Page 81 of The Falcon Laird

“You performed a sacred ritual and then fought like a warrior?” Gavin asked. “Versatile, Father.”

“We Scots, we are something.” Fergus grinned.

“Grab the horses. We’ll go back,” Gavin said, seeing the exhaustion on their faces. “Hastings will send men back here to clean up. I am sure we will hear from him soon.”

He helped Christian mount an English charger, and mounted another himself. He spoke with Fergus, who promised to send villagers out in the morning to tend to the bodies of the slain and bring them back to Loch Doon Castle if Hastings had not seen to it yet.

“It is only right,” he said.

“Gavin,” Christian said, “those men who helped us—”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know well who they were. We shall go home, now.”

Home. The simple word chanted in his head like a benediction.

Chapter Twenty

“Ido notneed it,” Christian said stubbornly.

“You need it,” Gavin said. “Undress and do it.”

She looked at the tub, with its tented, dark interior. Fear, harsh and unexpected, swamped her. She thought of the tight space she had stood in today, surrounded by the English horses. And she thought of the cage. Memories of that vile place had not tormented her for weeks, but now, they came rushing back.

“I will not,” she said. “I am tired.”

“We are all tired, lady. Exceedingly. But you have been coughing and need the steam.”

She shook her head, feeling foolish, compelled to resist. “I will not. It is too small a space.”

He tilted his head in puzzlement. “What?”

“Like the cage,” she whispered.

“No one will cage you again,” he said softly.

“Hastings sent his men out—”

“They will not take you again. I will not allow it. Come. I will get in too if you like,” he teased.

She laughed, embarrassed a little now. “Then it would be truly cramped in there. You think me foolish. Acting like a child. You have no fears, or you could not have fought as you did today.”

“Everyone has fears, lady,” he whispered.

“What are yours?”

He watched her. “Losing you,” he said then. “Now get in the bath.”

“Ach, very well,” she grumbled, and slid her gown over her head, tossing it to the floor. “I would not want you to think me cowardly.”

“I could never think that.”

“I do not need this bath,” she mumbled as she lifted her white undertunic away. She felt his gaze.

“I may take a bath with you after all,” he said, the timbre of his voice dropping low. He stepped forward and swept her up into his arms to bring her to the tub.

She gasped and looped her arms around his neck, her breasts crushed to his chest. But she leaned away. “Ugh, you are wet and muddy in that tunic.”

“Then I shall take it off,” he said, and lowered her into the water. She sank to her shoulders as the hot, silky water enveloped her. Glancing at the tent draped overhead, she inhaled, sensing only warmth and quiet here, and no threat. The memory of the cage frightened her, but exhaustion was the cause now.