Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  She nodded. “Your rib's cracked,” she said. She hadn't found any other evidence of broken bones, which was good. She'd never set a person's arm or leg before and wasn't sure she had the strength to do it.

  His eyes held hers. “Why are you caring for me?” he asked.

  “I'd do the same for anyone,” she said, looking at the storehouse floor. She suddenly felt shy. She was helping him because she'd help anyone the same way, but she had to admit she felt an added urgent need to help him.

  “Well, then,” he said. “You're an unusual person.”

  She found herself looking into his eyes again. His were very dark, just a shade or two lighter than his black hair. They held her gaze and she felt, disconcertingly, as if they drew her in, the way a strong current does in a forest brook. She coughed.

  “I need you to lean back,” she said.

  Grunting, he nodded. He shifted around so that she could reach behind him. She gently moved her hand to the bottom of his shirt, cheeks flaring with embarrassment. She had to lift it in order to bandage his chest.

  He looked at her, his eyes round with something that was almost embarrassment. Then he leaned backward a bit further, abruptly rolling the shirt back with his other hand. She stared.

  His body was lean and muscled, the skin pale and laced with scars. She found herself focused on it, staggered by the beauty of it. He had the same muscled grace as a racehorse, as fine-tuned and beautiful.

  “I need to wrap this around you,” she said. Her voice was caught in her throat, gruff, unlike her usual voice. She coughed, clearing it. He nodded.

  Arching his back a little, he winced and drew in a sharp breath and she slid the bandage around behind him, starting to bind the afflicted rib tightly. She could see the bruising already, red now and already swelling. It would be purple soon.

  She busied herself, focusing exclusively on what she was doing. She didn't let her mind wander to contemplate the fact that she was bandaging a man's chest – this man's chest – touching his skin.

  He grunted in pain as she tightened the bandage and she became aware, at about the moment he did, that her palm was on his chest, pressing down the knot to tighten it. Their gaze held.

  She looked down, blushing again. Under her hand she could feel his warmth, feel the muscle and the pulsing of blood under the skin. She felt herself flush strongly.

  What is the matter with me?

  Her whole body glowed and she felt a strange tug in the pit of her abdomen, that strange mix of longing and...something else.

  He coughed, bringing her attention back to the present. “Is it too tight?” she asked.

  He coughed again, laughing. “It'll do,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Their eyes met and held again. His expression was amused, gentle and gracious, all at once.

  “I need to look at your knee now,” Ettie said. The right one bothered her. It felt hot and stiff and she was sure it would be almost too swollen to bend tomorrow.

  He nodded. “You're the doctor.”

  She blushed. “I wish I was.”

  He chuckled. “You know more about it than anyone else I know.”

  Her eyes met his. She blushed. “Thanks.”

  He grunted. “Don't mention it.”

  He smiled and she smiled too, without thinking about the fact that she did so. His smile was sharp-edged, surprisingly boyish. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way usually. However, when he smiled...she breathed in sharply, seeing it. When he smiled, he transformed to absolutely stunning.

  “You'll need to rest,” she mumbled.

  “I reckon I don't...” he coughed, “have any choice.”

  She grinned. “I know it's hard,” she teased, “but you'll have to be patient.”

  This time he roared with mirth, and then stopped abruptly as the roar turned into a strangled gulp. She nodded and busied herself with his knee while he coughed.

  “I've brought water to wash out the head wounds,” she said, hand bandaging his swollen knee, setting it at the right alignment to bend properly as she did so. “And a wash of yarrow to help the wounds heal.”

  “Mm,” he said. “You do know what you're doing.”

  She blushed. “I learned things, here and there.”

  In truth, her knowledge came about as a result of Mrs. Heath's coal-cellar. Mrs. Heath had been the village healer. In winter, the coal-store by her fireplace was the warmest place for a child to go, just big enough to house Ettie and keep her moderately concealed. She'd spent hours huddling there, made unnoticeable by Mrs. Heath's preoccupation with tasks.

