Without speaking, she grabbed the bottom of his shirt and yanked hard, tearing a strip free. The fabric ripped, revealing theridges of his stomach. Despite her concentration, her eyes trailed upward for a moment.
It was as if he were sculpted from clay by God Himself. She lingered for a beat too long, before she looked away and knelt again.
She tied the cloth tight around his thigh.
“There,” she said. “That’ll hold for now.”
He smirked again. “Out of all me injuries, this might be the one I treasure most.”
“Stop that.”
“What? ‘Tis a gift from me wife.”
“I am nae yer wife.”
He shrugged. “Close enough.”
She sat beside him in the grass. “Ye’ll have to wait for a while. Let the whisky do its work before ye move.”
They sat in silence. The breeze was soft now, the woods calmer. Deciding to break the tension once and for all, she turned to stare at him.
“How did ye ken I was a healer?”
He looked at her. “Yer reputation… Everyone in the Highlands speaks of ye now. I’ve heard tales from every corner. Villages ye’ve helped, children ye saved. Yer name travels farther than ye think. Ye’re kent as the lass with gifted hands. And I believe what I’ve heard.”
She pulled her knees up. “And what’s in it for me, if I do what ye ask?”
“Ye’ll be the lady of me keep, clearly.”
“I daenae wish to be yer lady. I want something that costs ye.”
He tilted his head. “What do ye want?”
No. She would definitely not make it that easy for him.
“I’m still thinking about it.”
He laughed. “Of course ye are.”
She stood up and brushed the dirt from her dress. “Come on, Laird MacRay. Let us keep moving before the forest eats us.”
He rose slowly, wincing but stronger than before. He reached for the reins.
“Aye,” he said. “Let us go,wife.”
She didn’t correct him this time. Not aloud, anyway.
Lily sat behind him this time, her arms wrapped lightly around his middle. Alasdair kept his focus on the winding path ahead, but he could feel her warmth pressed against his back. It wasn’t the same restless posture she’d had before when she insisted on sitting in front of him.
Something had changed, and he could feel it in her touch. There was a quiet in her now. The kind of stillness that came from someone who had finally decided not to run anymore—a stillness he’d only just begun to sense in himself.
She seemed to have accepted his presence this time around, and a part of him was grateful for that. He couldn’t run for long anymore, not with the bandage wound tightly round his leg and the whisky still stinging his wound.
He loosened his grip on the reins just a little, letting the horse slow down. The night air was cool and sweet, and the smell of pine and wet soil filled his nostrils. The moon still glowed above the trees, illuminating the path before them.
Her fingers brushed his side once, then shifted uncertainly. He felt her settle her palm on his stomach, the contact light, then she moved again, every motion restless and unsure.
He went still when her hands settled lightly on the first ridge below his chest. She withdrew them immediately.
