Elsa stilled her brushing, and Isabel sat up straight. “Who do you think it could be?”
Elsa shrugged, looking skeptical and scared. Fingering the dagger she still had strapped to her arm, Isabel went to the door and called through it without opening.
“Who is it?”
“’Tis Lachlan,” he said.
Dressed in only her shift and a wrapper, the last thing she should do was open the door. “What is it?”
“May I come in? I’ve need to have a word.”
Isabel glanced at Elsa, who seemed to be wearing her new permanent expression of terror. With a sigh, Isabel lifted the bar and opened the door.
Lachlan leaned against the doorjamb, trying to look casual, but she knew he did so to take pressure off his injured leg. The healer in her barely stopped Isabel from giving him a well placed shove to shatter his illusion. She was tired of dishonesty, of secrets, even ones as small as him hiding the pain from his injuries.
He eyed her up and down from the very top of her head to the tips of her bare toes, a shiver following in the wake of his gaze. He lingered a moment too long on the end of her wrap, as though he had forgotten why he’d come.
Heat crept up Isabel’s neck and she curled her toes under the hem, suddenly aware of the bare skin at her throat. She clutched her wrapper closer, realizing just how inappropriate it was for her to have opened the door. Damn her own curiosity.
“I wanted to make sure that all was well with ye before I lie down for the night,” he said. “I’ll be sleeping out here in the hallway.”
Isabel’s mouth opened, incredulous. “Ye canna, with your wound. In fact, I forgot to change your dressing.”
He paused. When she finally realized that he was waiting for her to step back, her face heated all the more. The man had a way of making her so incredibly flustered. It made her want to hit him a little.
Lachlan sat on the chair she’d occupied only moments before, watching her as she went to her medicinal bag. There was nothing crude or mocking in his study of her, but rather a curiosity, one similar to what she felt for him. Somehow she remained steady and unflinching when her insides quivered like a lass experiencing the attention of a lad for the first time, and her face had to be as red as the flames in the hearth. Ridiculous really. He was her patient. Her alleged guardian. She was a grown woman, used to soldiers and highland lords alike giving her looks that were far more lewd. Why did he make her feel so… out of sorts?
Elsa grabbed the pitcher of water and the basin they would use to wash their faces and hands before they lay down for the night and placed it before the hearth. Still skittish around Lachlan she quickly returned to her pallet, unfolding and refolding their travel clothes until they represented the tiniest squares.
“I heard ye talking.” The words were out before Isabel could stop them. But, she had a duty to herself, to Elsa, to her uncle, to ask. “Do ye think someone within your clan could have betrayed ye?”
Lachlan shook his head, vehement. “My men would die for me, and I would die for them,” he said. “That’s a certainty. ’Tis no’ one of them.”
Isabel paused, her hands gripping a small stool. There was no boast in his voice. Only certainty. She carried the small piece of furniture over to him and gestured for him to place his leg on it. No wonder her uncle trusted him with her life. His face pinched with pain, but he did as she bid. The vehemence in his tone made her want to trust him, too. And his ability to follow directions from her didn’t hurt either.
Lachlan was not just a warrior but a man with unshakable loyalty.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Isabel crouched down next to him and poured the clean water into the basin. Unwrapping his leg was somehow more inappropriate with him awake than asleep, and she wondered how angry he would be if she used the pitcher to knock him unconscious.
Lachlan would probably be at the least a little frustrated. She dipped fresh linen into the water and pressed it gently to his wound. His leg remained remarkably still, and she couldn’t stop herself from looking up into his face, her eyes landing on his mouth first. A mouth that slowly curved into a knowing smile, and she glared at him before quickly returning her attention to his leg.
The wound was an angry, puffy red, though no discernable pus. There was some scabbing along the stitches, and a few places that looked as if the scabs had been torn, likely from the jostling of their riding. The man really should have still been in bed.
Confident he wouldn’t need an amputation at this current moment, and vaguely disappointed it didn’t, Isabel began the process of rewrapping his thigh. Her fingertips brushed his bare skin, and the hair there was softer than she thought it would be. Goosebumps rose on her flesh as the wanton desire to stroke his bare thigh and feel the taut muscles beneath his skin crossed her mind.
Isabel abruptly remembered that they were not alone and she finished tying the linen in place. The walls were suddenly too close, the chair, his legs, his face, all too intimate. The fire crackled softly and she averted her gaze from the curve of his bare knee to the flames.
As she searched for something to say, there was another knock at the door.
“I’m no’ expecting anyone,” she whispered.
Lachlan stood and walked to the door with a much sturdier gait than a man who had had a spear through his leg less than a fortnight ago.
He opened the door to find one of his men standing there.
“We’ve had a message from the Bruce.”
Angus passed him the scroll and whispered something low enough that Isabel couldn’t make out the words, and when he was done, he left.