  Now, her patient tensed as she let go of his leg and moved her hands to his head. She nodded, acutely aware of the fact that she touched his face and looked into his eyes.

  “I know,” she acknowledged his pain, “that wound's quite deep.”

  He hissed out another breath as she found the lump and sponged it with the warm water, infused with yarrow. He gritted his teeth and let out an explosive sigh when it was done.

  “Any more of me needs setting?”

  She grinned. “That's about all that seems broken at present. Now a bit of rest ought to sort out your addled mind. I'll come back later.”

  He had his eyes shut, but one of them opened, squinting at her. “Who're you saying's addled.”

  “Yours,” she said playfully. “Now, go to sleep. I have some cob loaf here for you when you feel up to it.”

  His other eye opened. “When I feel up to it?” he asked. He sounded hopeful.

  Ettie laughed. “Well, if you're ravenous now, you're welcome to try. Myself, I'd wait until your jaw feels less bruised. Try chewing with that head wound and you'll like as not wish you hadn't.”

  He grinned and nodded. “I'm ready to give it a try,” he murmured. He was already almost asleep, Ettie noticed, the relief of the tended wounds, the warmth and the cloth she'd wrapped around his shoulders for warmth, all taking effect.

  “Well, I'll give it to you now, then.” Ettie grinned and handed him the round, hard-crusted loaf she'd managed to sneak out of the kitchen pantry earlier.

  “Thanks, milady,” he said.

  Ettie straightened up, feeling her throat tighten, abruptly, with feeling. “It's nothing.”

  He said something else, but it was too soft for her to catch the phrases as she hurried out. She shut the door behind her.

  Milady, she thought. She sniffed, wanting to cry. He thinks I'm her.

  It hurt.

  Sniffing, Ettie wiped her nose furtively, not wanting to cry and make it obvious she'd done so. She didn't want Merrick or anyone else to see her sadness.

  Merrick would ask me why I'm crying.

  It wasn't simply because she wanted to conceal the tears from Merrick that she crossly wiped them away – it was the fact that she couldn't have explained them to anyone, even to herself.

  She had no idea what had affected her so strongly, but somehow those moments of tenderness had cut her raw, combined with the way he addressed her, as if she really mattered. Added to that the shared humor, the fact that he didn't know who she was hurt achingly.

  Is it because I'm her?

  She miserably closed her eyes.

  He had no idea of her real identity. Was it the glamour of her role as Lady Marguerite that had seized his interest?

  She nodded. Of course that's it.

  Sniffing, she shook her head violently, and made herself walk up the cold, rain-dampened slope toward the kitchens, flask in one hand, and cloth bundle of herbs in the other. She was being stupid.

  I am Lady Marguerite's maidservant. When he wakes and finds himself healed, Garrick Hale will ride off and never think of me again.

  She made herself focus on that, even though each image she saw in her mind made her want to cry. He would ride away and forget her, and all would be as it had been before. Her life would be the usual rhythm of waking, cleaning, dressing Marguerite, sewing, dressing Marguerite for dinner or balls, then tidying, cleaning and sleeping agai
n.

  That's your life, she told herself harshly. And it's better than you deserve.

  Striding savagely up the hill into the driving rain, she headed into the kitchen. There was work to do.

  THOUGHTS AND PLANNING

  Garrick leaned back against the wall of the barn and sighed. The light of the morning shone in and he felt stronger.

  That night, he had experienced a fever. He recalled, dimly, the shivering, sweating haze and someone talking to him in the darkness, dampening his forehead with a damp cloth.

  Wish I'd been more aware.

  He grinned to himself, wryly. It would have been quite unbearable to be conscious and have Lady Marguerite there, in the darkness, sponging his head.

  If he'd been fully awake, it would have taken all his powers of restraint to resist reaching out, drawing her to him, and kissing her. The thought of it made his loins twinge with wanting and he chuckled, bitter-sweet.

  Garrick Hale. If you did that, there wouldn't have been much point in saving you – what was left of you would be good enough to feed the hunt pack.

