“Techniques of the East?”
He seemed intrigued, and Ceana’s cheeks heated. She never blushed, but with this man, it had developed into a distressing, embarrassing habit. She pressed the backs of her hands to her face and kept her gaze resolutely on the stone hearth. “Aye, well, yes. I lived in Aberdeen for a time, where I had access to certain resources.”
“How?”
“I was employed as a maid at King’s College. Everything I required was available to me there.” She remembered those quiet nights, fervently reading “borrowed” works of Galen, Aristotle, Hippocrates, and many others by the light of tallow candles. Those days hovering in the background and pretending not to listen to the professors reading their lectures.
“What did you find?”
“Learned men who’d traveled to Arabia and India and beyond. I read books by esteemed scholars that taught me, among other important facts, that spirits aren’t wise for the sick to ingest.”
“Ah, well, I’m not sick,” he said in triumph.
“You must remain strong, my lord. Spirits weaken the body, render it unable to fend off the ill humors.”
Cam’s lips twisted. “Well, then, what would be wise for me to ingest?”
“Heavy cream. Boiled cow’s blood. Sowans—whisky free, of course.”
He made a disgusted face, and she laughed. “Don’t fret—I’ll not force you to drink anything you find offensive. The force of the vomiting would be more costly than the benefits supplied.”
“Good.”
She gazed down at him. “We must get you onto the bed. Now, why didn’t you allow the men to help you move?”
“Because I can do it myself.”
She placed fisted hands over her hips and cocked her head at him. “Is that so? Show me, then.”
With tight lips, he awkwardly shimmied onto the other side of the bed. Resisting the urge to help, she stood still and watched him as he painfully made his way off the stretcher. He finally sank onto the pillows.
“There.”
“You’re sweating.”
“Am I?”
“Aye. Was it difficult?”
“Not at all.”
She grinned. “Good. Because this will be.” She held up the small pot she’d kept hidden in her hand.
“What’s that?”
“A healing medicine for open wounds. But unlike the Saint-John’s-wort salve I used this morning, this one contains spirits and stings like the very devil.”
He closed his eyes. “So you
do
intend to inflict torture on me. I knew it was so the moment you cracked your knuckles.”
“Aye. Until you are healed.”
“Ah, well.” He released a sigh. “Better you than the surgeon.”
“Well, I’d prefer to cure you of a wee hole in your shoulder rather than a deadly fever.”
“I agree.” With his eyes still closed, he gave her a ghost of a smile and slumped against the cushions, apparently exhausted. “Do your worst.”
She walked around the monstrous bed and sat on its edge, pushing away the green-and-black-striped bed curtain. It fell back down on her shoulder and she frowned up at it.
“Tie it back,” Cam said. “There.” He gestured with his chin at the elaborately carved post at the corner. Halfway up the post and dangling from a hook was a golden rope.
Ceana shook her head. “Decadence.”
Cam chuckled.
She slid her gaze to him as she wrapped the silky rope around the heavy curtain. “What’s so funny?”
“Only you have the ballocks to say such a thing about my bed. No one else would dare.”
She smirked. “I haven’t any ballocks.”
“I’ve yet to see the proof of that.”
“Aye, well. It’d be best if you never did see proof of it.” Finished tying the cord, she perched on the edge of the bed and pulled the stopper on the medicine jar.
“Would it?” he asked quietly.
She glanced at him. His eyes were closed. Two spots of color flared high on his cheekbones. His muscles tensed, and he lay very still, as if he waged some inner battle.
“Aye,” she said after a pause. “It’d be better if you didn’t see me at all.”
It was true. They both knew it. An inexplicable, impossible pull had developed between them in the hours they’d spent together since she’d found him in the forest. The harder she tried to sever it, the stronger it seemed to grow. The best solution would be to keep far away from him.
She must cure him and return to her cottage—her safe haven—as quickly as possible.
He opened his eyes. Their gazes clashed and held for a long, suspended moment. Ceana didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The air surrounding them seemed to pause in suspense. His finger touched her bunched fist, a single, hot point of physical contact between them.
A knock sounded behind her. Ceana sucked a breath into her air-starved body, and Cam jerked his gaze to the door. “Come in.”
Rob pushed open the door.
“Yes?” Cam asked.
Rob’s gaze skimmed over her and then he looked at Cam. “You wished to see me, milord.”
“Ah, Robert MacLean,” Cam said. “Of course. Please come in.”
Warily, Rob stepped into the room. He stopped a few feet away from Ceana, and awareness streamed through her. The presence of these two men crackled in the air. They were similar in subtle ways. Perhaps it was in their facial expressiveness, or maybe it was just their eyes. Rob’s eyes were lighter, but when he wanted her, the carnal gleam in them was similar to Cam’s.
Cam truly wanted her, she realized. He was trying to fight it, trying to hide it, but it was there, apparent in his eyes.
“I wished to thank you for bringing Lady Elizabeth safely home.”
Rob’s lips flattened. “I’d have done the same for anyone.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But Lady Elizabeth . . .” Cam blew out a breath. His gaze flickered to Ceana and then away. “I am thankful you kept her safe.”
Rob remained impassive, his back straight. “’Twas nothing, milord.”
“I’m told I shall be well enough to sit at the table, at least for a short amount of time, by tomorrow. I’d hoped you would dine with us.”
Silence.
“There will be just a few of us.” Cam glanced at Ceana. “Are Alan and Sorcha still here?”
She shook her head. “No, they’ve gone home. Said they’d return to check on you in a few days.”
