She wanted to smile at him.
Right before she stabbed herself in her traitorous heart with one of his cutting knives. She knew where they all were, chopping knives, slicing, paring knives. Knives for cutting bread, meat, vegetables, and herbs.
“Dinna overdo,” she quietly suggested, though she did not truly give a damn if he hurt himself or not. But even as she mocked herself, she knew she was a liar.
She knew he was her enemy, but there were instances…just various instances, when she felt sorry for him for being punished so severely. It was almost like taking the leg of a dancer, the tongue of an opera singer, the hands of a poet…the arm of a warrior.
She involuntarily watched him rub his left shoulder and had the ridiculous urge to hurry around the table and massage—Och, she could not finish the thought. Best not to. Even if he was not her mortal enemy, she had no idea how to handle a man—especially a man like Mr. Logan Cameron.
He was leaving her alone, giving her her freedom, while warning her that freedom out in the world was not safe.
It made her gaze linger on him while he finished his stew, alternating both hands to feed himself.
She could see the struggle in the fire of his eyes, the set of determination in his jaw, and she was torn between wanting to help him and knowing she should prepare some food for him to take home to Tor Castle.
This was her last chance. She would put a hint of wolfsbane into the stew he’d prepared. One bite was all that would beneeded to kill him and anyone who ate. She didn’t even have to be there.
“How do ye know the ways to help someone heal?” he asked. “Are ye a physician?”
“Are physicians’ slaves?” she scoffed.
He did not answer, and after a moment without him saying anything, she finally put her useless spoon down. “I used to accompany my father’s physician when he visited the ailing and afflicted of Dunley village. I learned much from him. I am certain he, and all the folks of that village, would be rolling over in the dirt if they knew I would consider helping ye.”
His dark eyes shone with a light from within. “Ye are considerin’ it?”
“Aye, but I have a condition.”
She was sure that if his scandalously sinuous smile was a weapon, he would have killed her six times already. Nae! Cease! She had to keep her head on straight.
“I willna leave.”
Elspeth blinked at him. How did he—“How did ye know that was my condition?”
He breathed out deeply and laughed. “I didna know until just now.”
Elspeth felt her cheeks go up in flames. “Well, now ye know. What is yer answer?”
“I agree to yer condition.”
That was it? It was that easy to get him to stay? Instead of thanking him, she told him to spread the butter over his bread with his left hand. Then she helped him clean the breakfast bowls.
“Ye said ye used to help yer father’s physician care fer the sick. What were ye like then?”
Elspeth looked up at him from the bowl she was dipping in the stream. Did he truly want to know what she was like before he took it all away?
“My father often said that I was too compassionate fer this harsh world. He was correct—and finally the harsh world taught me to be cold like everyone else.”
“’Tis a difficult thing to be compassionate,” he remarked under his breath, almost as an afterthought.
How would he know? She thought, but she did not speak it out loud. He was sorry for looking at her and causing her such heartbreak. He had not mentioned his own heartbreak.
“Are ye wed, Mr. Cameron?” she asked him with the backdrop of a great mountain framing him.
“Nae. I havena met a lass I want to spend my life with.”
She did not want to admit that his face was unforgettable. But she had never forgotten that man, beaten and bloodied in her father’s dungeon. “A cause fer those lasses to celebrate, nae doubt,” she murmured.
She amused him, she thought sourly when he chuckled. Something else she had not anticipated. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Taking jabs at him was satisfying. More so because he could take it, even found her amusing.
