Page 9 of Under the Spell of a Highland Healer (Tales of the Maxwell Lasses #6)
CHAPTER EIGHT
M orning came slowly for Hugo, the hours passing by torturously. Sometime in the night, he had managed to fall asleep, though it had been fitful, the dreams he now could not recall having him tossing and turning on the bed. When he opened his eyes as the first rays of sun streamed in through the window, he was closer to Abigail, drifting towards her as they both slept. She still had her back turned to him, but now his chest was pressed against it, sharing the warmth of her body even through the layers that separated them.
Instantly, he drew back from her as if her mere touch burned him. She still seemed to be asleep, thankfully, her breathing slow and deep and even, but Hugo didn’t want to risk waking her when he was still so close.
For a moment, he rested on his back with a weary sigh, looking at the ceiling. The memory of the previous night’s activities came back to him unbidden and he remembered the way Abigail had writhed underneath him, the way her sweet voice had echoed in the room as he drew moan after moan from her lips. His manhood twitched as he imagined everything else he could have done to Abigail, all the ways he could have pleasured her if only they had both allowed themselves to give in to their desire, but he quickly shook his head, trying to clear it. The last thing he wanted was for Abigail to wake up and find him like that, flushed and eager, thinking about her like this.
He had to get himself under control. It was not that long ago that he had disliked her, thinking of her as nothing more than an annoying presence in his life. Surely, he could go back to that. Surely, he could forget everything about the previous night.
As he sat up, Abigail awoke and rolled over, blinking at him as though she was surprised to see him there or to see that she was not in her own chambers. With a yawn, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up as well, her hair rumpled and her dress wrinkled, her cheeks flushed with sleep. Hugo had to force himself to look away from her, to resist the temptation of leaning closer to kiss her, though he wanted nothing more than that.
“Good mornin’,” he said, voice still rough with sleep and lust. He quickly cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance, at least, of control, and he drew in a deep, steeling breath to force himself to meet Abigail’s eyes.
“Good mornin’,” Abigail said, with a voice just as strained as his own.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable, and Hugo cursed under his breath for thinking that crossing the line wouldn’t be a big mistake from which he could never recover. There really was only one thing to do, he supposed: deal with the awkwardness once and for good.
“Shall we… shall we pretend it never happened?” he asked, bracing himself for Abigail’s answer. Perhaps it wasn’t the gentlest way of suggesting it, but Hugo would rather be blunt than stew in this embarrassment for the foreseeable future.
Abigail released a long, grateful breath. Her shoulders sagged with relief and she gave him a small, hesitant smile. “Aye. Aye, I think that would be fer the best.”
Hugo returned that smile, relieved himself that she was so quick to agree. It was nothing but a mistake, one that neither of them would repeat. They knew better than that now.
“Good,” he said, nodding firmly. “That is good.”
Despite their agreement, there was another awkward silence between them, and Hugo could only hope that it would soon resolve itself naturally, the two of them falling back into their natural rhythms of easy, if not always entirely friendly, conversation. It was Abigail who broke the silence next, leaning closer to take a look at the wound on his arm and remove the dressing.
“It seems tae be healin’ well,” she said, carefully prodding at the cut. “Shall I redress it fer ye?”
Hugo nodded, not trusting himself to speak now that Abigail was so close to him. He had not found his own release the previous night and as much as he wished he could simply ignore his lust, the frustration that had gathered inside him made it a difficult task.
Perhaps he should have found an excuse, he thought, to excuse himself for a while and find a place to bring himself some. Perhaps he should do it before they resumed their journey. An entire day—or more—of this inescapable need sounded like torture.
Abigail stood from the bed and went to get her paste, then she joined Hugo on the bed once more. She cleaned his wound methodically, applied the salve, and dressed it once more, her movements were fast and precise as though she was trying to complete her task as quickly as possible.
“Have you always dreamt of being a healer?” Hugo asked, just so that they had something to talk about. It seemed like a safe topic of conversation, one that couldn’t turn sexual before either of them could notice.
