by Lynsay Sands
“Will he live?”
Aulay’s growl drew her gaze back to Geordie and she saw that Rory had finished cleaning and exploring his chest wound and was now threading a needle. He also was not answering Aulay’s question, she noted with a frown. Or at least was taking an inordinate amount of time answering. Judging by Aulay’s grim expression, that wasn’t a good sign, she thought, and felt her heart drop just as a knock sounded at the bedchamber door.
She glanced toward it with disinterest as her father moved to answer, her mind still wrestling with what Rory’s silence might mean.
“He’ll live.”
Dwyn glanced to Aileen, who had said those words solemnly beside her.
“He has to,” she added. “Ye’re no’ properly married yet.”
“They are married, Aileen,” Una said firmly. “They handfasted, ’tis as good as married in the eyes of the law.”
“Aye, but no’ the church,” Aileen said with a frown, and then her eyes suddenly went round.
Startled by her expression, Dwyn turned her gaze to see what had made Aileen react that way and stared blankly at Father Archibald as he entered the room. She was vaguely aware of her father greeting the man and closing the door, but most of her focus was on the Buchanan priest. Expression solemn, he crossed to the bed and murmured something to Aulay. Dwyn couldn’t hear all of what he said, but caught the words penance, anointing of the sick and viaticum, and suddenly couldn’t breathe. The priest was here to perform the sacraments for the dying, and while she knew it had to be done, it just seemed to her to push Geordie closer to death in her mind and she couldn’t bear it.
“Is he conscious?” Father Archibald asked Rory.
“I am, Father.”
Dwyn turned sharply to Geordie when he said that and was in time to see him lift his head.
“Do ye have the strength to give me yer confession, m’laird?” Father Archibald asked quietly.
When Geordie grunted in the affirmative, the priest glanced to Aulay. “Mayhap ye could move everyone to the other side o’ the room?”
“All but Rory,” Aulay said grimly. “He’ll continue to try to save his life even while ye try to save his soul.”
The moment the priest assented, Aulay started around the bed to help Jetta to her feet.
“Go ahead, Alick,” Rory said quietly. “I’ll work on his chest first.”
Alick eased Geordie onto his back, and then glanced to Dwyn.
“I have her,” Aulay said, and she turned just as he scooped her up off the bed. Alick immediately shifted to the edge of the bed and followed Aulay when he carried Dwyn to join the others now standing as close to the fireplace as possible without getting in it. They all turned their backs then, as if that would stop them hearing anything. Dwyn almost didn’t. She was sideways in Aulay’s arms and almost turned to watch Father Archibald and Geordie, but a stern look from Aulay made her turn her head to the fireplace as well. The silence on their end of the room was deafening; even so she couldn’t make out what was said at the other end of the room. It was all soft murmurs in her ear, the priest’s and Geordie’s voices hushed. It seemed to her as if eons had passed when the priest said, “Lady Dwyn?”
Aulay turned at once and then carried her across the room when the priest gestured to them.
“Geordie would like to marry ye now,” Father Archibald announced.
“Now?” Truly, Dwyn hadn’t meant to squawk the word that way, but this was not how she’d imagined her wedding. Dear God, she wore a dress that kept flashing her nipples and now barely reached her knees. Her feet were muddy and bloody. She had scratches on her arms and legs, and mussy hair from the branches that had caught at her as she’d dragged Geordie through the woods, and Dwyn was quite sure she had a fat lip from when one of her attackers had hit her. At least, it felt swollen . . . and split, she thought grimly as her tongue slid over it.
“Dwyn.”
She shifted her gaze to Geordie at that soft growl, and Aulay carried her around to set her in the bed next to him. Dwyn immediately shifted closer to his side so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice, which he couldn’t do anyway.
“Ye’re no’ getting out o’ marrying me good and proper in front o’ a priest, Dwyn Innes Buchanan,” Geordie got out in a weak, raspy voice. They were the exact words she’d barked at him in the woods. Well, except for her name, she acknowledged, and then his hand found hers and squeezed with little strength. “Marry me, lass. I love ye, and would have me name protect ye in case I canno’.”
