by Amy Jarecki
“I’ve been training all this time and wasn’t planning on doing any fighting. Moreover, the day was warm.” The deep hum of his voice eased her tension. She could listen to him recite passages from the Book of Job all day and remain completely enthralled.
Helen swallowed and regarded him over her shoulder. “I surmise you’ll think again before you make such a blunder.”
“Aye.” Eoin glanced down. “Had I been wearing my mail, I wouldn’t have felt so much as a pin prick.”
She agreed. It wasn’t like Eoin to be careless. “Your shirt is ruined.”
He held it out and examined the gaping hole and the stain. “I suppose it would look a bit odd with a seam across the middle, even if the blood did wash out.”
“Do you have another?”
“I’ve one in my kit.”
She gestured with her upturned palm. “Then you’d best give this one to me and I’ll see what I can do to mend it.”
“All right.” He pulled the shirt over his head and held it out.
Helen drew in a stuttered breath. She’d seen him shirtless often, but that was years ago when she and Gyllis used to watch the knights sparring from the battlements at Kilchurn Castle. And she’d never been this close. His arms were sculpted with thick, undulating muscles. The one holding the shirt flexed, defining perfection. His chest was as broad as a horse’s hindquarters with hard muscle beneath embossing each masculine breast. She ached to press her fingers against his flesh to discover if he were made of iron. Her eyes drank him in, then dipped lower. Well defined muscle rippled over his abdomen, but that’s where she stopped. Helen clapped a hand to her chest and gasped.
He shook the shirt. “Should I set it on the table?”
Her mouth suddenly turned as arid as a hot pan with no water. She licked her lips and plucked the clothing from his grasp. “I’ll do it.” She turned her back to him on the pretense of folding the shirt. You are here to tend his wound and that is all. She steeled her nerves with a deep inhale. “Tell me what happened.” After she pulled a cloth from her basket, she swathed his wound. It was still weeping, but thankfully the heavy bleeding had stopped.
“I suppose it was my fault.” Eoin held up his palms and shrugged. “Sir Aleck came into the courtyard and I needled him a bit for not being present for our training sessions. It turned into a challenge and, the next thing I knew, we were throwing fists.”
“And he pulled a dagger.” She pushed against his belly to see how deep the injury went. A hand’s breadth long, it wasn’t the worst she’d seen, but the cut needed to be tended for certain.
He hissed. “Aye. I should have been expecting him to pull a blade.”
“Why? I heard the part where you said no weapons.”
He hesitated and pursed his lips, but Helen gave him her inquisitive eye—it worked on everyone but Aleck.
Eoin gave her a lopsided grin. “Some people don’t like to play fair.”
“That would be Aleck MacIain.”
“Aye, m’lady,” he whispered, a touch of color flooded to his cheeks as if he were embarrassed to admit to it.
She fished in her basket for a bone needle and thread. “It needn’t bother you to speak the truth.”
“No, m’lady.” His voice rasped.
“Your wound must be stitched.” Helen held up a needle and threaded it.
“I can think of no gentler hands to tend me.”
She regarded him over her shoulder. His chin was slightly lowered and he looked up to meet her gaze. There was a hunger in that crystal-blue stare, fringed by long, dark lashes. It was Helen’s turn to flush. From the heat spreading across her cheeks, she knew she must be as red as a berry. If he asks, I’ll say the room is overwarm.
She stepped into him. “Shall I call for some whisky?”
He continued to stare. “Nay, it’ll be fine.”
Helen swallowed and ignored those piercing blues, at least tried to make a pretense of doing so. “S-sir Aleck always ensures he has plenty of drink before being stitched.”
“Do you stitch him often?”
“I did once, but now he has…someone else tend to his ills.”
Eoin’s gaze narrowed and he looked at her with a concerned expression. Then he grasped her chin and examined the bruising around her eye. “It has almost completely faded.”
She turned her head away so he couldn’t see the eye. “I’ve been trying to keep it hidden.”
