“I see.” Except she didn’t. Why must Rónán suffer further? Though he was alive; for that she’d be thankful.
The girl handed her the bucket and cloth.
“I thankyou,” she said.
Shy brown eyes held hers for a moment before she stepped behind her father.
Tighearnán nodded to the child. “Off with you, now. Finish the stew you are making. I will introduce you to the lass once she has taken care of her man.”
“Aye, Papa.” Eyes filled with youthful curiosity slid to Lathir, then the girl hurried to the opposite side of the hut, where a small pile of cut vegetables lay.
“We are both soaked. We need to change as well.” Their host nodded to a trunk near the wall. “There are gowns that will fit you inside.” He walked to another chest on the opposite wall, withdrew dry clothes.
Once he’d turned, she selected and donned a gown as fast as her shakinglimbs allowed.
“’Tis best to warm him slowly,” the fisherman advised her as he returned. “Rinse the cloth in hot water often and wipe it over the affected skin until ’tis warm. Let me know if you need morewater heated.”
She stilled and her throat clogged as the full impact of his words sank in. She was to draw the heated cloth over Rónán’s body, every curve, everyintimate part.
“I will return in a moment.” Tighearnán departed.
Rónán’s body jerked, and he began to shake.
On a steadying breath, she rinsed the woven fabric and pressed it against him, struggling to keep her attention on ensuring she warmed every part of his chilled skin, not the width or breath of his chest, or how the brown hair narrowed in a tantalizing line down the flat of his stomach to join with dark thatch to cradle his length.
“Dinna rush,” Tighearnán cautioned her from near the hearth. “You must warm him slowly until the skin color returns to normal.”
“Aye.” She rewarmed the cloth, continued, focusing on the fact that Rónán lived. As to the intimate degree with which she’d tended him—that he would never learn.
Still, though she’d remained attentive to the task, his honed muscle, hard planes that carved his body into a man of power was one who a lass would be blind notto be drawn to.
Nor did she overlook his qualities, that of a man who’d earned her trust, his word when given, one backed by action. A knight who’d made it clear that his intent was to support their king in his endeavor to eradicate those who challenged hisrightful place.
Her hand paused in its task. A potent reminder that once they’d rescued her father and the arms were delivered to the Bruce, she’d never see Rónán again.
And what of her father? Please God let him still live. Though, like their attackers, he believed her dead. After the loss of her mother, a blow that would leavehim devastated.
Her hand trembled as she drew the warmed cloth slowly across Rónán’s toes.
“How is he faring?” the fisherman asked as he moved to her side.
She cleared her throat, taking in the soft flush of color on his skin. “Much better. He is barely shivering, and his skin color is returning. But, from his expressions in his sleep,he is in pain.”
“And will be until his body is entirely warmed. Let me help you so that you can tend to his backside.” He carefully turned Rónán onto his stomach.
“I thank you.” After rewarming the cloth, she slowly drew it overhis shoulders.
“The stew is ready, as is the warm drink. Nay doubt you are hungry and exhausted. Go. I will do the rest.”
“I will finish.” She met his gaze. “’Tis important to me.”
He stroked his beard as he studied her. With a nod, he walked over and sat at the table where his daughter quietly ate.
Face illuminated by the soft wash of flames, as her father settled beside her,Órlaith peeredat Lathir beneath thick brown lashes.
Lathir smiled, and the child’s eyes widened and turned away. She was shy. Not surprising, given her and her father’s secluded location.
How far were they from a town? Had Tighearnán heard of her father’s abduction? Doubtful, when but days had passed since the incident, more so considering that if anywhere, Tighearnán would have gone fishing.
