by Lily Harlem
Chapter Four
Moira hoped with all her heart Reid wouldn’t need a burial organized. If it weren’t for the fact he had a five-inch gash in his right arm and was out cold, he was a fine specimen of a Scotsman—certainly too handsome and too young to die.
The horses’ hooves clattered over the cobbles, then faded as they went through the archway. She continued to clean the wound, using the material to wipe away dried blood. It didn’t appear to be contaminated with earth, which pleased her.
How quickly her day had changed. She’d risen with Emily busying around the house, then had a few solitary hours, and now here she was nursing a big Jacobite who she’d hidden in her home.
When the wound was cleansed she pressed the sides together, pleased they matched nicely. It had been a clean cut. After threading a needle she created a first stitch through his skin. As she punctured it, she paused and studied his expression. Nothing; no wince, no grimace, no grunt. He clearly couldn’t feel the sharp end of the needle piercing his flesh.
Which was probably for the best.
She carried on stitching until ten neatly tied and cut pieces of thread held the wound together. He hadn’t so much as murmured. Tentatively she released the tourniquet. Holding her breath, she sent a quick prayer heavenward that the bleeding would be stemmed.
A small drip appeared. Then another. For a moment she thought it would turn into a trickle, but it didn’t. “Thank goodness for that.”
It took her a few minutes to apply vinegar and a bandage as his arm was heavy and she tried to only move it as much as was necessary for fear of creating more bleeding.
The light in the room dulled; the sun was beginning to creep down the sky.
Moira went to the kitchen, refilled the pot with water, heated it, and then brought fresh back to the bedroom. She wanted to clean his head wounds the way she had his arm.
Sat on the bed, she carefully wiped over the bump on his brow. Again he didn’t wince despite it being sickeningly big and having a small cut at the centre. With the tips of her fingers she spread his soft locks of hair away from the injury. It was different to how Angus’s hair had been—his had been thin with silver patches. The man before her now had a strong head of hair, making her think he was around thirty years of age.
Carefully she turned his head, wondering if that would wake him; it didn’t. Using the same warm water she cleaned the bullet graze above his ear. He was lucky it hadn’t buried itself in his skull, but at the same time he was unlucky to have been fired at and hit in the first place.
Damn Red Coats.
When that head wound was also clean and more vinegar applied, Moira stood back to examine her patient.
He was still sleeping soundly, his lashes casting small shadows on his cheeks. His lips were parted and his chest rising and falling gently.
When he woke—which she was sure he would, she had to believe that—she’d fill the cast-iron tub for him in front of the fire. Bathing always made her feel better and she was sure it would him too.
After gathering her things, she headed down the now darkening staircase. Her stomach was rumbling but she had other jobs to do before she could tend to her own needs.
Hurrying outside and through the shadows of the archway, she called to her goats. “Come on, girls, time for bed.”
They bleated and huddled around her, keen to get to their stable and eat the food she’d put in there earlier.
With the goats away, she tended to the chickens, feeling thankful a fox hadn’t sneaked in while she’d been upstairs and evening had encroached.
It took five pails of water from the well to douse the vegetable patch, and her back ached by the time she’d finished, but she knew it was worth it. She’d reap the benefits later in the year.
Before she ate, she had another look at her patient. He hadn’t moved, not so much as a finger. His hair was still exactly where she’d placed it on his forehead and his lips were still parted, eyes closed.
How long would he be like that?
Forever?
She sighed and made her way back to the kitchen to get herself a bowl of broth. Of course he couldn’t stay like that forever. He’d have to eat and drink at some point, otherwise he’d die.
She suppressed a shudder. She didn’t know Reid, other than that he’d fought the Red Coats and come off badly, but she didn’t want him to die. It seemed such a waste for a big, clearly strong, vibrant warrior to be lost to the glance of a sword and bullet.
After eating, she bolted the front door then lit a candle in the hallway. Her body was weary. She needed to get some sleep. It had been an eventful day.
But something drew her to her patient’s room. It wasn’t sitting well with her to go to her own bedroom chamber. She wanted to be there if he woke, so she could tell him where he was and soothe any pain he might have. If it were herself in his position, she was sure she’d be scared to open her eyes in the middle of the night and have no idea where she was.
Making a decision, she grabbed a woollen blanket and went to Reid. She angled a large wooden rocking chair so it faced the bed, then settled with her lap covered and her head resting back. She’d sleep next to him; that way she’d know if he stirred in the night.
It wasn’t long before Moira found her eyelids becoming heavy. An owl hooted outside and the silvery glow of the full moon flooded the room.
On and on Reid slept, his chest rising and falling gently. Her breathing dropped into the same rhythm as his and she found it soothing to not be alone for once.
She yawned, shifted her butt, and then allowed her eyes to close. Before long she was drifting to sleep.
Several times over the course of the night she roused, checked on Reid, found all was well, then settled back onto the rocking chair and slept.
When morning came the wounds all appeared to be healing. The breaks in the skin were crusting and the bump on his forehead had diminished somewhat.
“Good morning,” she said, stroking his hair softly. “I don’t need to ask if you slept well. You slept too well.”
