rose from my bath, feeling wildly unsteady, looking for a drying cloth.
“Nay, Roses,” urged Ailie, gently easing me back into the bath. “You cannot possibly go to him like this. Finish your bath, then we’ll take you to him.”
But there was a crashing noise coming from Wilkie’s chambers, as if he was up and bumping into things. He was looking for me, calling to me.
“I must,” I said, stepping from the bath, barely noticing my nakedness and the drip of the bathwater onto the floor, such was the muddled and needy state of my mind. “He needs me.”
More banging noises could be heard from Wilkie’s chambers.
“What’s he doing in there?” asked Christie, to no one in particular. I heard another crash and a groan. My name.
I was becoming frantic, making my way toward Wilkie’s door as Ailie acquiesced, wrapping a dressing gown around me, not bothering to dry me first. “Here, then, Roses. Wait. Let me tie it.” She pulled the tie tight around my waist just as I was able to open the door.
And Wilkie was there, reaching the door at the same time. When he saw me, his eyes widened. He was flushed, his blue eyes blazing. Behind him, several chairs were overturned, and the furs of his bed were disheveled; some of them had fallen to the floor. He was dressed only in his underclothes. His wound was rebloodied from his exertions, and a small line of dark red had bled through the bandages.
Before I could even react to him, I was surrounded in an all-encompassing clinch against his big, fiery body. He buried his face in the damp strands of my hair, weaving his fingers through it almost painfully, inhaling deeply, holding me close as though trying to pull me into himself. “God in heaven, deliver me,” he murmured, clearly overcome by delirium. “I need you, angel.”
He was unsteady on his feet and leaned us against the wall, swaying slightly as though he might fall.
“Wilkie!” cried his sisters.
I tried to pull away from him, to lead him back to his bed. But he wouldn’t budge. He was thoroughly unconcerned by my robe, my wetness, the inappropriateness of our coiled embrace, and his own aggravated injury. He held on to me tightly, blindly pressing his face into my neck, breathing heavily of my scent.
“’Tis dark indeed without your sunlight, Roses,” he rasped gruffly, quietly, into my ear. “Come back to me.”
“I’m here, warrior,” I said, unsettled both because I wanted to calm him and also because the worried faces and hands of his two sisters were pulling me away from him. They were leading Wilkie back to his bed and me along with him, as he would not loosen his hold on me. They were wiping at his wound and calling for Effie. I felt disengaged from them, focused only on Wilkie and his clear delirium, and also my own, and his strong refusal to follow any request unless I was within his grasp. I held on to his hand as he was eased back into his bed. All was hazy, as though I was channeling Wilkie’s fever, following him into it, deeper and deeper, to lead him once again back into the light.
I was aware only that I was holding his hand. Abstractly, I noticed that Christie was settling me into a cushiony chair next to his bed, draping me with furs, giving me a sip of tea, as Effie arrived and once again attended to Wilkie. My focus was entirely on the hold of his hand, the heat and strength of it, the rough texture of his fingers. As my consciousness drifted from me, I grasped his hand as tightly as he was clutching mine. It took effort, maintaining my grip even as darkness overtook me. If I could just hold on to that hand. I would be strong and safe. Warmed by the sun. Alive. And I would not be alone. If I could just hold on...
CHAPTER SIX
AND WHEN I AWOKE, I was locked in Wilkie’s embrace, still clutching his hand so tightly that my fingers felt numb and sore. I was lying across his chest, and our legs were entwined under a layer of furs. We were alone, and Wilkie slept.
The curtains had been opened, spilling in full-day sunlight. A basin of water had been filled and was lightly steaming, as though it had been sitting there for some time. Food had been laid on the table by the window, along with the now-familiar pot of cooled willowbark tea. I realized I hadn’t eaten since I’d wolfed down the stolen fruit. I remembered the three green apples I’d had as I’d walked down the mountain toward Kinloch. It seemed many days ago, and perhaps it was. Time seemed stringy, and I had no idea how much of it had passed as Wilkie and I had slept, flitting in and out of consciousness.
The peaceful scene made me wonder if we were being allowed our private slumber, if I’d been accepted as a fixture in Wilkie’s bed, for now, and one that was easier to leave in place.
I tried to rouse Wilkie. He was drowsy, but when I kissed his lips and whispered to him to let me go, he seemed to hear me, and he released his hold.
Food had never tasted so good. I ate a bowl of cold meat stew, scooping it with chunks of crusty bread. I drank a cup of broth, then some tea.
I still wore the robe Wilkie’s sisters had draped around me, which was cinched at the waist with a belt.
I combed the tangles from my hair. I braided and coiled it neatly around my head, gathering it at the back. I fingered a light yellow velvet gown, but before I could remove my robe to dress, I heard Wilkie’s voice behind me.
I hadn’t realized he’d awoken.
“Come to me, lass. Let me bask in your glow.”
He watched me approach him, his blue eyes clear now, with no traces of his earlier haze.
I felt his forehead, and he was cool to the touch. I couldn’t resist letting my hand skim the line of his face and his bristled jaw. The roughness of his texture was so unfathomably fascinating to me. I felt changed by this warrior. That first moment I’d looked into his eyes, something inside me had shifted. As if I could suddenly see color, whereas before him all had been muted and dull. But I was unsure whether his feelings were as intense now as my own, so I tread carefully. “You’re feeling better now, warrior.”
“Aye,” he said, and I was relieved to see that the look in his eyes was one of raw affection and a returned fascination. “Your healing powers are potent indeed.”
“I haven’t healed you enough,” I said. “Let me feed you. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” He sat up slightly and was able to move without causing himself to wince.
I brought him some food, and I fed it to him. He ate well. I held the tea to his lips as he drank. His eyes never left my face.
“Your face, Roses. Your lips. The color of your hair. Why is your hair so fair?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “I don’t know. The sun, perhaps. I spend much of my time out-of-doors. More than I should.”
He reached up to finger the bound braid of my hair. “You’ve a halo, angel.”
I fed him another bite of bread. “Yours is a fierce appetite, warrior. ’Tis a good sign. Your health is returning to you.”
“I feel as though I haven’t eaten for days. How many days, I wonder. How long has it been?”
“Since...?” I knew what he meant; I was fumbling over which
