Page 10 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"I'm here."

"That's nae a reason."

"It's the only one I have." He pressed the cloth to her calf, and felt her flinch under his hand, though she didn't pull away. "Hold still."

"I am holding still."

She let out her breath in a short huff, more insult than surrender, but her leg went slack under his hand all the same. He worked the blood away in slow strokes, watching the wound clear, checking the edges of it the way he'd checked a hundred wounds on a hundred men in the field, except his hands had never once been this careful about it.

"Ye fought him," Fearchar said. "The one who grabbed ye."

"With a wall sconce."

"I heard. Broke his jaw."

"I was aiming fer his throat. He moved."

Fearchar's mouth did something at that. "Remind me nae tae make ye angry."

"Bit late fer that. Ye've been making me angry since the garden."

His hand stilled on her calf. He looked up.

Nandag looked back down at him, and neither of them moved to fix the silence that followed, the water dripping slow off the cloth in his hand, her fingers curled loose in the coverlet, close enough now that he could see the exact place where her pulse beat at the base of her throat, quick and unhidden.

"Ye're staring," she said, quietly.

He looked back down at the wound, which was clean now, had been clean for longer than he wanted to admit, and reached for the linen instead of answering her.

He tore a strip with his teeth, wound it twice around her calf, and found that his hands, which had gutted men an hour ago without a tremor, were taking their time about a task that required none of it.

His thumb pressed the linen flat against her skin, smoothing a fold that didn't need smoothing, and he was aware of the exact warmth of her, aware of it in a way that had nothing to do with fever or blood loss or any of the reasons a healer might have for touching a woman's leg.

"Fearchar."

He looked up again. She hadn't moved either, hadn't put a single inch of distance between them since he'd knelt, and her eyes held his the way they'd held his across a rain-soaked courtyard not an hour ago, except there was no blade between them now, no Torcall, no gate slamming shut on her sister.

"Aye," he said.

"Ye're daeing it again."

"Daeing what?"

"Looking at me like ye're trying tae remember something."

"I already remember it. Have fer seven years." The words came out rougher than he meant them, and he busied his hands with tying off the linen so he wouldn't have to watch what crossed her face when she heard them. I've been remembering ye since the garden in Edinburgh, lass."

“That goes fer me too.”

He tied the final knot, and let his hand rest against her calf, his thumb tracing once along the line of linen before he made himself stop. When he finally looked up, she hadn't looked away, hazel eyes steady on his, her breath coming a little quicker than it should have for a woman sitting perfectly still.

"Ye'll be fine again within days," he said. "It's nae deep."

"That's a very healer thing tae say."

He huffed something that was almost a laugh, low in his chest, and forced himself up onto his feet, putting the distance between them that he should have kept from the start. "Ye should rest."

"Ye keep saying things I should dae."