“Just me and Lady Elizabeth and the Duke of Irvington, then. And Ceana MacNab.” He looked from Rob to Ceana. “Do you know each other?”
“Aye,” Rob and Ceana said in unison.
An awkward silence followed before Ceana added, “We met the first time I came out to Camdonn Castle to see one of your men who was sick.”
“If I might be excused, milord. They’ll be requiring me in the stables. And as for dinner . . .” A muscle jerked in Rob’s jaw. “Aye, I’ll be there. Thank you.”
Ceana cast Rob a faltering smile. She’d never encountered him in a group setting, but it wouldn’t surprise her to discover that he dreaded them.
He didn’t return her smile. Instead he simply glanced at her with narrowed eyes. There it was—that gleam she recognized well.
“Of course you may be excused,” Cam said. “Thank you again. I’ll see you later.”
Tearing his gaze from her, Rob turned and strode away.
“Thank you, Bitsy.”
After an hour of painstaking attention to Elizabeth’s coiffure, Bitsy shoved one last pin into Elizabeth’s hair and dropped her hands to her sides. Possessing a sallow complexion and narrow features, the lady’s maid looked like a woman who’d lived a long, hard life, though she wasn’t much older than her mistress.
Bitsy
had
lived a hard, long life. Elizabeth was reminded of that fact—and the fact that it was her fault—every time she laid eyes on the woman.
“Only trying to make you look respectable, milady.”
“Thank you, but I doubt Lord Camdonn will pay any mind to my appearance today.” The man was probably in too much pain. Finally, late this morning, Mrs. MacAdam had told Elizabeth that one of the gunshots she’d heard in the wood had sent a bullet through Cam’s shoulder. Elizabeth leaned away as her maid held up a cosmetics brush. “I shall go to the earl now.”
Dropping her hands, Bitsy backed away. “Very well, milady.”
Elizabeth rose and strode to the heavy wooden door, closing it behind her with a thud. She paused for a moment in the hall to catch her breath. Bitsy’s presence, as always, made her uneasy. Elizabeth had never worked out how best to manage her. Whether she should treat her as she would any other servant, be apologetic and remorseful, try to make friends with her, or give her extra attention and recompense for what she suffered on Elizabeth’s behalf.
Elizabeth had tried all of those tactics and nothing was effective. No matter what she did, Bitsy was sullen and dour. She performed her duties without complaint but never met Elizabeth’s eyes or engaged in conversation with her beyond the necessities. Elizabeth understood that withdrawal was the only way the woman could survive, but she still wished she could find a way to help.
Elizabeth walked down the stairs and into the long, dark passageway that led to Cam’s bedchamber.
She reeled to a halt when a figure emerged from the shadows. She recognized him immediately from his stance alone.
Robert MacLean.
Elizabeth’s heart beat frantically, and she clenched her fists in her skirts to prevent herself from slapping her hand over her chest. He didn’t hesitate as she did; instead he came inexorably closer.
Straightening her spine, she resumed walking, holding her chin high. When a few feet separated them, they stopped. Elizabeth dropped her skirts, smoothed them, and inclined her head. “Mr. MacLean.”
“Milady.” He kept his facial expression perfectly schooled, revealing nothing of how he felt upon seeing her.
“Have you come from seeing Lord Camdonn?”
“Aye.”
She clenched her teeth. His infernal one-word answers were bound to drive her straight to madness.
“How is he?”
“Well.”
This time she couldn’t contain her frustration. She stamped her foot. “Stop that!”
He raised one dark brow. “Stop what?”
Did he mock her? Something glimmered in those amber eyes.
“Why must you always answer with one word? It is annoying.”
“I apologize.” He didn’t appear in the least contrite.
She glared at him. He exhilarated her. He frustrated her. Drove her mad.
He made her
feel
.
The sudden awareness gave her an unsettled, fluttery sensation, as though a family of blind butterflies had just found themselves imprisoned in her belly.
“Good day, milady.” He made to walk around her, but before she could give it a single thought, her hand snaked out and caught his arm.
“Wait.”
He stopped, looking from her hand clutching his arm to her face in curiosity. Elizabeth stole a glance up and down the corridor. It appeared empty.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a rush. “I’m the one who must apologize. What I said to you yesterday—it was unforgivable. And I wish to thank you for delivering me safely to Camdonn Castle.”
Before she could pause to think with shocked incredulity on the fact that she was apologizing—to a
servant
—she swallowed and confessed something she’d never confessed to anyone. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sometimes it is difficult for me, you see. Sometimes . . . pride doesn’t allow me to admit when I’m wrong.”
He stared at her. But the cold stillness she’d sensed in him when she’d threatened and insulted him seemed to melt a little.
“I wish . . .” . . .
to kiss you?
No, that wasn’t right. She blinked away the thought and tried again. “I wish for us to be . . . friends. Perhaps you might show me the stables sometime. I possess a more than trifling interest in horses, and his lordship has offered me the pick of his fillies.”
He glanced pointedly at where she still gripped his arm, and she dropped her hand. “Sorry.”
His lips quirked upward, and he tilted his head in the tiniest gesture of respect. “Good-bye, milady.”
With that, he strode off. Elizabeth watched him until he turned toward the stairs and disappeared, leaving her alone in the corridor scrambling to reassemble her fractured wits.
After Rob left them, the balls of tension in Ceana’s shoulders had loosened, and she had lowered herself back onto the edge of the bed beside Cam. “Let’s clean that wound, then.”
She pulled down the side of his shirt, which she’d cut to allow access to his arm, and unwrapped the linen bandage.
“Looks to be healing well,” she murmured.