Page 93 of Bond of a Bewitched Highlander

The kisses from earlier that night burned in her memory, deep, devouring kisses that claimed her heart, seduced her body, and bonded her soul to his.

All his kisses were heavenly, but as scorching as the fires of hell. Why had he made love to her if he hated her?

During the months of their betrothal, he had kissed her at every opportunity when they were alone with no one to catch them. And a few times, they had succumbed to a passion such as she'd never imagined possible. These indulgences were not simple carnal pleasures, but an entwining of their souls. When that ended, life was all downhill from there. Bland and mediocre. Bleak skies and dreary emotions. What was left? Naught... until now.

He might still hate her, but she could watch over him and pray that he lived and healed soonest. She cherished him and his masculine beauty, the person her heart craved most. Even if he could never be hers again, she would commit him to her memory.

Brodie moaned, moved his head, and lifted his hand toward the bandage over his wound.

"Nay," she whispered, taking his wrist and lowering his arm. She feared he would rip off the bandage and start the wound bleeding again.

Sitting back, she held his strong hand in hers, cherishing his warmth.

A new thought occurred to her... was he fevered? Easing forward, so as not to wake him, she pressed her lips to his forehead in a soft kiss. Nay, he was normal temperature, thank the saints.

Sitting down again, she kept his warm hand in hers and leaned back. Silently, she trailed prayers through her head for a few minutes, then fond memories she'd shared with Brodie. Especially the recent memory from the cave. Would she ever get to experience that again? Would he survive this injury and the blood loss?

***

PAIN STABBING AT HIS chest, Brodie opened his eyes. Faint light shone at the window. Do not move, he told himself. He remembered being cut during the skirmish and ran the scene through his mind. Warmth surrounded his hand, and he looked down. A woman's hand held his. He lifted his gaze, finding Elsea asleep in the chair, her head drifting to the side. Wee blond tendrils had escaped the braids and framed her angelic face.

What the devil was she doing here, holding his hand?

The cave. Saints! What paradise and hell at the same time. His muscles tensing, pain gored him even more fiercely. He clenched his teeth, hissed in a breath, then muttered a curse.

She startled awake. "Oh. Are you in pain?" She leaned forward.

"Aye," he assured her, his voice rough. "What are you doing in here?"

"Making sure you're all right." She drew her hand away, and he instantly missed it.

"Indeed?"

"Do you wish me to leave? I'll go get your mother." She stood.

"Nay," he growled. "Damn it all." He didn't want his ma harping at him now. "You stay." He leaned his head back and tried to relax so the pain would diminish. But it would not.

Someone tapped on the door.

Elsea strode forward and opened it.

Finnian stepped in, carrying a cup, and gave a deep nod. "M'lady." He approached the bed. "Are you awake, m'laird?" He set the cup on the bedside table, and the bitter scent of the steaming brew wafted to Brodie.

"Aye." Though he wished he wasn't.

"How did you sleep?" Finnian inquired.

"Your concoction knocked me out."

"Good. Are you in pain now?"

"For a certainty." He couldn't recall a worse physical pain, though this was not his first sword wound.

"Well, I've brought you another tisane, but with less poppy." He motioned to the cup. "'Tis still too hot to drink. Allow it to steep a little longer."

"Fine." Though he wished Finnian would put more poppy in it. Or several drams of whisky.

"Do you remember how you got injured?" Finnian asked.