Page 19 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

C arrying her, he knocked the door open and strode in to set her on the bed. The small, dim tower room with its curved walls formed a snug space in the light of a single candle as she sat. Aedan sank beside her, the rope-slung bed creaking and sagging under him. She laughed a little at that, remembering the bed in the tavern where they had talked and laughed, where she had begun to truly grow fond of him, of his size and strength and humor. She reached up to cup her hand on his newly bared cheek, the skin warm and gritty under her palm. He kissed her again, lightly this time, and set an arm around her.

Her heart pounded. She yearned, wanting him and yet, she was hesitant, her thoughts tumbling—push and pull, courage and fear.

He rested his cheek on her head. “This is madness, this between us, so quick, so sure. What is it?”

“I wonder too. Whatever it is, I like it,” she whispered. Cozy against him, she was aware of a fire building within her. “But I am not sure what I want just now.” Though her body knew, she was not sure she was that bold after all.

“You want me to tend to your ankle,” he murmured. It was as if he offered a reprieve, a chance to breathe, consider. “Foot,” he said, tapping his knee.

She shifted on the bed to set her foot across his knee, adjusting her shift over her legs. Cradling her foot, he traced his fingers over the bruise and the swelling. An aromatic scent wafted up, a trace of the healing ointment she had rubbed there earlier.

“Do you have bandaging?” he asked.

“I brought some here should I need it for Colban.” She stretched toward the small table by the bed and he reached past her to grab the linen strips. With her foot propped on his knee, he wound the lengths around her ankle with nimble fingers.

“You have done this before,” she said in admiration at his easy skill.

“Aye. When I was running in the hills with Bruce and his men, there was no surgeon or healing woman if someone was injured in a skirmish. We did what we could. There.” He tied the end securely around her ankle. “Try that.”

She stood, carefully walking away and back to test. “That does help,” she said, sitting beside him again.

“So. That is some of my debt erased, I hope.”

She huffed. “You have no debt to me.”

He kissed her brow. “What is this, then? Not repayment. Not only lust, though there is surely that,” he said with a lilt. “Whatever we both want, lass—this may not be the time to pursue it.”

“I know—but I like wondering,” she said, and craned up for a kiss, her words suddenly lost in his lips. She caught her breath as his hands slid from her waist up her ribcage, fingers stretching easily to capture the sides of her breasts. She arched as he explored, kissed her, cupped and teased until she moaned against his mouth. His hands stilled, slid down, his lips parting from hers.

“But we must think what—” he began.

“I do not want to think” she said quickly. “I am usually so cautious—but I just want to feel—wanted and—” She needed courage to say what came to her. Loved—by you.

“You are,” he murmured. “I care for you. It feels as if we are playing a game of Ard-Rì, and the board has spun about. My pieces are yours, yours are mine.”

“What do you mean?” She wanted to be close, to feel his hands upon her, his lips on hers. She nudged her nose to his. He kissed her, came away.

“I mean, in my clumsy way, that I want to think about this—just when you want to push on and think later.” He touched her hair, tugging playfully at a loose wave over her shoulder. “You are careful, thoughtful. Beautiful. And I can be a rogue. But I want to be careful with you, not hurt you, or make the wrong move.”

“I am not delicate, sir.”

“You are stronger than either of us knows, I think. So here we sit, my bluebell and I,” he said, putting his arm around her again, “both wanting this. But I will not treat this woman hastily. She is too important to me.”

“You are important to her too,” she admitted. “Very much so.”

“Listen. You are in my thoughts every moment now. You are in my heart, do you know that? It has been so for months.”

“Months? Since Holyoak?”

“When you left, I wanted to find you to thank you for saving my life. But not just that. I could not stop thinking about you. I wanted to see you again. And I wondered—if you—felt something too.” His hand soothed over hers. She rubbed her thumb on his. “I did,” she said. “I thought about you long after I left. I needed to know how you were. I wanted to see you again. Seeing you at Yester—felt like a miracle. You were there just when I needed you.”

