Chapter 3
Honoria tapped her paintbrush against her chin. Black eyebrows arched over the stranger’s closed eyes. Even with them closed, the man’s aura was herculean, lending him a presence that was as startling as it was powerful. There was no denying he was a compelling figure. And that was only with his eyes shut. How much more stirring would he be once he lifted those sinfully long lashes?
Deep cerulean. Mint green. Frosty gray. Coal-black.
Those were but some of the colors Honoria imagined for his eyes. Would they be as blue as the summer sky? Or the brazen green of Scotland’s pastures and beyond? Two days and two nights she was left to envision all the different colors they could be.
In fact, she had imagined a lot more than that.
What was his name? Where was he from? Did he have family searching for him? Who had stabbed him? Are they still nearby? Did his tattoo hurt? What meaning did it possess? What would her brothers do if she got one?
Left unanswered, her mind spun about the most bizarre possibilities, like him being the Greek God Poseidon—because that would be rather sensational—or a modest musician. In her most recent reflections, she imagined him to be a traveling writer hailing from the far corner of the world or a sculptor from the Mediterranean.
Would heeverwake up?
Lawd, but his nearness stirred something needful inside her.
In an attempt to draw her mind back from her woolgathering—and growing impatience—Honoria had decided to paint his face.
She bit down on her lower lip, gazing at her failed attempt so far. It seemed unlikely that she would catch any likeness to him at all.
Och, she ought to have known better than paint eyes she hadn’t seen before. Were they hooded or expressive? Were there flecks of gold sprinkled in their depth or not? Did they dance with mirth or were they shrouded in suspicion? It was impossible to tell.
For one heartbeat she’d even been tempted to open an eyelid and take a peek. But waking up to her looming over him, clutching one of his eyelids between her fingers, might traumatize the poor man for life. Besides, there was something unspeakably thrilling about waiting.
“We should summon a healer, Honoria.”
Honoria glanced over her shoulder to Isla, who entered the chamber looking regal in a soft blue day dress. “His fever has broken.”
“That doesn’t mean he is out of the woods,” Isla pointed out.
“His wound is healing,” Honoria countered. “And if we send for a healer we might as well light a fire on the hilltop to signal his whereabouts.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Isla murmured. “Hugh believes he is ready to be carted off to the village.”
Honoria scoffed. “Hugh can go to the devil. The man is staying here until he is well enough to walk through the castle doors on his own feet.”
Isla shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. A lasting air of sadness cloaked her sister. Had been the case ever since her brothers sent away the man she favored seven months ago. Isla still hadn’t forgiven them for that. Neither had Honoria. Her sister was the darling of them all: reserved, shy, and without a malicious bone in her body. And they had been ruthless.
What did it matter if Patrick had been a gardener? Honoria’s eyes flicked to the stranger on the bed. Or an eastern snake charmer? At least they were more interesting than a group of pompous, pampered Scottish lords. And her brothers were in no position to pass on judgment.
They were smugglers, for heaven’s sake!
Worse still, they were arrogant enough to believe that Honoria and Isla were unaware of their dealings.
Worst of all, they had to endure lectures from every single one of the MacCallan men, at length, on the merits of choosing a suitable husband, and would again once Adair learned of the man in Callum’s bed. All except for Hugh. He alone had always been their champion.
“I am serious, Honoria. The man is on his deathbed and you are painting his face. Do you not see how madcap that is? He could still succumb to his wound.”
“I prefer the term extraordinarily singular, and he is not on his deathbed—the worst is over.” Honoria spared a glance at the stranger again, merely to ensure he was still breathing.
“Och well, if that’s what you were aiming for you certainly succeeded,” Isla muttered. “You are aware you are not an accomplished healer to make such a call?”
Honoria scoffed. “I have cleaned and bandaged more than my share of scrapes and bruises. Besides, we cannot call for a healer. Word will spread and his attackers might return. Or God forbid, our brothers.”
“Adair will discover the truth upon his return anyway. He always does.”
“Aye, but that’s weeks away. And never mind Adair,’tis Lachlan’s foul temper I’m concerned about. Ever since Rosanna Brodie chose Douglas MacFingal over him, his once mildly pleasant mood has deteriorated to grossly unpleasant.”
