After a meal of bread, cheese, and cold venison, Keira took a hasty bath. She then settled herself upon a pallet made up near the fire. Keira stared into the flames and waited for sleep to come. She hated this time of the night—hated the silence, hated the fact that sleep was so slow to come, leaving her alone in the silence with her memories. Try as she might, she could not shake free of the grip of those dark memories. She could only suppress them for a while.
Duncan had been a good man, passingly handsome, and gentle. She had not loved him and she still felt guilty about that, even though it was hardly her fault. At nearly two-and-twenty, however, she had decided she could wait no longer for some great, passionate love to stroll her way. She had wanted children and a home of her own. Although she loved her family deeply, she had begun to feel an increasing need to spread her wings, to walk her own path. Marriage did not usually free a woman, but all her instincts had told her that Duncan would never try to master her. He had wanted a true partner and, knowing how rare that was, she had accepted him when he had asked her to be his bride.
She could still recall the doubts of her family, especially those of her grandmother Lady Mailed and her cousin Gillyanne. Their special gifts had told them that she did not love the man she was about to marry. They had sensed her unease, one she could not explain even to herself. Keira was not sure it was a good thing that they had not pressed her on that, then roundly scolded herself. They had respected her choice, and it had been her choice.
Why she had felt uneasy from the moment she had accepted Duncan’s proposal of marriage was still a puzzle to her. Keira had smothered that unease and married him. Within hours of marrying him, the first hint of trouble between them had begun and within days of reaching Ardgleann, the trouble with Rauf had begun. She had thought that explained all those odd feelings she had suffered, the reluctance and the wariness, but now she was not so sure. Every instinct she had told her that the puzzle was not solved yet.
Just as she began to relax, welcoming the comfort of sleep, a harsh cry from Sir Liam startled her. Keira hurried to his side to find him straining against his bonds, muttering furious curses at enemies only he could see. She stroked his forehead and spoke softly to him, telling him over and over where he was, who cared for him now, and that he was safe. It surprised her a little when he quickly grew calm again.
“Jolene?” he whispered.
Keira wondered why hearing him speak another woman’s name should irritate her as much as it did. “Nay, Keira,” she said as she placed her hand over his to try to stop him from tugging against his bonds.
“Keira,” he repeated and grasped her hand in his. “Aye. Keira. Black hair. Confused me. Thought I was home. At Dubheidland.”
“Ah. She is your healer?” Keira tried to wriggle her hand free of his grasp, but he would not release her, so she sat down in the chair at his bedside.
“Sig’mor’s wife. Lady of Dubheidland. Thought I was home.”
“So ye said. I can give ye something to ease the pain, if ye wish it.”
“Nay. Thought I was caught again.”
She could see that it pained him to speak, but could not resist asking, “Do ye remember what happened to you?”
“Caught. Beaten. Thrown away. Ye found me?”
“Aye, me and my cousin Brother Matthew.”
“Good. Safe here.”
“Aye, ye will be.” She tried yet again to wriggle her hand free of his, but failed.
“Stay.” He heaved a sigh. “Please. Stay.”
Keira inwardly cursed the weakness that caused her to heed that plea. She carefully shifted her seat closer to the bed so that she could sit more comfortably as she waited for him to release her hand. After a few moments of silence, she wondered if he had gone back to sleep, but his grip upon her hand remained firm. To her surprise, he began to stroke the back of her hand with his thumb. The warmth that gesture stirred within her was a little alarming, but she could not bring herself to stop him.
This was not good, Keira thought. The light brush of a man’s thumb over her hand should not make her feel warm. True, it was a very nice hand, the fingers long and elegant, but it was too benign a caress to stir any interest. Or it should be. She looked at his battered face and sighed. To all the troubles she already had, she realized she now had to add one more. A man she did not know, a man whose face was so bruised and swollen it would probably give a child the night terrors, could stir her blood with the simple stroke of his thumb.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hannah Howell is an award-winning author who lives with her family in Massachusetts. She is the author of over thirty Zebra historical romances and is currently working on a new historical romance featuring the Wherlocke family, coming in March 2013! Hannah loves hearing from readers and you may visit her Website: www.hannahhowell.com.
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Copyright © 1996 by Hannah Howell
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2819-2
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