CHAPTER SIX
AND WHEN I AWOKE, I was locked in Wilkie’s embrace, still clutching his hand so tightly that my fingers felt numb and sore. I was lying across his chest, and our legs were entwined under a layer of furs. We were alone, and Wilkie slept.
The curtains had been opened, spilling in full-day sunlight. A basin of water had been filled and was lightly steaming, as though it had been sitting there for some time. Food had been laid on the table by the window, along with the now-familiar pot of cooled willowbark tea. I realized I hadn’t eaten since I’d wolfed down the stolen fruit. I remembered the three green apples I’d had as I’d walked down the mountain toward Kinloch. It seemed many days ago, and perhaps it was. Time seemed stringy, and I had no idea how much of it had passed as Wilkie and I had slept, flitting in and out of consciousness.
The peaceful scene made me wonder if we were being allowed our private slumber, if I’d been accepted as a fixture in Wilkie’s bed, for now, and one that was easier to leave in place.
I tried to rouse Wilkie. He was drowsy, but when I kissed his lips and whispered to him to let me go, he seemed to hear me, and he released his hold.
Food had never tasted so good. I ate a bowl of cold meat stew, scooping it with chunks of crusty bread. I drank a cup of broth, then some tea.
I still wore the robe Wilkie’s sisters had draped around me, which was cinched at the waist with a belt.
I combed the tangles from my hair. I braided and coiled it neatly around my head, gathering it at the back. I fingered a light yellow velvet gown, but before I could remove my robe to dress, I heard Wilkie’s voice behind me.
I hadn’t realized he’d awoken.
“Come to me, lass. Let me bask in your glow.”
He watched me approach him, his blue eyes clear now, with no traces of his earlier haze.
I felt his forehead, and he was cool to the touch. I couldn’t resist letting my hand skim the line of his face and his bristled jaw. The roughness of his texture was so unfathomably fascinating to me. I felt changed by this warrior. That first moment I’d looked into his eyes, something inside me had shifted. As if I could suddenly see color, whereas before him all had been muted and dull. But I was unsure whether his feelings were as intense now as my own, so I tread carefully. “You’re feeling better now, warrior.”
“Aye,” he said, and I was relieved to see that the look in his eyes was one of raw affection and a returned fascination. “Your healing powers are potent indeed.”
“I haven’t healed you enough,” I said. “Let me feed you. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” He sat up slightly and was able to move without causing himself to wince.
I brought him some food, and I fed it to him. He ate well. I held the tea to his lips as he drank. His eyes never left my face.
“Your face, Roses. Your lips. The color of your hair. Why is your hair so fair?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “I don’t know. The sun, perhaps. I spend much of my time out-of-doors. More than I should.”
He reached up to finger the bound braid of my hair. “You’ve a halo, angel.”
I fed him another bite of bread. “Yours is a fierce appetite, warrior. ’Tis a good sign. Your health is returning to you.”
“I feel as though I haven’t eaten for days. How many days, I wonder. How long has it been?”
“Since...?” I knew what he meant; I was fumbling over which part to refer to.
“Since we fought, and fell,” he clarified, entirely unperturbed by the recollection.
Now, the very thought of how close he had come to death—and all because I had wounded him—was enough to flood me with an ocean of regret. “I’m sorry I wounded you.”
He watched me for a moment, and I could not read his expression. “’Twas my own fault, for letting my guard down. I was unusually distracted. Practically blinded, in fact.” His mouth quirked at the memory of his own reaction. “’Tis understandable, under the circumstances. Would you not agree?”
He took another bite of bread and waited for my reply, which I did not give. I wasn’t sure what answer he was expecting. Instead, I returned his light smile and offered him some tea, which he drank, watching me all the while.
“So,” he began. “Let’s start at the beginning, and where we left off in the cave, where I believe you made a promise to me, which you have barely begun to uphold.” Again, I was unsure of his meaning, yet I didn’t interrupt him. I was, briefly, mesmerized by the shape of his lips as he sipped his drink, and the memory of the gentle brush of them against my own. “Tell me, then,” he said. “Why did you flee your Ogilvie clan?”
There was never any doubt I would be wholly honest with Wilkie. But I stumbled over my words nonetheless. “I had to. I—I struck the laird with a kitchen knife. I would have been killed, I think, or banished to the dungeons. I’ve never been to the dungeons, but I’ve heard it said that hell itself is preferable.”
“Very likely so,” he agreed. “You make a habit of wielding blades at hapless men?” His question was calm yet chiding, and I found myself mildly hurt by it. I hadn’t set out to injure Laird Ogilvie, or Wilkie; nor had I wanted to.
“Of course not. ’Twas the first time I’d ever struck out at anyone. I only did what I had to do to escape him.”
“I’m sure you had good reason to attack the laird of your keep—certainly a crime punishable by death, or worse. You were wise to run.” I wasn’t entirely pleased with the direction this conversation had taken. And I couldn’t decipher the layers of his emotion. Was there anger there or merely curiosity? He continued, “You knifed him intentionally?”
“Aye,” I confirmed quietly.
“Why is that?”
I paused. I didn’t want him to think badly of me, but he was entitled to the truth. Every truth. I knew it and he knew it. We were bonded already, in a meaningful way. I didn’t understand it, but already it was the surest thing about me. I would answer any and all of his questions. My warrior, I was learning, was protective, possessive and extremely direct.
At my brief silence, his eyes visibly darkened as he watched me. He may have guessed at the answer I hesitated to give.
“He wanted to add me to his collection of mistresses,” I finally said. “As is probably clear enough by my desertion. I had long thought about attempting to flee from him. But I had nowhere to go. In the end, I decided exile was preferable to servitude of that kind. Work is one thing, captivity quite another.”
Wilkie’s fist constricted, and the muscles of his arm grew taut and strained. I wanted to ease his reaction, but I thought at this moment it was better to leave him be. In the end, I didn’t touch him, leaving my own hands clasped in my lap.
It was some time before he asked his question.
“Were you able to fight him off?” His fist remained clenched. He looked so quietly furious that I almost feared him at that moment.
“Aye,” I assured him, but my whispered affirmation was barely audible.
“You succeeded in escaping before he was able to—”
“Aye, warrior. He didn’t know I was armed. I surprised him with my attack, and I fled immediately.”
He lowered his gaze and considered this for a minute or more. Then he raised his eyes