Dwyn felt tears fill her eyes at the words, and nodded soundlessly. She didn’t hear or see Aulay call the others over, but suddenly they were surrounding the bed. Aulay, Jetta, Alick, Rory, Aileen, Una and her father. Their family. They stood witness as Father Archibald married her to Geordie Buchanan so that they were husband and wife, not just in the eyes of the law, but in the sight of God too . . . until death did they part.
Chapter 13
Geordie opened his eyes, stared at the drapes overhead and then turned his head to the side where Dwyn slept, only she wasn’t there. That made him immediately cranky. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry and his wife missing. Grand, he thought grimly, and tried to sit up, only to find he didn’t have the strength to manage it, and that trying caused a great deal of pain in his chest.
Cursing, he flopped back to lie flat and then peered down at the furs covering him. When his gaze caught on something dark on his face, and he realized he had a beard and mustache, his eyes widened incredulously and he wondered what the hell had happened. He was still trying to sort through the store of fuzzy memories in search of the answer to that when the door opened.
Turning his head sharply at the sound, he relaxed, and almost smiled when Dwyn came in. But before the smile could fully form, a scowl took its place as he realized Dwyn was walking. Hell, she was practically skipping, and looking pretty damned pleased with herself too. He opened his mouth to berate her for walking on her wounded feet, but all that came out was a dry and cracked sort of squawk. Geordie’s eyes widened in alarm at that, but Dwyn had heard, stopped walking to gape at him and suddenly hurried to the bed with a squeal of delight.
“Ye’re awake! Oh, I’m sorry I missed it, husband. I only left to use the garderobe.”
Somewhat mollified by her joy at his waking, Geordie grunted when she threw herself on him. She landed with her head on his stomach, her arms hugging his hips. It didn’t hurt so much as surprise him. As did the fact that the lass’s breasts were pressing against his groin, and his groin didn’t care. That was new, he thought with bewilderment, and opened his mouth to ask what was going on, only to emit another dry, cracked squawk.
The sound made Dwyn lift her head to look at him, and then she was up off the bed and standing next to him. The next thing he knew, she had caught him by the shoulders and managed to drag him up a bit so that his face was cuddled against her breasts as she held him there with one hand just long enough to shove a pillow behind his back. Raising him up again, she pressed him to her bosom and shoved another pillow behind him, and then did it a third time. Each time she did it Geordie stared at the tops of her breasts just visible above her neckline and inhaled her sweet scent, then frowned when he realized how little bosom there was visible above the neckline.
“There,” Dwyn said after she’d stuffed the last pillow behind him. Settling her hip on the bed beside him, she then reached for a goblet on the bedside table and moved it to his lips, holding and tipping it to help him drink.
Geordie could have wept when the sweet, cool cider slid over his tongue and filled his mouth. It was the best damned thing he’d ever tasted, he decided, and would have gulped down the entire contents, but she wouldn’t let him.
“Slowly, husband, until we see how yer stomach handles it,” Dwyn cautioned, before tipping the goblet again. She tipped it four times in a row, but then set the goblet on the bedside table again and turned to look him over with bright eyes. “I should go fetch Rory. He made m
e promise to get him when ye woke, but . . .” Dwyn sighed and then bent to kiss him softly, before straightening to look at him again, as she said, “’Tis so nice to finally have ye awake again. I just want to look on ye for a minute.”
Geordie smiled, and wanted to raise a hand to caress her cheek, but it flopped uselessly at his side when he tried. That brought a frustrated frown to his face until she reached over and clasped his hand, squeezing gently.
“Do no’ fret. Ye’ll get yer strength back quickly now ye’re awake,” Dwyn assured him, and then tears filled her eyes, and she admitted, “For a while there in the woods I feared ye were done for. I thought I’d be a widow ere ye even married me properly.”
“The waterfall,” Geordie breathed as his memories finally coalesced in his head, filling his mind briefly. Setting out the plaid. Turning to find Dwyn gone. Her scream from the woods that sent him running. The man she was struggling with when he found them. A short battle with him, and then he’d turned to Dwyn and a bloody sword tip was sticking out of his chest.
