She started to respond but Cameron spoke. “Save yer breath, Isobel. My brother is nae a normal man. He dunnae feel pain as we humans do.”
She made a derisive sound and glowered at Cameron for encouraging such foolish obstinacy. “Graham—” she placed her hand on his arm without thought, and his steely gaze moved to her “—all men feel pain, even ye.”
“Aye, I feel pain, but I dunnae let it conquer me. I will nae need the wine, Isobel.”
“But—”
“Nay.” The sharp response had a ring of finality.
Sighing again, she nodded and then took his hand in hers. His eyes rounded. “Come,” she said softly. “I prefer ye to sit while I close the wound.” In actuality, she feared he would fall over from the agony brought about by what she had to do. The man was far too prideful for her to say that, though.
His strong fingers closed around hers, and he followed her to a log that was set before the fire. She held the blade over the flame once more, fearing it had become too cool, and as she waited, she spoke in a hushed tone, explaining what was to come. His men had lined up around him, and she had to will her hand not to shake as she brought the bright blade out of the flame.
“I’ll set it to ye now. It will burn and smell—”
“Do it now, Isobel,” Graham interrupted. “We must ride soon. I’ll nae chance yer father or brother overcoming us.”
She nodded. She’d rather not be overcome by them, either—or the man her father had intended her to marry, for that matter. With a pounding heart and sweaty palms, she set the metal to Graham’s skin. Tears sprang to her eyes as his flesh sizzled, and the smell almost made her ill. As she watched him, she could scarcely believe what she saw—or did not see.
He did not move, nor even flinch. His hands rested on his knee, but his fingers were not curled against pain as she might have expected. They were stretched full out and drumming, as if he was keeping a beat in his head. The only indication that he felt the burning flesh was the furious tick on the side of his jaw.
When she was finished, she was shaking all over. She threw the dagger into the fire, only then realizing it was the very one she had used to wound him. Hot tears trickled down her cheeks, and when she went to brush them away, he grasped her wrist, stilling her.
“Why do ye cry?” he demanded, his voice rough and edged with strain.
She glanced behind her, embarrassed that his men might think her weak, and was astounded to find she and Graham were completely alone. She had not even realized the others had backed away, but when she searched them out, she found everyone mounted on their horses with their backs to the fire. She frowned. Had Graham given a signal she had somehow missed or had they left him alone because they knew he’d not want witnesses to his pain? Not that he’d shown any outward signs of it.
“I cry for ye,” she admitted. “And I cry for my shame. I’m sorry that I tried to stab ye. I was desperate.”
He studied her with an intensity that sent prickles of awareness all over her body. “Ye cry for me?” he finally repeated, his voice full of skepticism.
“I ken ye dunnae believe me.” Weariness pulsed within her. “I’ve given ye reason to doubt my word, but aye, my tears are for ye and the pain I ken I have caused ye.”
“I’m nae in pain.”
She frowned at the stubborn man before her. He could be writhing on the inside and he would never admit it. To a man like Graham, whose very honor and existence was intertwined with bravery and strength, admitting he was in pain would be acknowledging a weakness, and she knew well he’d never do that, not willingly anyway.
She brushed at her tears, which trailed a warm path down her cooling skin. “Nay. I can see that now. Please forgive my tears.”
He released her wrist and brought a finger to her cheek, rubbing her tears gently away before doing the same on her other cheek. “I thank ye for yer tears. And I forgive ye for trying to stab me, but Isobel, if ye try such again—”
“I will nae,” she vowed solemnly and meant it. “Ye were my enemy, but ye are nae now. It’s all so tangled.”
“Aye,” he agreed as he stood. “’Tis that indeed, but I vow nae to make it more so again. I am sorry about earlier.” His gaze shifted to her lips, and the way his eyes moved over them felt almost like a caress. Perchance he had been as overcome by their kiss as she had, but then he shrugged. “I should nae have let my anger overcome me. I wanted ye to ken I was in control.”
“Ye kissed me to show me ye were in control,” she murmured, embarrassment searing her cheeks. What a fool she was! Of course the kiss had not affected him. Why, a man like Graham had probably kissed more women than he could even recall!
“Come,” he said, turning his gaze abruptly from hers and holding his hand out behind him. Mortification had her squaring her shoulders and marching past him to Rory Mac, but when she stopped at Rory Mac’s destrier, the infuriating man glanced at Graham for his command.
Graham strode past her and swung onto his beast before answering Rory Mac’s silent question. “She rides with me,” he said.
With a quick nod, Rory Mac turned his horse and left her standing there like a clot-heid, and one by one, Graham’s men followed, including Cameron, who rode with Marsaili. She offered Isobel a pitying glance, but Isobel ignored it.
After all his men had started away, she was forced to look at Graham as he stared down at her with an unreadable face. It was as if he had donned a mask to hide all emotion. When he finally reached a hand out to her, she clenched her teeth and allowed him to help her swing onto his horse. A pained grunt came from him, but she refused to inquire if his pain was still tolerable.
Instead, she wiggled away from him, and as he set the horse to a fast pace and the chilled wind swept over her, her teeth chattered so hard that she feared biting a chunk out of her tongue. She huddled downward, trying to block the wind as best she could, but it was useless. Desperate for warmth, she begrudgingly decided that mayhap she would have to seek it in Graham’s arms.
She glanced behind her, and Graham arched his eyebrows. “Are ye cold, lass?”
