Page 11 of Sutherland's Secret
Her muscles began to relax. She lifted her head out of the water and pushed dripping hair out of her eyes.
She lathered herself with the lavender-scented soap, stopping every now and then to inhale deeply, taking in the rose and lavender, letting it calm her.
She had no idea what her future held. More than likely it wasn’t good. She was alone in a foreign country with no way out and a powerful enemy most certainly looking for her. But for now she wouldn’t think of any of that. For now she would appreciate the small things, like a hot bath, a clean body and hair, a warm meal, and a soft bed.
Tomorrow she would think on the rest.
Chapter 5
Brice slept the sleep of the dead. Two nights out in the elements and taking care of the woman, plus traveling to Graham’s gathering and many nights before that of no sleep, had taken their toll.
So it was his subconscious that registered the scream, and his warrior’s trained body responded before he was fully awake. He was rushing down the hall, his broadsword raised before the sleep cleared from his eyes.
A foursome of his warriors, their own weapons at the ready, met him in front of the woman’s door just as another scream rent the air. Brice dismissed them and slowly pushed the door open to peer inside.
The chamber was lit softly by the dying embers of the fire in the grate. The room was sultry from her bath earlier in the evening. Brice took it all in at once. Nothing was out of place, and the chamber seemed empty except for the small form writhing in the bed. He motioned for his men to stay where they were.
Slowly he approached the bed, but he’d spent the last two nights with her, and he suspected he knew what was happening. Another nightmare. Cecilia had reported to him that the woman’s body was covered with scrapes and bruises on top of scars. But she’d said the woman had bathed and eaten well before falling asleep.
She was on the bed now, moaning and thrashing.
He leaned his broadsword against the small bedside table and noted that the dagger he had given her sat atop the table, within easy reach. Cecilia had told him that the lady had brandished the weapon at her, and he had secretly smiled at the picture it painted.
He touched her shoulder, wishing he knew her name so he could whisper it to calm her. She did not come out of her nightmare but moaned again, rolling away from his touch.
“Shhh, wee’un,” he whispered. He placed one knee on the bed to touch her shoulder again, because she had rolled so far away.
When she didn’t calm, he put the other knee on the bed, slid his body against her back, and took her in his arms. She whimpered. Through the fading light of the fire, tears glistened on her cheeks.
Her clean cheeks.
She stopped thrashing and pressed that cheek against his chest. Her breathing was harsh and shallow, and her heart pounded against his chest. He held her and mumbled soft platitudes that would have seemed silly in the light of day. Good thing Lachlan was not here to see this. Brice would never live it down.
Eventually the tears stopped and her breathing evened out.
Wide awake now, Brice lay there with her in his arms and looked at her. The first thing he noticed was that she smelled much better. He guessed Cecilia had pilfered his wife’s drawers for soap that smelled like flowers. He didn’t know what flowers they were, but they smelled powerfully good coming from the bundle in his arms.
Her soft hair trailed across her shoulder and over his arm. He knew enough of English women to know that they loved their hair long. Hers was short in comparison, but it was the most beautiful blond he’d ever seen. The firelight picked out bits of red and brown, but it was predominantly yellow. Not a bright yellow but a pale yellow.
He touched it with his free hand. It was soft, like the downy feathers of a newborn chick. She sighed and he yanked his hand back, suddenly feeling guilty for touching her. Not that it made much difference, since she was so firmly nestled in his arms. Good thing he was between her and her dagger.
Her lashes fluttered, but her eyes didn’t open. Her lashes were more red than blond. Her cheeks were sunken and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Food and rest would cure that: He made a promise to himself to see that she was well fed and had nothing more to worry about than when her next nap would be. He didn’t think about what he would do with her after that. Something would come to him. If only he knew her name and who her people were. Surely someone was looking for this beauty.
Although someone had definitely abandoned her. He felt an urge to find the person and beat him senseless and starve him as the man had done to her. His free hand curled into a fist, and he had to consciously relax his muscles against the anger that flowed through him.
He concentrated on the lady in his arms, on her soft hair and even softer breaths, on the floral scent that enveloped them in the large bed. He matched his breathing to hers, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.
—
The next morning Eleanor awakened refreshed and so hungry that her growling stomach woke her.
Cecilia entered after knocking softly on the door. “Good morning to ye, m’lady. I trust ye slept well.” She threw back the shutters on the window, letting in bright sunlight and a cool breeze. Eleanor sat up and breathed in the clean air.
“I’ve brought a gown with me. It should fit ye. Not perfectly, of course, but good enough.” Cecilia went to the chair, where a dark blue gown was draped. She shook it out and looked it over critically. “It should do. Anne is a fair hand at sewing. We can call her up, if you like, and see what other gowns we can alter for ye.”
Eleanor looked at the dark blue gown and wondered where Cecilia had unearthed such a thing. It was beautifully made, although a few seasons out of style, but what did she care after the rags she’d worn for five months. She looked at Cecilia quizzically and gestured to the gown with a brow raised.
Cecilia looked away, color staining her cheeks. “Ye’ll be wondering where I got it, won’t ye?”
