook, still groggy, grunted as Rhys helped himself around the kitchens. He grabbed a pair of bannocks and warmed them on the stove he had turned on. Gathered preserves, set up tea on a tray for the warming kettle, and placed a couple of cloth napkins to the side for the buns.
Understanding what his laird was up to, Cook pushed him out of the way with what could only be attributed to as a gentle and respectful groan. Rhys obliged, knowing where little else lived in the kitchen, and watched as his man finished preparing a simple breakfast tray.
“Ta, Cookie,” Rhys said, gathering the tray with one hand. “Oh, Mack would like ye upstairs, for Finn.”
“Aye, I was ‘bout to head up there, me laird. Been up all night, they have?”
“Aye – both look peckish as well.”
Cook grunted again, as he turned and busied himself on another tray, grumbling something about “Why did they nae take shifts… guess I willnae show up empty handed then…”
