Page 24 of Forge of the Highlander’s Destiny

“ S hite,” Cohen said as he laid down in the bed in his chamber.

The healer was there, and like a little boy, Cohen scowled.

He hated dealing with any sort of illness or injury.

It made him feel weak and useless, and as the only one left to lead his family, he hated feeling those things.

There was no one else to take his place if he wasn’t there.

Besides that, his new wife was watching him with concern. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks pale even though just that morning they had been flushed with love and sexual satisfaction on that very bed.

The old healer was kneeling at his side, looking at the wound and frowning. “It has gone deep, and I see the tip nearly coming out the other side. We will have tae pull it out as best we can, Me Laird. I am sorry.”

“Here,” Arya said, thrusting a bottle of whisky into his hands.

“I will get ye a bit of leather to bite down upon.” Her tone was confident, but he could see her hands trembling, and he wished for nothing more than to hold them close, kiss them, and to tell her that everything was going to be all right.

But is it?

In a few moments, she brought him a leather belt.

But before he took it into his mouth, he slugged back almost a quarter of the bottle of the whisky, savoring the burn of it in his throat.

He had experienced pain before, but this felt different somehow.

Something nefarious was on his tail, desperate to get at him, and Arya was watching him worriedly.

“Lass, ye daenae need to stay,” he said roughly not looking forward to the feeling of an arrow point being ripped out of his arm.

“I want to, if ye will let me,” she said, coming to sit next to him on his other side, holding his hand.

He looked into her lovely blue eyes and felt a calm he hadn’t felt since he’d taken over as Laird of the Clan. For a few seconds, he was lost in her gaze, and then he nodded.

“Aye, ye may stay.” He kissed her hand. “I want ye too. But forgive me for the sounds I may make when the healer pulls out the arrow.”

She leaned in to whisper, “Only if ye will forgive the sounds I will make later this evening when I am on top of ye.” Her breath tickled his earlobe, and he shuddered, making the old healer look up with surprise.

“Are ye all right, Me Laird?” the man asked, frowning at him.

“Aye,” Cohen spluttered, trying to contain his laughter at what had just happened.

Arya slid her hand into his and grasped his fingers.

When he turned to her, she lifted an innocent brow.

He wished the healer wasn’t there, so that he could kiss her delectable mouth which was slightly curled up on the sides.

He took another swig of whisky and then lifted the belt into his mouth with Arya’s help.

“Ready?” the healer asked, and with a sigh, Cohen nodded.

He tried not to yell too loud as he felt the arrow being yanked from his skin.

White sparks moved behind his eyes, as the heat and pressure of the arrow made him want to punch something hard.

His teeth clenched the belt tightly, and he was glad he had it.

But then it was over. The arrow was out, and he was panting for breath as he let the belt fall from his mouth. He could feel the hot trickle of blood from his arm, and he felt a little dizzy. Arya cradled his head as she helped him lay back, and the healer pressed a warm cloth to his fresh wound.

“Good,” the old man said, “I will be able to stitch this and clean it well. Yer arm will heal quickly, but ye will have a scar.”

“Nae that I daenae have many others,” he said in a strained tone, trying to act calm and confident in Arya’s presence, even though his arm was in searing pain.

“Of course,” the healer said, turning away to collect his materials to stitch the wound. Arya moved close to him and kissed him on the cheek.

“I am sorry, Cohen. We shouldnae have gone outside. I ken that ye did it just for me, and I love that ye did that. But I am sorry. We should have been more careful.”

With his good arm, Cohen patted her hand.

“I am just happy that ye didnae get hurt.” He leaned close and leaned his head against hers.

“I daenae ken what I would have done if it was ye who had to grit yer teeth and cry out in pain. I would have wanted to ride out and search the woods, desperate to find the culprit and tear him to pieces.”

“How do ye ken I daenae want to do that meself?” she asked, and Cohen laughed.

But his laugh died in his throat when he felt the healer’s hands back at his wound again. This time, the man was armed with needle and thread. Arya put the belt back in his mouth, and he leaned back and closed his eyes, squeezing Arya’s hand as the healer did his sewing work.

At least the whisky was beginning to do its work, weaving tendrils of warm heat around his stomach and making his mind slightly hazy.

He tried to focus on happy things, like the taste of Arya’s mouth or the feel of her breasts on his tongue or the fact that he’d finally married her, and he loved her more than himself.

After an interminable amount of time, the healer was finished, and he dried and wrapped the wound tightly. Cohen felt a dull throb in his arm as the healer collected his things.

“Laird Sinclair, I will be back in a couple of days. I have instructed a maid to clean yer wound properly, so that when I return, there will be nay infection.” He nodded.

In a hoarse voice, Cohen said, “Thank ye. Ye have done well.”

“Rest, please. Yer wife can watch over ye now.” The old man smiled, and Arya slid her hand around Cohen’s good arm.

“Aye, so I will,” she said, sounding pleased.

When the old man left, Arya helped him sit up in the bed, and she removed his boots, and then laid the blanket over him. Cohen groaned, reaching out for her.

“What of ye ridin’ me, Lass? Ye promised.” She giggled, snuggling up next to him and kissing him on the cheek and then the neck.

“Ye can depend on it, Cohen, but I think ye should rest first. Have a little food and take some rest. There will be much to think about after this as well. Plans to make.”

Cohen grunted with dissatisfaction, making Arya laugh again. “Tonight,” she whispered as his eyes fluttered closed. The whisky was really getting to him now.

