“That feels much better,” she said, sending
him a brief smile. “Thank you, you are most kind.”
He stared at her a moment with an intensity
that could frighten; she, however, slowly raised her hand to gently
touch his swollen hp. “I wish I had the basket of herbs my
sister-in-law Moira had sent along with me. I have something that
would help relieve your swelling.”
He eased his hand out from beneath her back
and adjusted the blanket around her. It had slipped down when he
had moved her and near exposed her naked breasts. But then he had
already seen all of her, and that thought disturbed her. What had
he thought of her body? Every time her husband had made love to
her, he had told her that her body was undesirable. He had made her
flaws known and had made it known how inadequate a lover she was.
But what did that matter now? This man was not interested in her in
such an intimate way.
“Something troubles you?” he asked, his
confident voice assuring her he could ease any concern.
She stared at him, uncertain how to
respond.
He seemed to understand her hesitation.
‘Trust me. I will not hurt you.”
She continued to stare at him, wondering
over the battle that had caused such vicious scars. He had fought
hard and suffered. She wondered if the battle had been victorious
or if he had suffered defeat and if his scars would always remind
him of that day. And she wondered why he had chosen to reside here
in this cottage alone. Why had he not returned to his clan?
With so many questions and not one answer,
she wondered how she could trust this stranger. The answer was
simple, for it had repeated in her head too often.
She had no choice.
He understood by the resigned look on her
face. “I will get the broth.”
She watched him walk off. If he suffered any
other injuries, they could not be detected, for he moved with
strength and confidence. It seemed his face had taken the brunt of
the battle, and she could only imagine the horror of it all.
Her eyes grew heavy as she watched him ladle
the broth into a bowl from the black pot over the open flames, and
try as she might she could not force them to remain open. She
thought to rest them for a few moments, just a few, but as soon as
they closed, she slipped into a restful slumber.
Royce returned with bowl in hand to find her
sound asleep. He had not the heart to wake her. She needed as much
rest as possible, and while the food would help aid in her
recovery, he could always feed her later when she woke.
He returned the bowl to the table and then
returned to the bed, adjusting the covers over her to make certain
she stayed warm. He had come upon the coach by accident. He had not
planned to take that trail when out hunting for food, but now he
was glad he had. It had been obvious that the two men had been
thrown from the coach and died on impact.
He had been surprised to see that anyone
inside the coach had survived. When he had discovered her body, he
had thought for certain that she had suffered fatal wounds. She had
not, though her body was badly bruised and her pain
considerable.
He had not realized the extent of her
bruising until he began to undress her and the faint purple marks
began to surface, and they would only grow worse over the next day
before they subsided and began to heal.
He could not help but notice her beauty. Her
long dark hair fell in a riot of curls down her back and around her
face. It mattered not how many times he would push them off her
face, the stubborn curls would return with a bounce and
determination—much like her personality, he realized. Her features
were soft, her complexion a creamy pale, and her eyes were a vivid
blue that put the color of the sky to shame.
She stood a bare three or four inches over
five feet and she possessed a body that captured the eye and melted
the heart. She was stunning. She had full breasts, with large rosy
nipples and a narrow waist that gave way to curving hips. Her skin
was soft and silky, the type he could touch forever and never grow
tired of.
He had not, of course, touched her
intimately. She was injured and required aid, and he tended her in
such a manner, keeping his thoughts from straying, though not
always successfully. He had been too long without a woman. He had
never found it difficult to find a willing woman, and being he
lacked a wife, women were his to enjoy.
Of course, if he had such a beauty as
Brianna as a wife, he would look no more; she would forever be in
his bed.
He ran a careful hand over the scars on his
face and shook his head slowly. How would women see him now? Would
they scream in fright as Brianna had? Would they turn away in
disgust where before they eagerly joined with him?
The battle he had fought had been victorious
and a necessity, but he had suffered greatly, losing many men and
leaving him with horrendous memories and scars that would never
truly heal.
He had decided to heal alone. He needed this
time of solitude, this time away from his clan… this time to think.
He had not counted on a companion and one that required tending. He
had his own wounds to heal and there were many. How would he ever
help another when he had difficulty helping himself?
It did not really matter. She needed him.
She was helpless, alone, and dependent on him for her care. Why
that had made him feel good he could not say. He only knew he
wished to protect and care for her. Perhaps in caring for her he
cared for himself, and they would heal together.
She stirred and came out of her sleep, his
name on her lips. “Royce?”
“I am here,” he said softly and took her
hand.
She grasped on to him. “You are not a
dream.”
He kept the smile from his swollen lip. She
actually thought him a dream and not a nightmare. She did possess a
courageous heart.
“Nay, I am not a dream. I am real.”
“Can I trust you?”
He wondered if she had meant to voice her
question, for it was filled with doubt.
He leaned down close to her ear and
whispered, “Aye, Brianna, you can trust me with your deepest
darkest secrets. I will never betray your trust. Never.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he whispered and brushed a tender
kiss across her cheek.
She sighed contentedly and turned, tucking
herself against his chest.
She was warm and soft, and though he had
wished for solitude, he suddenly ached for the nearness of her. He
stretched out beside her and wrapped a gentle arm around her, and
for the first time in days he fell into a restful slumber.
Royce slowly spooned the broth into
Brianna’s mouth. With the first delicious taste she realized she
was hungry, and she eagerly waited for each spoonful. He was
patient with her, taking his time, not forcing her to hurry.
She had not expected that of him; he was,
after all, a warrior. She did not think patience was a warrior’s
trait. They seemed ever ready to charge into battle thinking little
of the consequences. She was discovering that he was a far
different warrior than most.
