Page 83 of Highland Spy

His heart hammered harder in his chest.

This was worse than when Percy’s mission had resulted in her killing an innocent man, and almost herself as well. She’d been upset and had refused to ever do another mission.

While losing her as a spy was difficult, he understood too well the burden of guilt and had acquiesced to her request.

He had known what to do to help heal Percy’s body. Her own knowledge of herbs then had been basic, but she knew enough to help him see her well.

But then, wounds were more easily healed than what Ariana faced. Percy slept through most of her pain in those first few weeks while she recovered.

A hard knot of angry frustration burned in his gut.

He didn’t know how to make this right.

“Ariana.” His voice sounded strained, even to his own ears. He approached her and took her hands in his.

Her skin was warm under his touch, but she stared without seeing despite him being directly in front of her.

Like the dead.

A cold chill prickled over his flesh.

What if she never recovered? What if she never moved again, spoke again, gave that beautiful laugh of hers again?

It tore at something vulnerable inside him to see her lacking the determined glint in her gaze and the triumphant smile following all her victories.

What if he never saw those again either?

Panic licked at his usual calm resolve and seized him in a hard grip.

Action. He needed action.

He practically leapt across the room toward the cold water on the fire and plunged a small bowl into it. Heedless of the drips raining from his hands and onto the floor, he set it next to Ariana and dipped a cloth into the water. His movements were sloppy and hurried, but he ran the cloth over her cheek.

The dried blood did not come away easily and left an orange-red streak on her skin.

She did not acknowledge his action.

“Ariana,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m going to clean ye up and then ye should feel better.”

He wiped again and more of the blood smeared away.

“I dinna tell ye this earlier,” he said. “But I havena been back here since my da died. This was the first time.” He stared into eyes that did not stare back and his throat went tight. “And I couldna have done it without ye.”

His heart ached at the thought of facing the pain of Urquhart without her, of having only ghosts to keep him company in the empty, cold rooms.

And he thought of how he’d treated her with an unjustified indifference on the ride here. She’d given him so much—her joy, her companionship, her strength—and he’d repaid her with solitude and no explanation.

His list of sins was already so great, and this only added to it. The crush of it left him almost unable to draw breath.

He kept his gaze fixed on her while he dipped the cloth in the bowl. “I was upset with ye because I was upset with myself after we sparred. I’m no’ a good man, Ariana.”

It was true. He wasn’t.

Never had he said those words out loud, and the admission sliced through him.

“I’m no’ a good man,” he repeated hoarsely. “I kill men. I destroy the lives of women by training them into something they werena meant to be, and I do all of it for the selfishness of seeing myself a laird.”

The words choked him and fell on deaf ears.