Page 8 of Sins of the Highlander

“No.”

“What about a needle? This wants stitches. And spirits, if ye have aught.”

“That I do.” He stood and went over to rummage in his saddlebag again. “Mayhap a bit of your skirt will serve as a bandage.”

Her bridal dress had seen hard use already. But with nothing else readily available, she had little choice.

Elspeth’s mother had been particularly partial to the wine-colored velvet skirt and decided adding pink silk piping at the hem would be the perfect way to mate it with the pink bodice to make it special for the wedding. Elspeth wouldn’t be able to rip the thick velvet, but the silk was much frailer. With silent apologies to her mother, Elspeth picked at the hem until she parted a few of Morag Stewart’s fine, even stitches and ripped a length from the bottom.

When she looked up, Rob was staring down at her exposed ankles, need straining his features. She tucked her feet under the velvet, realizing there were other ways the MacLaren could harm her that would probably grieve her family more than finding her dead.

“Looks like something else will want stitching as well,” he said, his voice strangely tight.

“I’ll see to turning my hem after I tend ye. The gown’s no’ bleeding, ye ken. But should my ankles be exposed again, I need ye to avert your eyes, as a gentleman should.”

“As ye will.” He settled beside her with sewing supplies and a flask of whisky from his saddlebag. “But ye’re mistaken, mistress, if ye think me a gentleman.”

A sizzling retort danced on her tongue, but she reminded herself that baiting a madman was a fair definition of lunacy. Instead, she dipped the pink silk into the cool spring and then dabbed at his wound.

“Ye were fortunate,” she said. “The bolt grazed ye and went through clean.”

“Drummond’s a tetchy bastard. Shooting off crossbows when his bride is in the line of fire,” Rob said with a black frown. “It might have just as easily been ye who caught the business end of a bolt.”

She narrowed her gaze at him as she gave his arm a thorough scrubbing. The same thought had occurred to her. She’d already decided Lachlan must not have been thinking clearly when he gave the order to shoot, but she didn’t appreciate this man pointing out her betrothed’s error. She enjoyed Mad Rob’s yelp when she poured whisky on the wound.

He grabbed the flask from her and took a swig, muttering about wasteful females.

“If ye’re so concerned for my safety, perhaps ye might have thought of that before ye dragged me from the altar,” she said. He was the villain, not Lachlan. “I’ll thank ye not to disparage the man who will be my husband.”

“Why is that, by the bye?” He cocked a brow at her. “Did wee Lachlan court ye sweet?”

“That’s none of your affair,” she said brusquely. There’d been no courtship at all, sweet or otherwise. ”And why do ye name him small? He’s as tall as ye.”

He snorted. “Men are measured in all kinds of ways.”

“Aye, in kindness and courage,” she said with conviction.

“And in other ways,” he said with a smirk. “Granted, I’ve no sure knowledge, but men like your intended, who are small of spirit, are often deficient in other things as well. But perhaps as a maid, ye’re ignorant of such details.”

Innocence and ignorance didn’t always hold hands. Elspeth had heard some of the other ladies-in-waiting tittering behind their fans over who among the queen’s courtiers was naturally well endowed and who padded their codpieces with rolled-up stockings. Only Highlanders didn’t follow fashion and wore nothing beneath their kilts but what God gave them. Her gaze flicked to Rob’s lap.

A hot blush crept up her neck. Where had that come from? She wasn’t the sort to ogle a man’s groin.

At least, she hadn’t been.

“Kindly remember, sir, I am holding a needle with intent to use it.”

“Duly noted,” he said with a smile in his voice. He reached over with his right hand to stroke her arm.

Even though her chemise and a detachable silk sleeve separated them, she felt the heat of his palm on her skin. All the small hairs on her arm pricked to attention, and her flesh shivered with expectancy.

“Are ye cold, Elspeth?”

“Aye, but I dinna expect ye to care.” She jabbed the needle through his skin with more force than necessary.

He didn’t so much as twitch, though his hand squeezed her arm slightly and his lips tightened in a grimace.

“This will hurt ye more than it does me,” she said as she pulled the thread through his skin.