He smoothed his hand over her cheek—the one without the bruise. His fingers, though rough, were gentle—so unlike Aleck’s. If only things had been different for her.
“I’m sorry you’ve been unhappy,” he said, making her heart skip a beat.
She smiled and knelt, holding up the needle. “Are you ready?” Heaven help her, he smelled of the sea on a warm summer’s day.
“Aye.” And his deep burr curled off his tongue like a lazy wave.
Helen forced herself to focus on the task at hand, lest she hurt him. She carefully used her thumb and pointer finger to pinch Eoin’s flesh together, trying to keep her hands steady. “Things are not half so lonely now that I have Maggie.”
He chuckled. “How is the bairn?”
“She’s healthy. Growing too fast.” She made the first suture.
Eoin didn’t even hiss. “Wee ones have a way of doing that.”
“I suppose they do, though this is the only time I’ve had the opportunity to see it first-hand.” She tied off the second suture.
He tugged a strand of hair from beneath her veil and twirled it around his finger. “Does she have honeyed locks like her mother?”
Helen almost didn’t want to say. “’Tis black with silken curls.” Helen whipped two more stitches. “She’ll be a bonny lass, for certain.” Then her face fell with thoughts of the miserable life her daughter might endure because of her beauty.
Eoin released her hair. “Why so glum?” The MacGregor Chieftain was too perceptive and too disconcerting.
Helen couldn’t help but heave a sigh. “Aleck aims to make an alliance by marrying Maggie off as soon as her menses show.”
She must have stabbed Eoin with the next stitch because the muscles across his abdomen contracted. He let out a grunt. “I’ll wager you’re not happy with the prospect of seeing her married so young.”
Helen tied the last knot. “I would do anything to keep her from an unhappy marriage.”
She snipped the thread and Eoin took in a deep breath. “At least you have a dozen years or more before you must worry about that.”
“Aye.” I’ll have a dozen years to keep her away from Aleck’s lash, too.
“I’d like to see her,” Eoin said as if he cared not if the bairn was a lass or lad.
Something warm flickered within Helen’s breast. “You would?”
He puzzled. “Why have you not brought her to the great hall? Everyone is fond of a glimpse at a wee bairn.”
Another deep sigh slid through her lips. “Everyone except Sir Aleck, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t understand.” Eoin knit his brows, looking rather dangerous. “True, he wanted a lad, but he has a lass to love until a boy is born.”
Helen’s throat closed. If only Aleck could be half as sensible as Eoin. She fished in her basket and pulled out a small stoneware pot. “This salve has avens oil to help you heal.” She couldn’t bring herself to apply it. Smoothing her fingers over his warm and banded flesh was more than she could bear.
He took the pot and his finger brushed hers. It was as if he’d taken a feather and teased her with it. She wrapped her hand around the finger to staunch the tingling. Why on earth did Eoin MacGregor disarm her with a simple touch? Yes, it had been an eternity since she’d had such a friendly conversation with a man, but must a mere brush of his fingertip send her insides into a maelstrom of fluttering butterflies? Helen picked up her basket and dipped into a curtsey. “You’d best find that shirt before you catch your death.” Or you make all the women in the castle swoon into a heap of
worthless mush.
Eoin let out a long breath as he watched Helen stroll out of the antechamber. Holy Mother Mary and all the saints, whether coming or going, the lady was a vision to behold. A married vision nonetheless. He still couldn’t believe he sat there and wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger. Then it was all he could do not to hold it to his nose and inhale.
Devil’s bones, he’d acted like a lovesick fool. He wasn’t in love. Even if he were—which he definitely was not—the lady embodied the metaphor of forbidden fruit. Worse, she had to be married to the most insufferable arse in the Highlands. Without a doubt, this was the most god-awful assignment Eoin had endured since he’d joined with the Campbells and the Highland Enforcers.
Christ, his gut hurt worse now than it had after MacIain sliced his dagger across it. The miserable backstabber. That’ll teach me. I should have been wearing an arming doublet and hauberk.