Nothing. Not a flutter of his eyelids, not a murmur or even a change in his breathing. It was clear he couldn’t hear her voice through his slumber.
She sighed, and continued to stroke his hair for a full minute, enjoying the way it felt between her fingers. It was then she noticed he still wore his boots. They’d been hidden beneath the blanket Kendal had thrown over him.
“Damn it.” How could she not have noticed?
She began to undo the laces, then one by one wriggled them off.
He wore grey woollen socks, which had been darned several times. She tugged at them to reveal his feet—long toes, pale skin, and in need of a wash.
She tutted. “Honestly, men.”
Angus had always needed her to remind him to bathe his feet each night, and she certainly wouldn’t have allowed him to wear socks that had been repaired so many times.
“I’ll get you right as rain,” she said, leaving the room.
Once in the kitchen she set water on to boil. She gathered soap and a towel, poured herself a cup of damson tea, and filled a bowl of hot water. After drinking her tea and eating a biscuit, she took the wash things up the stairs.
The morning sun was filtering into the bedroom, shards of golden light just reaching the end of the bed.
She flung open a window to allow the spring air and the sounds of the birds to filter in.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, dropping a strip of cloth into the water then wringing it out.
She set about cleaning Reid’s feet, between his toes, around his heel, and up to his ankle. When they were spotless and dried, she crept higher, washing away mud and grime from his shins and knees.
It was then she spotted it—a tenting in his kilt. The red and blue checked material had risen from his groin.
He had an erection.
Moira paused, cloth held aloft. She hadn’t known it was possible for a man to get hard while unconscio
us.
A study of his face told her he was exactly that. Still out cold, his expression unchanged.
Her heart rate sped up and her mouth dried. An urge to flick back his kilt and see his penis was becoming overwhelming. Would he be bigger than Angus? She’d been a virgin when she’d married. At a guess she’d say yes, for the kilt was still rising.
She gripped the cloth so tightly several drips slid down her wrist, then, unable to help herself, she opened his kilt to reveal his groin.
Her eyes widened and her chest tightened.
I shouldn’t have done that.
He was certainly longer and wider than her husband had been. The tip of his cock was shiny, the slit wide, and the shaft rose from a thick patch of straw-coloured pubic hair.
“God help me,” she murmured, squeezing her legs together and clenching her internal muscles. A flush of heat blazed on her cheeks and she prayed he wouldn’t wake up and catch her looking—she would surely die of embarrassment.
But that risk didn’t stop her staring.
Would it be possible to take that inside her body? Surely it would hurt, split her in two? But even as that thought took hold, a longing to know how it would feel consumed her. To have a man like Reid making love to her, thrusting, pounding, giving them both pleasure. Could she survive that?
She swallowed. A fizz of excitement had surged into her veins, combining with the embarrassment of what she was doing. It was a heady sensation that made her feel reckless.
Tipping forward, she ran the damp cloth up his thigh, then across his pubic hair, being careful not to touch his cock.
She slid it around to the other side, his glans just catching on the inside of her wrist.
Quickly she looked up at his face.
Nothing.
Her palms itched to touch him, take his shaft and feel the heat, the hardness, the pulse in the thick veins winding up it.
He’ll wake up if you do.
But would he? He hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d arrived. Not a flicker of his eyelids, not a murmur, nothing.
Pulling in a deep breath she straightened, then re-soaked the cloth. After wringing it out, and not being particularly quiet, she set about washing his groin. Within a minute she found her hands slipping up his erection, the soapy water making her flesh glide against his.
He was spectacular, like velvet over stone, warm too, and as she’d suspected his pulse was steady and strong. After several strokes she realized he was becoming firmer, as though his body was reacting to her even in his slumber.
Anticipation buzzed through her. She sped up, working his cock and flicking her attention between his face and his slit as it peeked from her hands.
Above the waistband of his kilt, his abdominal muscles tensed. His breaths picked up.
I should stop this… now.
She knew she should, but couldn’t. Her nipples were tight against her bodice, and her pussy damp. Having Reid’s cock in her hands was the most sensual experience she’d had in a long time. She wanted him to come, to feel his release, see it too. Hell, she might come just from doing this to him.
She sped up. His cock jerked against her palms.
Anxiously she studied his face. A thin line had appeared between his eyebrows and his lips had parted.
But still his eyes remained closed.
She was breathing fast now. The cloth abandoned as she concentrated on bringing him to climax. She was sure she could, she’d done it to a man before like this. All it needed was another… few… seconds.
And then it was there. His hips jerked and his slit widened. A jet of pearly fluid shot from his cock. Some landing in her hands, the rest on his taut belly.
She gasped, thrilled at the sight, and kept on going. His shaft pulsed and another rope of cum left him, then another and another, filling his navel, catching in his pubic hair.
She bit on her bottom lip as a pleasurable tremble went through her pussy and wended its way up her spine, seeming to curve around her breasts and caress them.
A long, low, guttural groan rumbled up from his throat.
Quickly she looked up at him, panic searing through her. It was the first noise he’d made since his arrival at Leannan Creag.