Head tilted, eyelids long, he looked thoughtful. “Fate.”

“Fate,” she agreed. “It felt that way. Feels that way,” she amended.

“When I thought I might die, lying there,” he said, “I told you something. Perhaps you do not remember.”

“I do. You spoke of stones and—doves and secrets. I did not understand it. But you were fevered and seemed desperate. What you said did not make much sense, but once I felt sure you would live, I did not worry about it. It was not mine to know, but yours. Nor did I share it with anyone.”

“Do you recall what I said?” He took his hand away, cool air instead of warmth.

“A little of it. But you did not need me to remember it once you were better.”

“Need you,” he murmured. “I do now.” He pulled in a breath. “I wanted to find you when I left Holyoak—because I was a little in love with you.”

She caught her breath. “It can happen with healers and patients. But it is gratitude more often than not.”

“Remember the young captive at Bass Rock? I watched him fall in love with you. Just a few moments in your care, and he was yours, my lady.”

“If so, he is over it by now.”

“I will never be over it,” he said. “I believe I love you, Rowena Keith.”

“Love?” she whispered. Her heart pounded, grew, soared.

“So I fell in love with my healer, hey. It happens. And it was more than gratitude.”

“Aedan—”

“I have loved you—perhaps for years, in a way. When I was a lad, I loved your pretty name on a bit of parchment. Fancied myself a knight destined to wed that pretty name, daughter of a great Scottish house. I—even made plans for it.”

“But that agreement was broken. You must have forgotten it.”

“I never did, though we had not met. I wondered if you had married, if you were happy.”

She stared at him. “I never knew.”

“Nor would you.” He shrugged. “No matter. I just wanted you to know now. And I wanted to know if you—felt something at Holyoak, as I did. Even though you were not aware we had a canceled betrothal.”

“At Holyoak,” she said, “when I heard your name, I had the oddest feeling, as if I had forgotten something. It must have been a memory of that betrothal. I did not want to leave you, even healed, and I wanted to see you again. That wish came true.”

“Fate and the angels have had their way with us.”

“They have. And so here we are.” She angled to look up at him, breathless, marveling, feeling as if doors had flung open in some vast new place of starlight and dreams and treasures untold, if she dared take the risk.

“At the bidding of the angels.” He snugged her close, an arm around her. “Enough thinking. I am a man who far prefers doing to thinking.”

“You!” She gave him a wry glance. “You are as thoughtful a man as I have ever known.”

“Eh, I can have no secrets around this one.” He tipped a brow. “Alas, this bout of thinking and conscience has undone my plans.”

“What plans?”

He hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her face up to kiss him. She leaned into the slow caress of his lips. Then he let go. “Plans for another time,” he whispered.

“Aedan, stay,” she breathed.

“And who is the impulsive one?”

“Me.” She threw her arms around his neck and drew him toward her again. “I think I began loving you in that awful dungeon when you made me laugh when I was scared. And I loved you even more when you went in the water and I was afraid I had lost you. And I loved when we were Hamish and Grizel—”

“Hush, Grizel. Enough thinking.” He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her into a deep, luscious kiss that spun through her body like honey and lightning. He laid her back on the bed, and as it sagged, they laughed. She rolled atop him, delighting in kisses, in his hands sliding along her shift, bunching it up, lowering his head to kiss her where she had not been kissed before, ever.

Then he stilled. “What the devil. Listen.”

“What is that?” She lifted her head. Barking, scratching, yelping.

He lay back and groaned. “Bean. I have to let her out.”

She rolled away, sighing, as he sat up and got to his feet.

“We have done a powerful lot of thinking tonight, my dear. When next we meet, we will not talk and think so much, hey.”

“When next we meet, we may be slathering wax over a wee boy’s arm.”

“Well, then, time after that,” he said, then bent to kiss her and left the room.

As she heard the door to his hidden stair shut, she remembered confessing that she had begun to love him, and he had said the same. It was true, she did love him. It filled her like a fountain. But between them and a hope of happiness—if that could indeed come about—lay a score of troubles that might prove impossible to solve.