Eoin glanced at his belly. Helen had tied off a half-dozen stitches, each one perfectly exact in a row just below his navel. Funny, he hadn’t felt any pain whilst she was stitching, but as soon as she left the room, the wound throbbed and ached as if he’d been gutted. Bloody oath, he could use a healthy swig of that whisky now. He pulled the stopper out of the pot, hit by a strong clove-like aroma. Spreading it over his wound, he let out a grunt. It stung and, holy hell, his eyes watered.
Truth be told, he’d wanted Helen to apply the salve with her deft fingers—wished she’d do it. He’d even closed his eyes and prayed she could hear his thoughts. Please. Smooth in the ointment. I need to feel your lithe fingertips upon my skin just once more.
He understood why she’d handed him the pot. He must have made the lady damn uncomfortable when he touched her hair…and her cheek…and examined her eye. God, he was daft.
If anything, the confrontation with MacIain, gave him the impetus to make up his mind. They hadn’t heard any news from the spies posted up the coast. It was about time someone paid them a visit. He and his men needed time for respite and a few days at sea would serve to ferry them away from Mingary for a bit. Besides, they could also do some spying of their own and discover more about what Alexander MacDonald was up to. The chieftain controlled a great deal of land around Skye—and his northern lands were far away from the scrutiny of the crown.
Eoin pushed the stopper into the pot and stood just as Fergus walked through the archway.
The henchman held out a shirt. “I fetched this from your kit—thought you might need it.” He glanced from side to side as if expecting to see Lady Helen. It was a good thing she hadn’t tarried. Eoin wouldn’t want the castle astir with any gossip about her, no matter how unfounded.
“My thanks.” Eoin took the shirt and pulled it over his head. “Tell the men we’ll be sailing at dawn on the morrow.”
“Had enough of the MacIain scoundrels have you?”
“Of sorts.” Eoin wouldn’t divulge the extent of his ire to one of his men. He supported King James’s cause, and that was all they needed to know. “Moreover we need to run a sortie to the north to discover what the MacDonald scallywags are up to.”
“After Aleck cut you today.” Fergus lowered his voice. “I cannot see why we don’t just sail back to Argyllshire.”
“Because that’s not what the king ordered.” Eoin picked up his weapons and headed out with his henchman on his heels. “If we tuck tail and head for home, MacIain could side with the MacDonalds, and then we’d have no foothold on the northwestern shore.” And Eoin wasn’t about to release his hold on Mingary for any length of time until he knew Helen would be safe. Aye, she’d survived Aleck’s brutality for the past five years, but something wasn’t right, and Eoin had a mind to fix it—somehow.
Fergus fell in beside him. “Are you coming with me to tell the men?”
“Nay, I’m off to find the chieftain of this keep and let him know our plans.” Eoin gave his henchman a wink. “Wouldn’t want him to gloat, thinking he’d scared us away.”
“Good luck with that.” Fergus chuckled. “Better you than me.”
Eoin gave him a jab with his elbow. “Aye, and kiss my arse while you’re at it.”
8
Helen sat in a beam of light shining through the narrow window in the nursery painstakingly making tiny stitches as she repaired Eoin’s linen shirt. Maggie napped in her cradle. Glenda and Sarah tended their needlepoint beside the hearth.
“You’ll go blind holding that shirt so close to your face,” Glenda said.
Helen looked up. “I’m trying to make it appear as if it weren’t slashed open. Sir Eoin told me he had only one to spare. And I feel responsible since Sir Aleck was the one who ruined it.”
“Sir Eoin is fortunate. Most soldiers have the clothing on their backs and that is all,” Sarah said as if she possessed a great deal of knowledge on the subject.
Helen pushed in her needle for another careful stitch. “Aye, but Eoin is a chieftain. I’d expect him to be a bit different.”
Glenda rose and crossed the floor. “Let me have a look.”
Helen held up the shirt. “I’m nearly finished.”
The chambermaid grasped the edges and pulled it taut. “You’ve done a fine job, m’lady. You can only see the join if you look closely.”