She stilled. Her hands were hot and damp and still wrapped around his cock.
He opened his eyes. They were startling blue, the pupils so black and large they reminded her of the bottomless lakes in the Highlands. He stared straight at her.
Moira’s heart seemed to pause as fear, embarrassment and humiliation tore through her. What she’d done was wrong, so wrong, she’d known that.
But as suddenly as he’d opened his eyes, he closed them again. His lips returned to their straight flat line and the crease between his eyebrows vanished. Within a few seconds his breaths had returned to normal and it seemed as if deep slumber had taken hold of him once more.
Moira blew out a breath. Her pulse was thudding in her ears. Had she imagined him opening his eyes? No, she hadn’t. He’d caught her holding his cock, her palms basted in his pleasure and her cheeks rosy with the thrill of it.
But now the question was, if, or rather when he woke, would he remember?
Chapter Five
Reid was sure an entire stampede of horses was running over his head. His temples thrummed with pain, the base of his neck would be more comfortable if held in a tight noose, and his brain seemed as if it were too big for his skull.
He groaned and attempted to lift his head from a pillow he hadn’t know was there up until a few seconds ago.
“Damn and blast.” He groaned and flopped back down. Some kind of evil was going on in his body. Everything hurt—his head, his arm, his ass, and for some reason his heels, as if they’d been pressing into the bed for too long without moving.
Bed.
I’m in bed.
Whose bed?
He rammed his elbows down, gasping in agony as his right arm screamed at him. Managing to prop a little onto his side, he cracked open his eyes.
The room was dimly lit, only the light of the moon gave him a chance to survey his surroundings. And they were nice surroundings. An elegant bedroom, drapes, four-poster bed, large fireplace with high mantel and a stag’s head mounted above it.
He pulled in a deep breath. His chest didn’t hurt too much and he was glad about that. The night air was laced with dew tinged with the sweet flavour of heather. He knew he was still in Scotland, that hadn’t changed.
But everything else had.
Where was Kendal? His best friend was always at his side. Yet now there was a woman in a rocking chair.
A woman?
She was sleeping, her long brown hair lying in curls around her shoulders. The whey-pale flesh of her décolletage was silvery in the moonlight, almost shimmering as she breathed in and out, the delicate curves seeming to sparkle. It was clear she was in deep sleep by the angle of her neck, the slight parting of her lips, and the way her hands rested on her legs, fingers relaxed, wrists tipping outward a fraction.
She was very beautiful, captivating, and for a second he wondered if he were dreaming, then a slicing agony blistered over his biceps and he remembered the Red Coat sword crashing down, butchering his flesh and hitting bone.
He swallowed a sudden nasty taste that flooded his mouth. Bile. A white-hot light streaked over his vision and he flopped back to the pillow, unable to hold in a moan of discomfort.
“Hey, hey, be still.”
Her voice was over him, around him, filling his ears. It was musical, soft, a songbird invading his dreams after hours of black silence.
“I’m here. You’re safe. Rest now.”
“Where am I?” he managed, after peeling his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
“With friends. Shh, you need to rest.”
A cool trickle of water spread on his lips. Suddenly he was greedy for more and he parted his lips as cool, fresh liquid spilled into his mouth. It dispersed around his dry inner cheeks, his palate and tongue.
“That’s it,” she soothed, “drink up.”
He swallowed, and with each gulp the parched sensation in his throat subsided.
“Not too much.” She lifted the cup away. “You’ll give yourself a belly ache.”
He tried to follow it, but lifting his head off the pillow hurt like a hammer to the skull. He dropped back down.
Another cool sensation rested over him. This time it was a cloth to his brow.
He sighed and opened his eyes a crack to look up at her.
Breasts like ripe peaches were so close to his face, and he could smell her skin; powder and petals. “Who are you?”
“Lady Moira Campbell.”
“Where’s… Kendal?”
“He took the horses away, so they wouldn’t reveal your location.”
“Horses?” He tried to think back to what had happened. He had a recollection of the Red Coats, their smug, challenging expressions. And he could easily visualize the bastard who’d taken a swing at him. After that it was blank, nothing, just blackness. “When’s he coming back?”
“He didn’t say.” She removed the cloth, turned and dipped it in a bowl of water.
He watched her do it, the pale light spreading over her shoulders, the curve of her spine, and the slight flare of her slim hips.
The sound of the water splashing gently, the drips, brought up an image in his mind. It was brief, merely a flash. It was her bent over his groin, cloth in hand, his cock hard.
He swallowed and glanced downward. He was covered in a blanket, but was sure his kilt was still in place. His bare feet stuck out the end and from what he could tell were cleaner than usual. Stomping through forests and sleeping in bothies and inns didn’t lend itself to exemplary personal hygiene.
Did she wash me? All over? While I was sleeping.
“Come now,” she said, turning to him. “You need to sleep, it’s the middle of the night.”
He didn’t answer but rested his head back. Fatigue had invaded every muscle, and many of them also hosted pain.
“I’ll go and get you some broth.” She paused. “If you think you can manage it.”