Rory changed colour at that and flung back the bedclothes to look at his leg. Col took the opportunity to examine it himself. It was still red and swollen, with some bruising starting to appear. He applied some more of the ointment and said, “I’ll put ye back in yer own room now, if ye like?”
“Aye.” Rory moved to get out of bed and Col forestalled him, scooping him up and carrying him out of the room to Rory’s protest.
“I can walk, I’m nae an invalid!”
“Best not to stir up the wound, lad, ye should keep yer weight off it as long as possible.” He pushed open Rory’s bedroom door. A dark stain in the middle of the floor bore mute witness to the snake’s demise.
“Fergus chopped its head off,” he said with a nod to the stain.
“Sorry I missed that,” remarked Rory as Col deposited him gently on the bed and helped him under the covers.
“Callum will bring yer dinner up when it’s ready and maybe eat with ye. If ye’ll have him?”
He glanced between both lads to see if this suggestion met with their collective approval.
“Aye,” said Callum, nodding. “And I’ll read to ye after if ye like?” He added, “There’s a new novel I’ve just read.Waverley. I think ye’ll like it. It’s about the Jacobite rebellion and has a very detailed description of the Battle of Prestonpans.”
This seemed to convince Rory, who nodded.
Col, satisfied that the war between his sons was in abeyance, at least for the moment, left them and made his way to his study. He sat at his desk, staring at nothing and trying to make sense of the events of the previous day and night.
His thoughts inevitably wandered to Aihan and the part she had played. She was from a completely different culture, yet she seemed to fit. For the first time since Cat’s passing, he didn’t feel lonely, and it was because of her. He tried to imagine what the experience of yesterday and last night would have been like without her and shuddered. He would have lost his temper and said all the wrong things.
Her presence calmed him somehow. He felt less like flying off the handle with her steadying influence. She had smoothly and silently comforted Callum when he wept hysterically, fetched and carried when Rory was deathly ill, and gave Colher silent, stalwart support with only a look and light touch of her hand.
She gave him hope that he could somehow fix the mess his relationship with his boys had become. He thought he’d made some progress with Callum, and the relationship between the two of them seemed to have shifted somewhat. But Rory was going to prove a harder nut to crack. The boy was wound up tighter than a drum. His father’s influence on him had been more damaging than on Callum, who must have borne the brunt of his grandfather’s contempt, yet was less affected by it than Rory, who had drunk up the old man’s praise and values, setting him at odds with Col.
He sighed and scrubbed his face again. All this emotion had worn him out. He glanced up at Cat, watching serenely from herposition over the mantle, his boys frozen in time along with her in the portrait.
“I’m sorry, love, if I’ve let ye down,” he murmured.
He fancied he felt her stroke his hair reassuringly as she’d been wont to do.All will be well, Col, you’ll see.Her words were a soothing caress to his troubled soul.
Chapter Eighteen
Aihan stirred and woke as the bed dipped under Col’s weight. She had wondered if he would come to her tonight or not, after the events they had just endured, and fallen asleep concluding that he wouldn’t. She had tried to pretend it was for the best and ignore the ache in her chest. After all, hadn’t she just decided that afternoon she needed to put him at arm’s length?
But here he was, sliding in beside her.
“Aihan?” he said softly.
“Hm,” She rolled towards him, no more able to resist him than the pull of the tide.
She nuzzled into him, and he hugged her close, their legs intertwined. She felt the weight of unspoken words between them, but was reluctant to break the silence. For what could she say? Better to say nothing than speak of feelings she was unwise to entertain.
His heart belonged to his wife. She had known that from the beginning, and she had thought it made him safe, for she couldn’t become too entangled with a man who had no heart to give. But shehadbecome entangled, she realised. His affection, as much as his passion, had snared her, and so had his need. Itwas so obvious he was starving for the care and touch she gave without realising.
“Hana?” he murmured over her head.
“Hm?” She lifted her head, and he kissed her. One of those soft, tender kisses he’d given her this afternoon. And tore the heart out of her.
That organ pumped hard now, as his lips teased a response from her, and she kissed him back, helpless to resist.What does he mean by this?
“Thank ye,” he said softly. “I know ye dinnae want my thanks, but ye have it anyway.” His face was in shadow; there wasn’t much light beyond the slight glow from the fireplace, so she couldn’t divine his expression, but she thought it was similar to this afternoon. Softened in a way that made her grow weak with longing.
She forced a chuckle to mask her feelings and said lightly, “Ye’re welcome. Anything else I can do fer ye?” She made her tone suggestive. Better to get things into more familiar channels. Sex was safer without emotions. She let her hand stray down his chest towards his groin.
His gasp when she clasped him, and the satisfying heft and firmness, told her that his gratitude hadn’t stifled his passion.
