Page 11 of The Highlander’s Illicit Bride (Wicked Highland Lairds #1)

CHAPTER TEN

S truan oversaw the serving girls drain the tub then helped them remove it from the room once Isolde was done with it.

Afterward, he returned to the room to find Isolde standing at the small table in the corner of the room stirring something into a cup of warm wine, making him wonder what she was up to.

“What are ye makin’? he asked.

“A tonic fer ye.”

“Fer me?”

She offered him a small smile. “Aye. Tae help ye sleep taenight.”

Struan stepped over to the table and inhaled deeply. The aroma drifting from the cup was strong and very earthy and it brought a frown to his lips.

“That smells… awful,” he said.

She laughed softly. “I’m nae done with it yet.”

She picked up a pot of herbs and crushed them in small mortar and pestle he’d seen in her pack. Once it had been ground, she dumped it into the wine and he winced at the sharp, musky smell that filled the space between them.

“That didnae help with the smell at all,” he said. “It smells like a wet dog.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” she replied with a laugh.

Struan watched her working, intrigued by the process.

Her brow was furrowed and the pink tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, her face a mask of intense concentration as she worked.

Isolde pulled jars and pots from her pack—it seemed that she had an entire apothecary in there.

She worked with a self-assuredness and confidence he had not seen in her before.

She really seemed to be in her domain and it was fascinating to see the change in her.

“Did ye train as a healer?” he asked.

“Nay. Nae formally. But the healer in me faither’s castle taught me the attributes of certain herbs, what should be used fer what ailments—all in secret, of course.

If me faither ever found out she was teachin’ me…

it would nae have been good,” she said with a shudder. “But she kept teachin’ me anyway.”

Struan thought back to Isolde caring for him while he was in the grips of a nightmare. He recalled the cloth she’d been using to wipe his brow had been scented with something and wondered if she had been trying to alleviate his dreams with some poultice or tincture.

Knowing that she was a skilled, if not formally trained, healer, made sense to him. She hadn’t been able to banish his dreams with whatever mixture of herbs she’d used, but she had pulled him out of them—something nobody had ever achieved before.

“All right, drink this down then,” she urged him.

Isolde pushed the cup toward him as she put the lids back on her supplies and started stowing them in her pack.

His nose was filled with something that smelled like fresh grass, wet dog, and stagnant bog water with a slight undercurrent of rotting meat.

And the gray-green liquid swirling around inside did nothing to dispel the bog water image in his mind.

Struan picked up the cup and moved it closer to his nose, detecting the faint hints of citrus she’d blended in—likely to take the edge off the sharp stench.

“This looks and smells awful,” he said.

“Stop bein’ such a bairn and drink it down,” she said. “Medicines dinnae always look and smell pleasant. But I can promise ye that what’s in the cup is effective. Ye’ll sleep like a stone tonight.”

“A stone? I think what’s in this cup might kill me first.”

She laughed. “Ye’re actin’ like a bairn.”

“Because I dinnae want tae spend the rest of the night throwin’ me guts up,” he said with a grin. “Tell me, is that the secret? I spend all night sickin’ up, so I cannae have nightmares?”

She rolled her eyes. “I watched ye bein’ dragged about me faither’s castle in chains.

I watched ye bein’ beaten by terrible men.

And I watched ye square off with four of me faither’s personal guard.

And never once did I see ye show the slightest bit of fear,” she said.

“But a little tonic in a cup has ye quakin’ ye in yer boots and behavin’ like a bairn? ‘Tis unbelievable is what it is.”

He frowned and felt his cheeks warm. Struan supposed that she had a point. He sighed and shook his head.

“Fine,” he said and raised the cup. “Thank ye fer this.”

“Of course,” she replied with a nod.

Not giving himself time to think about—or taste—what he was drinking, Struan put the cup to his lips, tilted his head back, and quaffed the entire thing in one swallow.

Despite his best effort, he couldn’t keep the sludge from hitting his tongue entirely and it filled his mouth with a bitter, greasy feeling.

If anything, the citrus flavor she added seemed to make the whole concoction even worse.

“Good, eh?” she asked.

“Nay. Nae at all.”

She laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “It might taste bad, but it will help ye sleep taenight. That much I can promise ye.”

Struan poured a cup of regular wine and took a swallow, swishing it around in his mouth as he tried to rid himself of the foul taste that clung to it.

As he did, Isolde began preparing for bed.

Struan took a moment to drink another cup of wine then followed that with a cup of water.

Satisfied he’d washed away the taste of her tonic, Struan chuckled to himself then sat down on the edge of the bed as she tucked herself into it.

Isolde turned over quickly. “What dae ye think ye’re daein’?” Her eyes were wide, and she wore an expression of scandal on her face as she paled. Struan chuckled to himself.

“I’m gettin’ ready fer bed,” he said.

“Ye cannae think ye’re goin’ tae sleep in this bed with me?”

“Why nae?” he asked. “’Tis big enough.”

“’Tis improper! I willnae share a bed with ye.”

“Just turn over and pretend I’m nae here.”

She huffed in frustration. “Fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Struan laughed and clapped his hands together. “Relax, lass. I’m jestin’ with ye,” he said. “I’m just takin’ off me boots. I’ve got nay plans tae share this bed with ye. I’m perfectly fine on the floor.”

Her expression of outrage melted away and she shook her head, a small, rueful laugh bursting from her mouth as she realized he’d gotten under her skin.

Struan took his boots off and set them beside the bed, then grabbed a spare blanket and started to lie down.

Isolde tossed one of the extra pillows from the bed to him.

“Thank ye,” he said.

As he settled in, the room was wreathed in silence for a long moment.

As he lay facing the door, he felt Isolde’s eyes on him.

Her gaze had a physical weight and pressed down on him, growing heavier as the seconds ticked by.

He sighed and turned over to find her staring at him, an inscrutable expression on her face.

“Why are ye starin’ at me like that?” he asked.

“Dae ye have tae lie right in me line of sight like that?”

He sat up. “And where would ye have me lay then, eh?”

“Somewhere else?” she said, her voice soft. “Maybe on the other side of the room?”

It was a ridiculous request, and he shook his head as he chuckled wryly. “And why would ye have me sleep on the other side the room?”

“Because havin’ ye sleepin’ in me eyesight is… distractin’. And I usually sleep on this side. Sleepin’ on me other side is uncomfortable.”

His eyebrow crept up. “Distractin’, eh?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nae in the way ye think. Calm yer ego.”

“In what way am I thinking?” he teased.

She huffed. “Just… move. Please.”

He shook his head and his face grew serious. “Nay. Ye’re under me protection. ‘Tis a vow I take very seriously. And I’m sleepin’ between ye and the door,” he said. “If anybody were tae come intae this room, they’ll have tae go through me tae get tae ye.”

His hand found the sword and dagger he’d acquired, a stricken expression crossed her face, but she remained silent. Isolde rolled over in the bed, her back to him, but not before Struan had seen her cheeks color and a small smile play upon her lips.

Grinning to himself, Struan laid down and closed his eyes. And it wasn’t long before he drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep free of the horrid dreams that had plagued him since Rhona’s murder.