“I wouldnae say it is a dream,” said Abigail. “It’s simply a part o’ who I am. I’ve always done it. Me sisters have always done it. I suppose it runs in the family. I cannae imagine ever nae helpin’ if I can.”
“It’s admirable,” Hugo said. “Not many can claim that they can help people like this. Not many even want to.”
“After seein’ Evangeline me whole life, I cannae imagine nae wishin’ tae help,” said Abigail. “She is always willin’ an’ she always kens what tae dae. I wish tae be like her one day but I still have a lot tae learn.”
“It seems to me that you know what you’re doing,” Hugo pointed out, his fingers tracing the bandage Abigail had wrapped around his arm. It was secure, but not so tight that it inhibited his blood flow, and from the glimpse he had caught of his injury, it seemed to be healing much better than most of the wounds he had had. “I’m sure it would have become infected by now if you hadn’t been here to help me.”
“Carin’ fer wounds like this isnae that difficult,” said Abigail dismissively. She didn’t seem to realize her own strength, her talents, the things that truly made her special. Then again, Hugo himself hadn’t realized until now, either. “The pastes help.”
“But you know how to make them,” said Hugo. “That is what makes the difference.”
Abigail only smiled at him, a small, shy thing, before she stood and wiped her hands clean on a spare cloth that she carried with her. Hugo watched her for a few moments as she moved around the room, gathering her things, before he did the same. Dawn was quickly passing them by, the cold light of the first rays of the sun now turning golden as the morning matured, and they would have to leave soon if they wanted to cover a good distance that day. Besides, the farther they got, the safer they would be. After the guards who had come looking for Abigail just the previous day, Hugo was eager to put as much space as he could between him and everyone who was looking for her.
He still thought her idea was madness, of course. They were playing a dangerous game and Hugo was not entirely on board with Abigail’s plan, but until he could come up with a better one, he had no choice but to play along. If what Abigail had told him was true, then he didn’t think Niall or Finnian would hesitate killing him, and he would much rather keep his head firmly attached to his body.
Once they had both gathered their things, Hugo left the room first, surveying the inn for any signs of guards or anyone who looked suspicious. Only when he found no sign of anyone looking for them did he return to the room, signaling at Abigail to follow him.
Once at the horse, though, Hugo came to a sudden stop. He looked at the saddle, then down at the plaid he wore, then back up at the saddle, his lips pressing into a thin, displeased line. From the corner of his eye, he could see Abigail frowning at him in confusion and he let out a long-suffering sigh at what he would have to do.
“Alright,” he said, mostly to himself. “Alright, this is fine. Everyone does this.”
“What?” Abigail asked, her frown deepening.
“This!” Hugo said, his tone suddenly reaching the edges of hysteria as he pointed between his plaid and the saddle.
Understanding dawned slowly on Abigail and once it did, she tried to stifle a laugh behind her hand, though she hardly succeeded. After a few moments, she gave up, laughing openly at him even as Hugo glared at her.
“Ye should truly get used tae it, Hugo,” Abigail said, patting his shoulder. “It is only a plaid.”
“What if there is wind?” Hugo asked in exasperation. “How am I supposed to sit on the horse?”
“It is long enough,” Abigail pointed out. “Come, climb on the saddle. Ye’ll see.”
“Yes and maybe so will everyone else!”
Abigail looked around them for a moment and Hugo followed her gaze to see that they were mostly alone, and the few people who were walking by were hardly paying the two of them any attention.
“Who, precisely, is everyone else?” she asked.
Hugo didn’t grace that with a response. Instead, he jumped onto the saddle, trying his best to cover himself before he sat, though with the way the horse was moving from side to side, it was far from an easy task.
The entire time, Abigail watched him with amusement, but at least she was merciful enough to say nothing. By the time the two of them rode off, though, heading down the path, Hugo could feel her shaking with laughter against his chest every now and then, as though she kept remembering his antics.
Well, at least now we can truly pretend nothing happened.
That, more than anything, was enough of a relief for him.