Yet it was the way he looked at her, in part, that shook her so.
No doubt, no doubt at all that his sight had come back on its own, even as she’d hoped it might. The effects of the blow he’d taken had merely worn off. It had naught to do with aught she’d said or done. A mere coincidence.
“Come, Rhian, sit beside me once more.”
He should not address her so. It should beMistress Rhianat the very least. Yet the roughness in his voice betrayed the great weight of pain under which he labored. And anyway—
Could she stand on ceremony with him now?
“I maun change those bandages first.” Then,then, aye she might sit with him.
He grunted.
“And,” she continued, “I might mix for ye another draught against the pain.”
“Another that will make me sleep? I’ve nae wish to sleep any longer.”
She turned and looked at him. Some emotion inside her, some hint of longing perhaps, twanged. A fine figure of a man he was. Not the sort she’d ever expected to favor. In fact, the very last sort. And yet…
“I ha’ told ye, there be healing in sleep.”
“And the possibility of evil dreams. By any road, sleep renders me defenseless. I ha’ few enough defenses left to me as it is.”
“Aye,” she agreed. She brought her bandages and knelt down beside him.
He went suddenly still.He wants for me to touch him,she thought, and could not tell how she knew.
“This will hurt.”
His only answer came in the form of another grunt. It did hurt. They both sweated through it, but throughout, he never took his eyes from her.
Handsome eyes they were, changeable like the sky—at one moment gray and the next blue, and set beneath well-marked sandy brows. The brows matched the beard on his jaw and, aye, the hair that patterned his broad chest. For she’d seen all of him. He was without question one of the most masculine men she’d ever beheld.
“There.” At last she smoothed the bandages. “Does that feel better?”
“It does, while your hands be upon it.”
Her gaze flew to his again. Was he trifling with her? Flirting with her? Surely not. He spoke as if he stated a plain truth. Besides, men rarely flirted with MacBeith’s steady, practical, and utterly dull middle daughter.
“I will get that draught.”
“Stay where ye be. Please. Just keep your hand where it is a moment longer.”
Touching him. She should not. Out of simple pity, surely she might.
Only—this was more than simple pity that she felt. More even than simple attraction, if she’d admit to that. If she had to define it, she would call itconnection. That hook in her gut that only ceased to pull so hard when she got close to him.
Could it be he felt that too? By no means could she ask him. It would sound like madness.
So she asked instead, spreading her fingers on his chest, “Like so?”
“Aye.” He inspected her face again, taking minute notice of every feature. She knew it for a plain enough face, so he surprised her when he said, “Ye be a bonny thing, merciful angel.”
“Me? Nay.” Saerla was the bonny one. Moira the most striking. Rhian had always accepted that.
“Nay,” he echoed softly. “Bonny does no’ cover it. Too weak a word entirely. ’Tis beauty that describes ye. Rhian MacBeith. A beautiful woman, full grown.”
She smiled wryly despite herself. Aye, and was he not a charmer? “Ye say that only because I am the first face ye’ve looked upon here at MacBeith.”
