Cautiously, she approached the large, sturdy bed draped with thick wool plaids. Her patient’s coughing had calmed, though he still wheezed. She climbed partially onto the bed and rolled him onto his back. His eyes opened, bleary and dazed, and fixed on her. Though it made sense, she still had a hard time reconciling thatthiswas Lord Strathwick. It made her uneasy, but she set that aside, determined to care for him the best she could.
She murmured calming nonsense to him, as she did to all her patients. He didn’t respond; he only stared at her, his expression enigmatic. She passed her hands over him, and though what she saw was similar to what she’d seen with Ailis, there was something different—odd. The blackness encompassed his throat, streaked with the angry red of the fever—but a blue-white pulsing light underlaid it all. It was so strong that she didn’t just see it—she felt it, tingling against her palms, ebbing and flowinglike the tide. She curled her hands into fists and stared down at him, a strange fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach.
He tried to speak but instead dissolved into a fit of coughing. His thick shoulders shook with it. He turned his head into the pillow, his face creased with pain. Blood stained the linen.
“Come on, sit up.” She gathered his numerous pillows and crammed them behind him. He was too weak to aid her, but she was accustomed to shifting large weights around all by herself. Before he’d died, her foster father, Fagan MacLean, had weighed at least twenty stone of fat, and no one but Rose had tended to him.
A small bowl with a rag in it rested on the floor beside the bed. Rose wrung out the rag, then sat on the edge of the bed. She smoothed the rag over the strong bones of his face, the day’s growth of black and silver stubble on his chin and jaw, and she wiped the blood from the stern line of his mouth. Her Dumhnull was the Wizard of the North. It still filled her with awe, made her chest flutter in a strange, anxious manner, both exciting and frightening.
She reached for the hooks on his doublet, and the fluttering increased. His eyes opened, narrowing on her.
“I’m cooling you down. Then I’ll make you something for the fever and to soothe your cough.”
She unhooked the doublet, then her hands moved to the ties of the linen shirt he wore. His big hand came up to catch hers. “My daughter?…Dede?…”
Rose hushed him, speaking soothingly, “Drake took her away. You should rest now. I’ll bring her back later.”
His hand fell away and his eyes closed again.
Rose struggled to remove his doublet and shirt. He seemed a bit more cognizant, and he helped as best as he could, pushing himself up on one arm and finally falling into his pillows. “May I rest now? Or have you some other torture designed for me?”
“No. Lie still.” She pulled his boots and stockings off, leaving him only in his trews. She considered removing those, too, but decided to wait until she’d given him something to help him sleep. She didn’t know if she could strip him with those brilliant blue eyes peering at her. Rose wiped the rag over his swollen throat, then over his shoulders and chest, wiping down his arms and hands. Though she tried to remain detached from what she was doing, her body grew warm from touching him so freely. He was even more compelling out of clothes than he was in them. His bones were long and elegant, layered thickly with smooth slopes of muscle and crisp black hair. No scars or imperfections blemished his smooth, dusky skin. He was a wholly beautiful man, and she was not immune. Either was he, it seemed, for when she reached the hard flat muscles of his belly, she noticed the thick bulge in his trews and was grateful she’d left them on.
Without thinking, she glanced up at his face. Dark, hazy eyes regarded her. At her look he quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sick, not dead.”
Though flustered, she retreated into the brisk manner of a healer, which served her well with recalcitrant or randy patients. She grabbed the edge of the plaid blanket and yanked it up, covering him to his chest. “I’ll get you something for that cough.”
She brewed the same infusion she’d poured down Ailis’s throat all night, then propped him on the bed so she was behind him, his head against her shoulder. His bare skin burned her everywhere they touched.
“Drink this,” she said, pressing the cup to his lips.
He’d drifted off. He seemed confused when she woke him, though he drank the infusion readily enough.
“You aren’t angry?” he rasped between sips. His hands came up to hold hers steady around the cup. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand away.
“Oh, I’m angry. But I’ll not harangue a sick man. When you’re well enough, you shall get an earful.”
He finished drinking and groaned softly, turning his face into her neck. Rose panicked momentarily but calmed quickly. He meant her no harm. She set the cup aside and looked down at the thick black hair below her nose. It gleamed in the weak light, threaded through with coarser silver hair. His hand, broad and hot, lay against her ribs, below her breasts. She could feet the heat from each long finger imprinting itself on her body. Her own hands hovered uselessly, suddenly afraid to touch him. Finally she let one hand drop to the arm that lay across her, stroking over the muscle, feeling the latent strength coiled in him, and wondering about him, hungry to know more.
She was a ninny perhaps, but she felt as if she already knew him. She should not. He had lied about his name and who he was, but she still felt that he’d been honest in all else. She knew inherently he had good reason for his ruse and hoped he would tell her in time. And hehadwanted to help her—he’d said as much when he’dpretended to be Dumhnull, though she’d not understood then. His hot breath stirred her hair, and an odd trembling shivered through her.
“I’ll be fine. This is naught.”
She was startled by his voice, by the way his breath felt against her neck when he spoke. She’d thought he was asleep. “Naught! Ailis nearly died from this.”
“But she didn’t, aye? And neither will I.” The black lashes rose, and he peered up at her. “Trust me.”
She did trust him. He was the real healer, after all. What she did was mere child’s play compared to his power. She slid out from under him and stood beside the bed. He turned his head on the pillow so he could watch her.
She placed a hand on his brow. “Rest, my lord.”
He inhaled deeply, then let it out in a heavy sigh. “I never imagined you’d be so damn pretty.”
Her heart tripped on itself and she smiled. “You’re delirious.”
“Perhaps.”
She moved her hand over his hair, fingering a lock of silver, then pushing it behind his ear. His hair…silvered black hair. Hewasthe man in Isobel’s vision—not an old man, but a man with graying hair. Hewouldhelp her. He must.