Geordie frowned at the memory. He had no idea where the second man had come from. He’d only seen Dwyn and the man she was trying to get away from when he’d run up on them. So the blow had more surprised him than actually hurt. He would have sworn at first that someone had punched him in the back, so was shocked when the blade appeared, slicing out of his chest. It had hurt a hell of a lot more when it was pulled out, and the moment it was gone, he’d turned on his attacker in a rage and—
Geordie grimaced as he recalled hacking off the man’s head. His aim had been a little off. He hadn’t intended to behead the bastard, just kill him, but—
“Ye remember, then?” Dwyn asked quietly.
“Aye,” Geordie managed, though his voice was raspy. “How long?”
“Ye slept fer two weeks,” she said solemnly. “Well, really, ye were awake but feverish most o’ the first week, but then in a sleep so deep we could no’ wake ye this last week. Rory said yer body had shut down to allow ye to heal, and ye’d hopefully wake soon.”
She paused then, but he saw something flicker in her eyes and the worry pulling at her lips as she peered at him, and he asked, “What?”
Dwyn hesitated, but then admitted, “Rory said ’twas possible the sleep was due to yer brains boiling from the fever, and ye may no’ be quite the same when ye woke,” she admitted reluctantly, and then asked a bit anxiously, “Do ye feel any different?”
“Nay,” Geordie assured her, but wondered if that were true. The lass was sitting there on the bed with him and he was feeling no urge to tup her. He was quite sure that never would have been the case before the wound and fever. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her prior to that. Dear God, what if the fever had taken his manhood from him?
“Oh, good,” Dwyn sighed out on a relieved breath, unaware of the worry suddenly plaguing him.
His gaze slid immediately to her chest to see if she’d unseated her breasts and her nipples might be poking out at him. Surely his interest would return then? But the neckline of her gown was so high there was no chance of them escaping. Before he could comment on that, she was up and heading for the door. “I’d best go let Rory ken ye’re up. He’ll want to see ye. I’ll fetch ye some broth too while I’m below.”
Geordie watched the door close behind her, and then glanced fretfully around the room, trying to tell if there was any damage to his mind. He didn’t know. How would he be able to tell? Would he be able to? He was still fretting over the issue when the door opened again and his brother entered. Rory wasn’t alone, he saw as he turned his gaze that way. Aulay was with him. Both looked relieved to see him awake.
“How are ye feeling?” Rory asked as he reached the bed, and looked him over.
Geordie grunted noncommittally and waited as Rory bent to listen to his heart, and then held his eyes open to peer at them briefly.
“Ye seem well,” Rory decided, relaxing a bit. “Do ye remember what happened?”
“Aye,” Geordie growled, and then turned to peer at the drink on the bedside table.
Getting the message, Rory held it for him to drink. He was more cautious even than Dwyn though, and allowed him only two sips before setting the goblet back, and asking, “How does yer chest feel?”
“Like it had a sword shoved through it,” Geordie said dryly, but then admitted, “No’ as bad as I’d expect though.”
“Ye were lucky. It slid between yer ribs rather than smashing through them, and it missed yer heart or anything else o’ note. I worried at first that it might have nicked yer one lung, but if it did, it healed itself up well enough and quickly because other than when ye first arrived ye’ve no’ seemed to have trouble breathing,” Rory told him, and then added, “And too, ye’ve missed the worst of the healing since ye were out o’ yer mind the first week and slept the second,” Rory said solemnly.
Geordie nodded, and then asked reluctantly, “How will I ken if the fever damaged me brain?”
Rory’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something specific ye’re worried on?”
He hesitated, his gaze sliding to Aulay and away before he admitted, “I’m no’ feeling like tupping Dwyn.”
A startled laugh of disbelief burst from both men, but Rory stifled his quickly, and used his most patient voice when he said, “Geordie, ye just woke up, and ye’re still healing from a terrible injury that could have killed ye. I’d be more surprised if ye were feeling up to tupping yer wife.”
Geordie relaxed at that and asked, “Where’s Dwyn?”
