She had a hundred things to do besides returning to her chamber. She needed to keep well away from Leith MacLeod. She folded her hands together and pressed them against her body just beneath her breasts, trying to quell the almost painful pull there.
Head high and cheeks still flaming, she moved on.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Intentions were finethings, Leith thought as he tried to shift himself against the bolsters of the bed. He intended, now that the fever had lifted from him and his head felt clearer, to look after himself. Having spoken with Farlan, he’d meant to move cautiously. Guard his tongue.
Stop longing for Rhian MacBeith.
He could do so, surely. He could perform that one small, simple task. Was he not a grown man, after all? One who had entertained many women. Not a green lad caught in the rush of infatuation.
Yet lying here—in the woman’s bed—he could smell her. He could almost feel her lying next to him as she had last night. He wanted to see her so much it hurt.
Och, but he must stop playing the fool. He found himself in a dangerous position here, among enemies. They thought they might well hold the next Chief MacLeod in their hands.
They would either seek to influence him, or slaughter him.
He needed to protect himself, and that included keeping away from Rhian. For she—not that great lump Alasdair’s dirk—was his greatest danger.
Leith knew that right well, aye.
He lectured and sought to steel himself, yet when he heard someone at the door, his whole body leaped.
It was not Rhian, but an older woman who delivered a basket of food. She eyed him closely and looked as if she wanted to say something to him, but she ducked back out without doing so.
After she left, Leith heaved himself off the bed and onto his feet. It hurt to move, and Rhian would likely tear him up one side and down the other if she saw him.
But she was not here. And his emotions would not allow him to lie still.
He paced as best he was able, winding a track on the floor, noticing the contents of the chamber. This was her chamber, the core of her, with all her possessions in place.
A clothespress that he did not open. Women’s things—women’s things were private. A chest beneath the single slit window. Not much else besides the supplies she kept here, the tools for healing. Herbs that scented the air and piles of bandaging. Small pots containing what must be unguents. Powders he had seen her use for mixing draughts.
A single, small mirror, no bigger than the palm of his hand, lying beside a comb.
That he did touch, feeling intrusive. The comb contained a few twined red hairs. He raised it to his nose, and aye, it smelled like her pillow.
Sudden longing hit him so hard that he nearly staggered. He wanted to be lying with her again as he had last night, his face almost buried in her hair. He wanted—
The door rattled once more. Rhian slipped into the chamber.
She looked upset, her cheeks flushed and her lips twisted with anguish. Leith should not be able to feel what was inside her. Only he could.
“Rhian? Wha’ is it?” he asked. “Wha’ has happened?”
She ran her gaze over him. “Ye should no’ be on your feet,” she said almost absently.
“I ken. Wha’ has happened to upset ye?”
She moved farther into the chamber, shutting the door behind her carefully. “I ha’ just come from a meeting o’ the council. One where they are busy discussing what should be done wi’ ye.”
“Has a decision been made?” Would he be dragged out of here? Slaughtered like a stirk out front of the stronghold?
“Nay. They speak in circles.” She turned her gaze on him, deep blue and brilliant. “I suspect ye do no’ trust me, Leith MacLeod. Were I in your place, I doubt I would trust me either. But I mean ye no harm. I do no’ want—” She had to pause and draw a breath. “I do no’ want ye dead.”
Something inside him let go its fierce hold and allowed him to ease.
In a rush, she went on, “I would no’ spend my time healing ye, only to see ye taken to the slaughter.”
