“Drink. ’Twill help wi’ the fever.”
If she told him it would, it would. He trusted her implicitly. With his life and aught else he had.
“Where?”
She eased him back down. Her fingers flitted over his head, brushing the hair back from his brow.
“Whisht, Leith. We ha’ moved ye out o’ the cell for your safekeeping.”
“Farlan?”
“Aye, he was here. Gone now. ’Tis but the two o’ us.”
The desire to see her allowed him to open his eyes. Astonishment widened them.
He lay on a bed in a chamber where he’d never been before. The softness of a mattress cradled him, and a bolster snuggled behind his head. Firelight danced behind Rhian, so he could not see her face as clearly as he might wish.
He did not need to see her, though. He could feel her with every part of him.
“Am I dyin’?” He felt like it. If he was, he wanted it to be here, with her. Perhaps he merely dreamed all this. He’d had a wealth of strange dreams since the fever came on him, including that in which Rhian had kissed him.
A funny thing—of all he’d dreamed, he wanted most for that to be true. Another funny thing—he’d never imagined he could come so low as this. In the past he’d taken a great deal for granted. His strength, which he hadn’t expected could fail him. His confidence. His immunity to love.
He could not tell what he felt for this woman now. Mayhap not love. Something equally huge and powerful.
She did not immediately answer his question. Her calm face did not register distress, but her eyes did. Deep blue, they held his gaze for an instant before filling with tears.
She placed her hand on his chest in that way she had, as if—as if claiming him. “I will no’ let ye die.”
“Good.” Because he was not ready to leave this world. Not without more of her kisses. Not without a lifetime to spend with her. That, and only that, mattered.
“Though”—her voice came choked by tears—“if ye could gi’ me some help in keeping ye alive, ’twould be welcome.”
“Verra well. Do no’ weep.” He reached with his left hand, since the right still did not serve him, and brushed a tear from her cheek. “I will do all I can.”
“Ye maun gather up your strength. Rest when I tell ye to. Drink your draughts.”
“Aye, Rhian. Aught ye say.” His eyelids weighed heavily. He did not want to close his eyes because then he would not be able to see her face. “Will ye bless me?”
“Bless ye?” Her expression turned confused.
“Wi’ another kiss.”
“Leith MacLeod.” She sounded almost chiding. “Even lyin’ at the door o’ death, you’re a rogue.” But she bent to him. Her fingers brushed his forehead. The scent of her came upon him, herbs and warm woman. “There is your blessing.”
“I did no’ mean—”
She silenced him by placing her lips on his, a fleeting kiss only, and far less than he craved. He wanted to drink of her. Consume her. Make her his own.
Was he too sorely hurt for that? Only one answer for it: he needed to grow well.
He could do that. He could do anything for her kiss.
“Rhian,” he said, just to speak her name again.
“Leith.”
And aye, it was as if they claimed one another there in the silence, with the flames flickering behind her, and the scent of her surrounding him.