“She went to the kitchens to fetch ye broth as we came up,” Aulay explained as Rory pulled the furs down and then the linens to reveal his bandaged chest. Moving around the bed, Aulay climbed on to kneel beside him and lifted him to a sitting position and then held him there so that Rory could remove the bandages that ran around his chest and back. It was obviously something he’d done many times. Rory hadn’t even had to ask.
They were all silent as Rory examined his wounds. Geordie couldn’t see the one on his back, but did glance down to see the one on his chest. The stitches made it look bigger than it was, and he was surprised at how far along the healing was. By his guess Rory would be able to remove the stitches in another week or two.
“’Tis doing well. Another week and a half, or more, and I’ll take the stitches out,” Rory announced, applying fresh salve, and then beginning to bandage him back up.
Geordie merely grunted at that and glanced to Aulay. “Did ye find the men’s camp?”
“Aye. I set Simon to the task when we found you and Dwyn.” Mouth tightening, he added, “They had cleared out by the time the men found it though, and they did it quickly. They left food cooking over a small fire and a half-skinned rabbit on a rock nearby. Obviously, one o’ their men caught wind o’ the search and gave the warning.”
Geordie scowled at the news. “How many men? Could he tell?”
“From the food and the compressed grass where people had slept, he guessed there were probably six including the two ye killed,” Aulay told him solemnly. “The men followed their trail to the edge o’ our land, but then turned back.”
“They should have hunted them all down,” Geordie growled. “The bastards who had her told Dwyn all the men were going to have a go at her.”
“She did no’ mention that,” Aulay said with a frown.
“Do ye need to use the garderobe?” Rory asked as he finished binding him up.
Geordie opened his mouth to say no, and then thought better of it. As weak as he was, he wouldn’t be able to manage on his own once his brothers were gone, and big as he was, Dwyn couldn’t get him there, so he muttered, “Aye. Mayhap.”
“Good, then we can have Mavis send someone to change the bed while we take ye there,” Rory said, and dragged the furs and linens the rest of the way off of him, revealing a large folded linen square across his hips. There was another larger one under his arse too, he noticed, and grimaced, knowing what it was for. He’d been on his
back for two weeks, unable to use the garderobe. They’d been protecting the bed and beddings. On the bright side, neither linen seemed dirty, he noted as the two men dressed him in a nightshirt that fell to his knees. But then he hadn’t eaten or drank for two weeks, and, for all he knew, they may have changed the cloths just minutes before he woke.
“I’ll go ask Mavis to see to the bed, and tell Dwyn to take her time. There’s no sense her coming up to stand about while the maids work,” Rory said once they had him dressed.
Aulay nodded at that, but said, “Leave the door open,” and then bent to scoop up Geordie.
“Oy,” he complained as his brother started to carry him to the door. “I could walk with a little help.”
Aulay snorted at that. “Ye could no’ even raise yer arms or move yer legs to dress, Geordie. We’d have to pull yer arms over each of our shoulders and drag ye there.”
“’Twould be less humiliating than being carted around like a bairn,” he grumbled with disgust.
“Aye. So yer wife said many times as she was carried to the garderobe and back the last couple weeks,” he said with a smile. “She grew quite impatient with no’ being able to walk. I suspect had Rory no’ said she could start putting weight on both feet again yester eve, she might have done him bodily harm.”
“What?” Geordie asked with surprise. “But she was nearly healed before I was injured. Rory thought another day or two and she’d be able to take off the bandages and walk again.”
“Aye, well, that was before she ruined them in the woods trying to save yer sorry hide.”
“How badly?” he asked with concern.
“Her already healed foot took the worst damage. She somehow lost her slipper and Jetta and Rory think she must have impaled that one on a broken branch on the ground or something. She had a lot of slivers, cuts and a nice-sized hole between her heel and the meat under her toes. Fortunately, it did no’ get infected like yer wound did. Her other foot made out better. The linen wrappings protected them for the most part, though they had unraveled and were hanging from her ankle by the time we got her back to the keep,” he said, and then ordered, “Open the door.”