Page 48 of Deception of a Highlander

She balled her hand into a fist and gave a short nod.

Mariel did not so much as flinch while he stitched the gash closed. He hadn’t expected her to weep—he knew her better than that by now—but he had expected her to at least react in some way to the pointed bite of the needle. Instead, her eyes had focused on the ceiling, unseeing, and her face remained expressionless throughout.

Men had stronger reactions when sewn on the battlefield than did the gentle woman beneath his fingers. He understood then that Mariel’s indifference did not stem from bravery but was the product of a life of incredible pain and the necessity of endurance. He tied off the string, and his gut churned.

In a world where she had been forced to abandon herself to escape any sense of feeling, he had caused her further injury with his overzealous lust. Was there any wonder she did not trust him enough to tell him of her past?

“I’m finished.” His voice was loud against the silence.

Dark lashes swept over pallid cheeks as she examined his work. “Well done, Kieran.” She let the ruined night rail fall back into place. “Almost as good as the healer.”

Her eyes met his, and the memory of their shared intimacy hummed between them as the room fell quiet once more. Her lips were swollen with the force of their kisses. His desire was still hard and pulsing beneath his plaid.

His body longed for what his mind would not allow. She had been injured too much in the past, and she didn’t trust him enough to tell him how. He refused to be another man in the list of those who hurt her. He would cause her no more pain.

As though sensing him pull away, Mariel stepped forward. “Kieran.” His name was a whispered sigh on her lips.

He did not open his arms to her. “Ye should return to yer room.” She needed rest; she needed to heal.

And he needed to think.

* * *

Tufts of wool slid from between Mariel’s fingers into the turning wheels of the wooden contraption and emerged as coarse thread winding against a spindle. Kieran spoke to Innes in low tones several paces away. The chattering gossip around her, coupled with the noise of the spinning wheel, kept the conversation blocked from Mariel’s ears, no matter how hard she strained.

Desperate to catch Kieran’s gaze, she looked up, silently willing him to glance in her direction. He shifted his weight and clenched his hand at his side, but he did not look her way.

Her sigh sent the small fibers of wool fluttering. A fortnight had passed from the evening of her botched seduction, and he had not spoken to her since.

Doubtless, he was angry with her for disobeying his orders to cease her work and stay in bed until she was recovered from her injury. She had thought he would get over the offense quickly, that he would realize the necessity of her disobedience. She would never earn the respect of the Highlanders if she allowed herself to be coddled.

While no one had threatened her or harmed her, Mariel was not well-liked. With Kieran avoiding her, she had only Colin’s misguided friendship and Alec’s toleration.

She fed the wool with ease and realized she was frowning. Why did being ostracized suddenly bother her so much? Wasn’t she used to living alone? After all, she had spent the last two years in voluntary solitude.

Without so much as a glance in her direction, Kieran turned and strode from the room, leaving Mariel immersed in a room of strangers and hate.

“Did ye see how he dinna even look at her? He’s already moved on.” The woman behind her spoke in Gaelic.

Mariel kept her face impassive, but the cruel words found their mark and lashed against her heart. She grasped another wad of wool and layered it between the wooden gears.

“Ach, do ye blame him? Look at her! With his virility, he’d break her.” Another woman snickered behind her.

Mariel’s back unnaturally straightened as she spun the wheel and worked the clump into fine, blue thread.

“I think it’s good he’s making the whore work with her hands instead of keeping her on the flat of her back.”

Mariel did not have to turn to see their angry stares as they pierced into her back from every angle, like an assault of vile daggers. No matter how wicked their words, she could not let on that she understood them. Instead, she lowered her head and focused intently on the endless blue fluff slipping between her fingers.

“Ye’re verra pretty.” The words were spoken in Gaelic, the voice little more than a small, timid whisper.

Mariel looked up from her work and found herself face-to-face with a cherub. Golden hair curled around an angelic face that had yet to lose the plumpness of infancy. Large brown eyes stared up at her curiously. A smattering of freckles dotted the tiny upturned nose, and rosebud lips pursed with a seriousness that should not belong to one so young.

“Are ye a princess?” The girl’s chubby hands twisted against one another as though she knew how whimsical her question sounded.

In a world of hatred, this one small girl was brave enough to offer kindness as if there were no boundary between Scottish and English—as if fear and anger had never existed. The way it should be. Mariel smiled down at the child.

“Coira!” Innes growled and grabbed the little girl by the arm. “Dinna talk to her. She canna even understand ye.”