  He raised a brow. Lady Marguerite was married. Even if she wasn't, a fellow like himself had no business so much as touching her. Never mind anything else. As it was, their interactions had already gone so far beyond the bounds of acceptable that, had anyone else known of it, they would likely both have been stoned.

  “Garrick Hale,” he addressed himself sharply. “Stop thinking – She's right, you're completely addled.”

  He laughed, unbelieving. The fact that she'd addressed him so frankly was new to him – he'd never met anyone, man or woman, who had such a truthful, merciless, tongue.

  I'm properly addled, she's quite right.

  He shifted, grunting as his ribs hurt him. Despite her having bandaged the broken one – he knew she'd judged it rightly, for it ached like a knife-wound – the whole of his chest hurt. He was bruised all over and it was hard to distinguish one injury from another. He was tired.

  “And she's right about the head-wound,” he added, laughing. He winced. Talking hurt too.

  The bread did make his head hurt – the act of chewing it made it feel as if someone was beating his poor, bruised flesh over and again with staves. However, it's better than being hungry.

  Knowing the bread was hard and a little stale, and not caring overly – he'd grown up eating far worse things from time to time – he soaked it in the dish of water, and then contemplatively chewed the resulting mass.

  She might arrive at any moment.

  He grinned. The morning was sunny, at least for the moment, and he judged it to be around eight of the clock. He had no idea whether she would be awake or not – but it seemed likely.

  I still have no idea how she saved me.

  He closed his eyes, deciding not to think about it over much. She was right; his brain was addled and he needed sleep.

  The sunshine was warm, and he found his thoughts drifting. He was almost asleep when he saw the shadow fall across his eyes. He breathed in, smelling the scent of rosemary.

  “How are you today?”

  His eyes flew open. She was there, crouched on the floor before him. She was wearing white and her hair was loose and slightly curly, as if it had got damp and dried before the firelight. She was pale, as if she'd had not over-much sleep, and her eyes held his, curious.

  He nodded, trying for nonchalance. “Feeling better.”

  She raised a brow. Her hand shot forward, pressing his injured rib. He gasped as the fire of the pain lanced through him.

  “Not exactly cured yet,” she said.

  He opened his eye again, regarding her inquiringly. Was he being fanciful, or was she smiling. The thought that she derived some amusement from his predicament made him smile, too, in grudging admiration.

  “I take your opinion.”

  She cocked one dark brow over gray eyes. “Fine.”

  He laughed aloud. Laughing made his ribs hurt, but he couldn't help it. He grinned.

  I've never met a woman like this in my life.

  She was every bit as commanding as Captain Henshaw. He was the first fellow he'd sailed with, who'd set him up as the merchants' message-transporter. He grinned.

  “I wonder if I can walk?”

  She raised a brow. “I wouldn't try it yet,” she advised. “The amount of strain you put on that leg just getting you here makes me think it ought to rest another day.”

  He nodded. “I need to get back though.”

  She raised a brow. He frowned. It couldn't possibly be regret he'd seen there?

  No. It's my hopeful mind.

  Sighing, he tensed his right leg. She was right. It hurt.

  “I need to stand,” he said. He'd managed it yesterday, twice, to go and pass water round the door of the barn. He couldn't spend the whole of today just sitting. He wriggled to kneeling, grunting in pain as his weight went onto his right knee. She stayed where she was, observing.

  When he was up on his knee, he staggered to his feet and stood there, swaying. Not looking at her and avoiding the risk of seeing skepticism on her face, he walked, step by slow step, stumbling sometimes, to the door.

  There, he stopped. “I can walk,” he announced carefully. “How long, do you think, until I can ride also?”

  When he turned back to face her, she was paler than she had been.

  “Two days,” she said neutrally.

  He raised a brow. “Well, then,” he said. “I am afraid I need to cast myself on your hospitality a while longer,” he said. He watched her face as he said it. If she really was upset, she didn't flinch.

