Page 56 of Sins of the Highlander

***

Elspeth burned with fever for the next three days on Hepzibah Black’s straw tick mattress. When her eyelids fluttered open, she didn’t seem to see a thing. There was no recognition in her blank stare. When she did speak, she answered Rob’s questions in a babbling language no one knew.

“Except the angels,” Hepzibah had said.

Or the demons.

Rob still blamed the old woman’s poisons for Elspeth’s state.

“No,” Hepzibah assured him. “The concoction I gave the lass before we worked on her has done its work and already passed. If that was going to harm her, it already would have.”

“Then why are ye trying to give her more?” he demanded. Each time Elspeth showed the least responsiveness, Hepzibah forced more fluid down her. Despite her protests to the contrary, Rob wouldn’t swear the old woman wasn’t a witch.

“This is no’ the same mixture as before,” Hepzibah said. “’Tis, but sweet basil and blavers.”

“Blue cornflowers?”

“Aye, pressed down and steeped twice. They’ll strengthen her will to return to us,” Hepzibah said. “Her spirit wanders now.”

Whatever the cause—the witch’s brews, the blood loss, or the raging fever—it was obvious that Elspeth teetered on the cusp of life and death, and Rob feared she leaned too close to the edge. He barely left her side.

When she convulsed with chills, he climbed into the bed with her and warmed her with his body. Fingal would have joined them, but Rob threatened to tie him outside if Angus couldn’t keep the hound away.

“Dinna be so surly, Rob,” his friend had muttered as he stomped outside with his dog. “Ye’re not the only one who suffers on the lass’s account, ye know.”

Maybe not. But Rob was the one responsible for the lass’s injuries. If he hadn’t stolen her away, she’d be safe now. But she’d be Lachlan Drummond’s wife.

He decided a body could learn to live with guilt.

***

The water was delightfully warm. Elspeth let the liquid sluice down her bare body to the cloth she’d spread on the plank floor. She was back in Angus Fletcher’s homely bedchamber, thankful to have peeled out of her road-weary clothes.

A creak on the steps made her turn.

Rob was standing there, just looking at her. The hunger in his cobalt eyes made them go even darker.

Her belly clenched and her nipples drew tight as his gaze traveled over her.

“Let me,” he said.

Or maybe he only thought it, for his lips didn’t move. His voice resounded in her head just the same.

She held the cloth and jar of soap out to him.

He was suddenly beside her without having walked across the room. And she felt his hands on her, smoothing his palms over her. The calluses at the base of his fingers nicked her skin and set it to dancing.

He scooped out a dollop of soap, and his touch glided over her, across her shoulders and neck, around and under her breasts. She draped her arms over his shoulders. He toyed with her nipples, circling them with his thumbs. He made her ache. Then he rolled the needy flesh between his thumb and forefinger, giving a slight tug.

The core of her being throbbed.

He kissed her, and their souls mingled, all tangled up in their shared breath. Rob made love to her mouth with his lips, teeth, and tongue while his hands continued to wash her.

He soaped her ribs, her navel, the mound of her belly. He reached around to stroke the length of her spine.

“Spread your legs.”

Again, she couldn’t be sure if he’d only thought the command, but she was powerless to disobey. She wanted him to touch her. She ached for it.