Page 25

S omething stabbed her in the eye. Something white-hot. Bright. Twisting her head from the source of the pain, Aileana raised her arm to shield her vision. Her lids felt crusted shut, but she managed to edge them open enough to peek from beneath the shadow of her elbow.

Everything was quiet, the place coated, it seemed, in the scent of mint.

Her mouth felt full of dust, and her head throbbed as if a boulder had rolled over it, but still she peered through scratchy lids, desperate for a drink of water.

A pitcher and wash basin rested on the table across the chamber, but she felt too weak to get it.

Then a more terrible thought wrenched her foggy mind.

Heaven preserve her—she’d fallen asleep and left the sick to fend for themselves.

With a groan, she tried to push herself up from the bed, but her muscles refused to obey. The throbbing increased in her head and spread to every aching joint in her body, making her fall back limp against the bolster. Panic swelled. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel so strange?

Then she noticed something odd. Using every bit of effort she possessed, she pushed herself to her elbows and peered over the edge of the mattress.

Duncan lay curled on the floor near the bed; his left arm stretched out above him, cushioning his head, his right hand was cradled to his chest as if for protection.

Or defense.

His hand . For the first time she saw his crippled hand without the glove to conceal it.

The first three fingers curved in an awkward twist; they’d healed without being properly set.

His knuckles seemed strangely flattened, and thick, ridged scars formed a mass at the back of his hand, while his thumb seemed locked at an angle.

She frowned and managed to roll to the edge of the bed, reaching down to gently touch him.

It didn’t look nearly as bad as she’d feared it would.

The sight of it inspired a rush of sympathy for the pain he must have felt with its happening, but she certainly didn’t feel disgust as she’d been led to expect, based on the murmurs of his clanswomen. So then why did he bother to—?

Suddenly, she slid and began to tip toward the floor, unable to stop herself in her weakness.

She shrieked but the sound came out more like a croak from her ravaged throat.

Duncan growled something indistinct as he sprang to a sitting position and grabbed her wrist, twisting it and forcing her back against the bed.

He scrambled atop her and pushed down, and Aileana struggled under the pressure of his hand round her throat. “Dun…” she tried to call, “Duncan…”

His steel gaze flickered at the sound of her voice, and the scowl faded from his face. In the next instant he dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, releasing her and taking her hand gently in his own.

“Oh, God, forgive me—the dream…” he mumbled. Stunned, she saw his eyes welling, watched as cold gray melted to quicksilver. “Thanks be, you’re alive,” he said hoarsely, before leaning his brow against their entwined hands.

“Duncan,” she rasped. “Water. Please.”

His head snapped up, and he sprang into a flurry of activity. Soon a cool cup was tipped to her mouth. “Here,” he murmured as he urged tiny sips past her cracked lips, “but don’t drink too much at first. Otherwise you’ll be sick again.”

“Again? I was sick?” Aileana frowned as she tried to remember, but only an incessant thudding at her temples rewarded her effort.

“Aye. For almost a week now.” Duncan nodded and shifted away from her.

She saw his furtive movements as he pulled his gauntlets over his hands again.

She wanted to say nay, to tell him to foreswear the unnecessary protection of the gloves, but the words got stuck in the incredible weariness weighing her down.

“So tired,” she breathed, trying to resist the urge to close her eyes again. She felt cool and relaxed. An almost forgotten peace lulled her toward slumber. But as the gossamer waves of sleep closed over her and her eyes drifted shut, she felt certain that she must already be dreaming…

Because as Duncan leaned over to tuck the coverlet around her, she thought she felt him press a tender kiss on her forehead.

The autumn rain pattered its chill melody against the window, though the fire crackled brightly enough to dis pel any dampness.

Duncan stood in the shadows of the bedchamber, watching Aileana sleep; myriad emotions filled him with startling swiftness.

He followed each rise and fall of her breast, let his eyes slip over the red-gold sweep of her hair on the bolster.

His eager gaze absorbed the beauty of the face he’d come to know so well in the tortured, wee hours of those nights when death had lain in wait, trying to claim her.

He’d never thought to feel so about a woman again. Not after Mairi. And certainly not for Aileana MacDonell.

But he cared for her deeply, and there was no going back from the truth.

He paused, a kind of incredulity forcing him to review what he’d hardly begun to comprehend.

His mind and heart mingled in force, examining, searching.

He approached her and crouched beside her as she slept.

His head dipped in prayer, the words flowing free and from his heart.

God had answered his call, giving back Aileana’s life.

In time she would blossom again. She’d regain her vibrancy, her sharp-edged tongue and her lush, impossible beauty.

She would heal and grow strong and prosper.

But no matter; he could never tell her how he truly felt about her.

The thought broke the spell of his prayer, and he raised his head to look at her.

There was so much weighing heavy between them—so much that had the power to destroy them both, were he fool enough to allow it.

She was a forbidden temptation, and not only because of her heritage or her connection to Morgana and the clan who’d butchered his people—nay, it wasn’t that, though it would have been easier to hold on to that notion.

Aileana had proven her character and her loyalty time and again, in sacrificing her own security for her brother’s safety, in standing strong against the insults and trials of living as his leman…

in risking her own life to help his people.

He could put down any lingering animosity the others might feel against her, were he to make her his wife. If only it were that simple.

But it wasn’t. Even if he were foolhardy enough to ask her to become his bride in truth—to consider the possibility of love growing between them—she would never consent.

How could she? What woman would want to take to her heart and her bed the very man who’d led the attack that killed her father and clansmen, a man who’d humiliated her, threatened her brother’s life and ripped her from her family to live in subjection with him?

Yet even with all of that, there was still more that made him likely the last person that she or any woman would choose willingly for a husband.

Duncan pulled off his glove to stare at his crippled hand.

It was true that it worked well enough, ravaged as it was.

He could wield a sword, saddle Glendragon, and help in the repairs of the Castle.

But he was damaged nonetheless. His touch wasn’t capable of evoking haunting, beautiful music on his clarsach anymore, of carving fine lines in a stick of wood…

of stroking Aileana to the brink of passion and beyond in the way that he wanted to love her.

In the way that she deserved to be loved.

He fingered another of his ugly scars, the one that threaded along his cheek and jaw, bitterness twisting in his chest. He was disfigured and flawed.

If he lived to be an old man, he’d never forget the look Aileana had given him on the battlefield, that first day, when she’d seen his face up close; he’d thought himself accustomed to such reactions, but her shock and aversion had cut him to the bone.

When she awakened for good from this sickness, it would surely be more of the same; she would continue to hate him, both for who and what he was.

He needed to remember that.

But right now she slept. He stared at her, soaking in the sight of her like a drowning man reaching for a branch anchored on the shore.

Uncontrolled need swelled inside him anew.

Heaven help him, but he wanted to feel the warmth of her skin against his one last time before he made good on his vow to forsake it forever.

His hand trembled as he reached out to touch her, sweeping his fingers in a reverent path across her brow, her cheek and down to the pulse that fluttered warm at the base of her throat.

He savored the moment, storing the sensations for the lonely, barren nights that loomed ahead of him.

She was like warm velvet, alluring to him even with the ravages of sickness still evident.

Her lips parted in a sigh, and she turned her head toward him, nuzzling into his caress.

The tide overflowed, then, carrying Duncan with it to a place of no thought, no reason…

only feeling. He leaned over and brushed his mouth across the full swell of her lips, tasting wine and mint.

Her lips moved in response, melding to his and softening in surrender.

He felt the sweet pressure of her mouth beneath his as he cupped her face gently, letting all that he was feeling through his palms and into her.