Sarah stepped beside her. “And no one will see it at all if he’s wearing a doublet atop.”
Helen regarded the shirt with a sigh. “Well, at least you scrubbed out the blood stain, Glenda.”
“Perhaps you should have made him a new shirt,” Sarah suggested.
Honestly, Helen had thought about it, but decided she might raise Aleck’s ire if she gave the Chieftain of Clan Gregor a new shirt that she’d handcrafted. “Mayhap, but Sir Aleck is still maddened about their disagreement in the courtyard. I wouldn’t want to upset him further”
“The men are saying the chieftain shouldn’t have lashed out at Sir Eoin after he’d offered a fair handshake.” Her eyes popping wide as if she’d just made a grand faux pas, Sarah pressed praying fingers to her lips. “Forgive me for being so bold, m’lady.”
Though Helen would never speak ill of her husband to the servants, she nodded. “I’m afraid you could be right in this instance.” She took in a deep inhale and smiled. “Perhaps Sir Aleck and Sir Eoin will agree to put their differences behind them once the MacGregor Chieftain returns.”
Glenda coughed. “You must be the most optimistic person I know, m’lady.”
Helen pursed her lips and returned her attention to her sewing. She didn’t care to have Glenda speak out in subtle disagreement. True, Helen always tried to find the good in every situation, but lately, her kindheartedness had been pushed to the ragged edge.
Sarah brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “When do you think the MacGregor men will return?”
Helen frowned. She had hoped they would have come back by now. The return trip up around the northwestern islands should have only taken a couple of days and they’d been away an entire sennight. “I’m sure they’ve a great many things to attend,” she replied as indifferently as she could manage.
As the women returned to their needlepoint, the chamber grew quiet, the crackling of the fire in the hearth the only sound.
After Helen tied off the last stitch, the ram’s horn sounded, piercing through the silence. The suddenness of the blast nearly made her heart hammer out of her chest.
Sarah’s gaze brightened with her grin. “I’ll wager ’tis them.”
Helen waved her toward the window. “Go have a look.” She made one more knot for good measure and snipped it with the shears. If Sir Eoin had indeed arrived, she could return his shirt this very day.
“’Tis the MacGregor men,” Sarah announced, her voice squeaking with excitement.
Why Helen’s insides were fluttering, she had no idea. Perhaps the lass’s exuberance was contagious.
Glenda gestured to the door. “I’ll stay here with Maggie if you’d like to greet them.”
Sarah curtseyed. “Thank you,
ta.” She bit her lip and cast a hopeful gaze toward Helen. “If that meets with your approval, m’lady.”
Helen stood and draped the shirt over her arm. “Of course. We’ll go together.”
While they proceeded down the tower stairs, Helen paused at an arrow slit and looked to the north. Stepping out the door of Mary’s cottage, Aleck was fastening his sword belt. She glanced over her shoulder to see if Sarah had seen him. The woeful expression on the maid’s face confirmed she had.
Helen pretended nothing was amiss and clapped a hand to her chest. “Thank heavens Peter has plenty of meat hanging in the cellar.”
“’Tis a good thing indeed, m’lady,” Sarah agreed.
Though Helen tried not to think of it, she suspected the entire clan avoided speaking of Aleck and Mary in her presence. She breathed in deeply through her nose. She would hold her chin high and maintain her poise just as she always had.
When they stepped into the courtyard, noisy activity echoed between the bailey walls with a refreshing air of excitement. The blacksmith shack clanged and guardsmen were all jesting amongst themselves about their surprise that the MacGregors had bothered to return after their chieftain “bested” Sir Eoin in the sparring ring. Helen wanted to issue a sharp retort. Was she the only person who’d seen Aleck lash out after Eoin had offered his hand? Or had a sennight and whisky faded their memories? Then again, by the way they were laughing and blurting yarns filled with hyperbole, she realized most were genuinely happy Sir Eoin and his men had returned.
Helen glanced at the nursemaid who anxiously strained to see beyond the open sea gate. “Do you fancy one of the MacGregor lads?”