  There you are, he said to himself. Imagination.

  She was probably going to be pleased to see the back of him.

  “I brought a wash for your scalp,” she said when he'd sat down again, grunting as the weight came off his injured knee. “And some bannocks.”

  “Bannocks.” He stared at her. His stomach twisted painfully. He had eaten a few slices of crusty bread in two days, and had a fever in between. He was famished.

  She raised a brow, grinning suddenly. “Yes,” she said. “And I'm not averse to sharing them either.”

  This time he roared with mirth. “Well, then,” he said, leaning back against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “With no more deliberations, I reckon it's time to breakfast.”

  “I reckon likewise.”

  She opened a bundle that proved to contain their breakfast, complete with a little salty butter. Garrick stared.

  In all his life, excepting once or twice when there'd been leftovers after the merchants had eaten at Mr. Crae's, Garrick had never seen such fineness.

  He closed his eyes while he chewed, almost afraid that he was asleep and would wake to find himself in the forest again, wounded and alone. Here he was, in warmth and safety, with the best meal he'd likely ever had, and the company of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

  None of it makes sense, but who am I to argue?

  He smiled. When life handed him the ridiculously improbable, there was only one thing he could do. Sit back and enjoy the moment.

  It's like finding a penny on the street.

  Only, he reflected, swallowing blissfully, many times more exciting.

  He glanced at Lady Marguerite. She had her eyes closed, chewing a butter-smeared bannock. She looked as rapturous about it as he did, and it made him grin. She seemed to have an immediacy about her – she enjoyed little things as much and intensely as he did.

  He watched her awhile longer. Her pale skin was flushed with warmth and her hair was softly shiny. He could see the gentle pulse at her temple and his eye traveled down her neck to the tender skin of her chest.

  He knew he was going red and knew, also, that his body was responding intently and helplessly to the sight of her. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  He looked away, embarrassed. When he looked up again, she was looking at him. His eyes met hers.

  Her eyes were gray, he noted, with long
lashes. They were so beautiful – bright and wise. He swallowed hard. “Milady,” he said hoarsely. “I...Thank you for all you've done for me.”

  Her brow went up. To his surprise, her gaze was cold and hard, suddenly, as if the shutters had closed across the windows of her eyes. He sighed.

  Garrick Hale, she's so far above you she might as well not come from your world. Why would she be anything but awkward at your thanks?

  He coughed again, clearing his throat. He was about to say something – maybe to apologize, he wasn't sure yet – when she spoke, surprising him.

  “You need to start flexing that leg, if you're to walk soon.”

  He nodded. With some experience of injuries – Garrick was no stranger to brawling in the street or tavern, or on deck – he knew. You had to move your muscles if you didn't want them to stiffen as they healed, particularly if something had been pulled out of shape or cut.

  “I'll get walking on it,” he said.

  She nodded. She wasn't looking at him, but across the room, past him. That made his heart sore.

  “I'll get some rope, to tie to that shelf there. It'll give you something to lift yourself up with.”

  He looked up, impressed despite himself. “Sound idea, milady.”

  She nodded. Her eyes were closed. She looked, if anything, like she was mildly upset. “Yes,” she said. “Well, I'll leave you to it, then.”

  Hurt, he swallowed hard and nodded. “Thanks, milady,” he whispered. He heard her stand and hastened to add anything he could think of, just to make her stay longer. “And thanks fer the breakfast.”

  This time, she turned and grinned. Full and gentle, her grin glowed in the brightness of the barn. His heart lit.

  “Glad you liked it,” she said softly.

  Then, as if she was as surprised by that speech as he was, she turned and walked out hastily.

  Garrick was left leaning against the wall, staring into the sunlight bemusedly.

  He grunted and rolled over, taking the weight off his injured knee as he struggled to standing. He had to stretch – she was right.

  Wincing, he started to walk – shifting the weight from foot to foot, step by agonizing step. He had to be ready to ride the day after tomorrow, or what would he do?