‘Tell me when you have had enough,” he
said.
She kept steady eyes on him where he sat
beside her on the bed with bowl in hand. His ravaged face was
familiar to her now, and she did not think to look away in
horror.
“It is good.”
Royce tried to smile, but his mending lips
allowed but a brief curve before the pain forced compliance. “It is
a simple broth and will help you to gain strength.”
“You need to gain strength as well,” she
said, acknowledging that she was not the only one who required
healing.
“We can mend together.”
“But I can do nothing to help you mend.”
He heard the disappointment in her voice and
was surprised that even in her painful state she gave his wounds
concern. “You provide me with companionship.”
“A companion who must have constant
care.”
“Enjoy my attention, for I am not known for
it.”
She caught the gleam in his dark green eyes
and realized he teased her. She smiled before accepting another
spoonful of broth.
A sudden gust of wind whipped around outside
the small cottage and was followed by a clap of thunder. Raindrops
fell hard after that, and soon the steady downpour took on a
soothing rhythm as darkness covered the land.
She relaxed and found it easy to ask him,
“What are you known for?”
He could not help but grin and suffered the
price. His swollen lip throbbed with pain and he winced.
“Are you all right?” she asked
anxiously.
“I am but reminded that pride is a sin.”
She laughed softly. ‘Tell me of this
pride.”
The gleam in his eye remained. “I think it
wiser that I do not.”
She took no offense to his refusal. She
understood that he teased her, though she was also aware that he
did not volunteer information on himself. Was he guarding secrets?
Was he reluctant to trust her?
She yawned, fatigue creeping up on her.
‘Try to rest.” He stood; the bowl he held
near empty.
“You like giving orders.”
It was as if she understood his way and
thought nothing of it; perhaps she was familiar to obeying, and
then the thought struck him. Was she wed? She had traveled alone
with but two men to guard her. Was she going to join a husband or
had she been promised and yet to wed?
His immediate response was to ask—and yet he
held his tongue. In time he would learn all about her—the inclement
weather would see to that, making the roads difficult to travel and
covering their tracks so there would be no trail to follow.
She would belong to him if only for a while,
and he would see that she was well tended, well protected. This
need to protect her haunted him. She appeared fragile, but he did
not assume she was delicate. There was courage and a tenacity about
her that sparked strength in her. She was by no means a weak
woman.
He returned to the side of the bed and spoke
bluntly though gently. “I need to examine your bruises and see how
they fare.”
Her eyes rounded, her fatigue faded, and she
tensed, a look of fright crossing her face.
He ran a tender hand over her warm cheek.
“You need not fear me.”
Fear of him was not on her mind. Fear of
being naked and vulnerable in front of him weighed heavily on her
mind. But those were her fears to contend with and caused by a
selfish husband, and presently she should be more concerned about
her injuries than being naked in front of a man. But old habits
could not help but haunt her, and she saw no way out of her
dilemma. She had no choice but to allow him to tend her, no matter
how uncomfortable it made her feel.
She did attempt, however, to put off the
inevitable. “I am tired.”
“It will take but a moment.” He reached for
the edge of the blanket.
“I am very tired,” she said with an urgent
fright.
Royce sat down beside her on the bed and
brushed a stubborn strand of hair off her cheek. When it would not
remain where he placed it, he tucked it gently behind her ear.
‘Tell me, Brianna, are you wed?”
“I am a widow.”
Was that relief he felt? “Then you have
known a man.”
“Only my husband.”
He heard disappointment in her voice, not
sadness but disappointment. Did she not mourn her husband? He would
find out more in time. “Then you have felt a man’s touch and mine
will not be foreign to you. I may not be your husband, but I am a
man concerned for your wellbeing and only wish to see to your
care.”
She believed him. Though he was a stranger
and a warrior who probably wielded a sword more deftly than a
gentle hand, still she believed him.
He recognized the resignation in her eyes,
and he slowly slipped the blanket down to rest at her waist. He
kept his look impersonal, though he could not help but admire the
swell of her full breasts as his fingers gently probed the bruises
on her ribs. His fingertips unintentionally brushed beneath her
breasts, just a faint skim across her soft flesh.
She stiffened and turned her face from
his.
He immediately thought he hurt her, for his
intentions were not of intimacy. “I am sorry, I do not mean to
cause you pain.”
She could not explain her pain to him, for
it was an emotional scar she had yet to deal with, so she chose to
present a false bravado. “I am all right.”
He moved the blanket farther down, exposing
her completely.
She was about to shut her eyes when she
thought better of her cowardly actions. It would serve her well to
know the full extent of her injuries. She forced her eyes to follow
his hands.
His fingers ran over the lower part of her
stomach, and she felt a slight discomfort. He then ran his hand
over her right hip, and she winced in pain.
“That wound seems to be one of your worst,”
he said and moved his hand down her right leg.
From his touch she could tell that her right
side had suffered the most damage, though her left ankle was badly
swollen. She suddenly recalled being thrown against the inside of
the coach, her right side slamming viciously against the door, and
how soon after she had lost consciousness.
She thought him done and was surprised when
his hand traveled slowly back up her leg.
“Can you move your legs apart, Brianna?” he
asked, giving her an encouraging glance.
She looked oddly at him.
“You have a bruise on the inside of your
thigh that I did not notice when I first examined you.”
She accepted his explanation and attempted
to move her legs but choked on the pain that gripped her.
“Easy,” he cautioned, his long, lean fingers
stroking her thigh gently until her pain subsided. “I will move
them for you. Relax and do not worry. I will not hurt you.”