The last thing he heard was the soft click of the door as he fell into slumber.

Arya brushed a forearm over her forehead, wiping away sweat. It had been terrible to take Cohen back to the castle and then to listen to his struggles with pain as the healer worked on him. Even though she’d tried to smile and to be helpful, inside she was a shivering mass of nerves.

She hurried back to her chamber, calling for a bath and a meal of her own so that when she returned to Cohen that night, she could be just as strong and confident as she had pretended to be.

She paced, until the food and the bath were brought, trying to think of who would have shot the arrow.

It was terrifying to think that her father knew just where and when to hurt her, and she shuddered at the thought of his smug face when he was told about Cohen’s injury.

At least he isnae dead.

Her husband was still alive and well, and she should be grateful for that. But the arrow had whizzed by her in the forest too. Did her father want her dead? What good would that do him, though?

“Does he truly hate me that much?” she asked, feeling dejected. The hot water for the bath arrived, and Sara grinned as she poured one of two buckets into the tub.

“Here we are, Lady Sinclair,” she said. She poured the next bucket in, and then gave her a fresh wedge of soap. Another maid laid the food tray on a nearby table.

“Ye are a saint, Sara,” Arya replied.

She sank into the warm bath with a sigh once Sara and the other maid left.

Leaning her head back on the edge of the tub, her mind whirled with thoughts of Olivia.

Now that Arya was married, she could try to protect her sister as well.

There was no telling what her father might do now that he had heard of Arya’s marriage.

He would certainly try to use Olivia for his own ends. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” she whispered to the empty chamber. “I will do me best to save ye. I promise. I want ye to have just as much happiness as I.”

For she was happy. Very happy. He had been looking at her so lovingly that morning, and he had kissed her so tenderly that she’d hoped it was love he was going to speak of.

But then whoever had shot the arrow had ruined that. Frustrated, Arya scrubbed herself clean, and then once she was dry, she sat at her small table and ate her meal.

She took her time, but she was anxious to return to him.

Blushing, she knew she would have to fulfill her promises of ‘ridin’’ him as he’d so cleverly put it.

She ate quickly, and then smiling, she picked up the bottle of wine that Sara had left her, and she hurried out to Cohen’s chamber, dressed only in her nightshift.

After knocking softly on his door, she walked in, and saw that a few candles had been lit at his bedside. The fire too had been stoked. She locked the door and left the bottle of wine on the side table. Dipping down into the bed, she leaned over a sleeping Cohen and pressed a kiss to his neck.

He startled awake, and once he knew who she was, he made a groan of satisfaction and used his good arm to wrap around her. “Hmm, Lass,” he said into her hair. “Ye made me wait far too long.”

She chuckled, leaning up to kiss him, her hands framing his face.

His lips were firm yet soft, and he dipped his tongue into her mouth, and it touched hers.

Letting out a gentle moan into his mouth, her hands moved from his face down to his chest, and she stuck a hand under his shirt to feel his hard skin against her palm.

“Ye are wearing far too many clothes,” she said breathlessly, “but I think it will be far too difficult to get you out of them right now. I can, however, assist ye here.”

She slid her hand down under the blanket to his kilt where she felt a hardened bulge underneath. Grinning slyly, she watched as Cohen nodded his head at her.

“Aye, ye are more than welcome to help me there, Arya.”

She pulled the blanket from him and unbuckled his belt and removed the kilt, slowly sliding it down his muscular legs before tossing it, the belt buckle making a heavy clunk on the floor.

“How is yer arm?” she asked, sliding her hands up his legs.

“Never mind me arm, Lass,” he said with a strangled laugh. Chuckling to herself, she grasped his length between her hands and rubbed up and down.

Loving the way his eyes closed, and his breathing grew ragged at her touch, Arya felt powerful. She leaned down to slide her tongue down his length and then opened her mouth to take him in.

“Dear God, aye,” Cohen said, his hand reaching out to clutch the blanket. “Ye are well skilled at that, Arya.”

“Good thing too,” she said, sucking on him again, and he leaned up into her mouth with a groan.

“But I thought ye were goin’ to ride me, Lass,” he croaked.

“Aye, I suppose it is time, now,” she replied in a sultry tone, loving this bold side to herself. Lifting her shift, she straddled him, and with his good hand on her waist, she lowered herself onto his shaft, trembling at the feeling of fullness.

She was a little sore from their earlier lovemaking, but it was a good sore, and she didn’t want to stop. “Cohen,” she said, putting her hands on his chest as she began to move her hips.

His one hand guided her rhythm, and she caught his gaze as he looked up at her lovingly. She bit her lip as she moved against him, feeling the pressure and pleasure build inside of her. Picking up pace, she held tightly to him, but she frowned when he winced.

“Am I hurtin’ ye?” she asked, slowing down, and he shook his head, grasping at her bottom.

“Keep goin’, Arya. Daenae stop.”

She grinned and kept up pace until she felt the spark of pleasure burst inside her, and she yelled out, arching her back. Shuddering and spent, she laid down on his chest while he thrust up into her a few more times, and then groaned his release.

She kissed his chin and his neck and then moved to snuggle into his side. “Cohen,” she said, rubbing her hand on his chest. “What were ye goin’ to say to me before the arrow hit ye this mornin’?”

She waited, nervous and biting her lip, hoping to hear those glorious words. But instead, his response was a soft snore. She sat up and saw that Cohen had fallen asleep, and with a smile on her face, she laid down on his shoulder.

“I love ye, Cohen Kirk,” she whispered before she fell asleep.