Page 18 of Highland Storm

Somehow he didn’t think so.

He plucked a wad of red velvet cloth out of his belt, unwrapping it to show her a second small coldstone that had been caught in the folds of the purse she’d torn. He handed it to her. “Did you steal them?” he asked outright.

“Nay.”

Nevertheless, she seemed to blanch over the question, and he didn’t let it stop him from speaking his mind. “One must ask oneself why a bonny lass would run away, barefoot, dressed in her bride’s gown, with naught more than a cloak on her back and a velvet purse full of coldstones to her name.”

She blushed prettily, averting her gaze, her fist turning white over the stones she held in her hand. Keane watched as she placed both stones he’d produced into the hem of her gown. By now her cheeks were bright pink. Was she embarrassed because he’d called her bonny?

Or mayhap she has something more to hide?

Something more than coldstones…

“Why is that d’ ye think?”

Keane let his question hang in the air, along with the mist from his breath, until he was fairly certain she would never respond, and then decided to give her a rest—not that he was meant to get anything more from the lass if she didn’t wish to give it, for her shoulders were set as stubbornly as his sister Lael’s. He recognized a brick wall whenever he met one. Unless he meant to take a harsher stance, he might as well let it go… for now.

On the other hand, if he waited for her permission to tend her foot, she would lose the thing before the night was out. Shrugging off his cloak, Keane produced his woolen breacan, and then, without any explanation for what he meant to do, he ripped a long strip from the end, and then another. Glenna, the weaver, would threaten his manhood for ruining her good cloth, though if he asked her nicely enough, she would make him another.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a pair of slippers.”

She sounded stunned. “Why?”

Keane cast her a pointed glance, arching a brow. “To warm your feet perchance?”

“But why would ye do such a thing?”

“Because ye’re cauld and mayhap I dinna wish to see you lose your toes. Now give me your foot,” he demanded, as he moved to stoop before her, holding out his hand.

He could clearly see her pride warring with her discomfort. No doubt, it suited her not at all to be told what to do—even when it was for her own good. But at last, she relented. “Which one?”

“The right one.”

Untucking the left foot from beneath her gown, she gave it to him, and he nearly laughed at the contrary response. He didn’t fool himself into thinking it was for any other reason than because she meant to prove a point—that she was still in charge.

But Keane’s smile faded the instant he inspected the soles of her feet. They were filthy to be sure, but even with so much dirt and undercover of night, he could see the open sores that had formed along her heels and along the pads of her toes. It wasn’t yet clear how far she’d come, but if he would believe her feet, they said it was far.

Swearing beneath his breath, Keane gently brushed the pads of his fingers along the soles of her feet, trying to remove what dirt he could. Tomorrow, he would see her wash them in the burn. At the moment, it was far more important to see them warmed. He pushed up her skirt to begin binding the wool and froze at the sight of yet another bruise.

Angry and black, it encircled her ankle like a woad bracelet. He studied the mark for an awkward moment, realizing that there was only one way she could have gotten such a bruise. But it was no way for a husband to take his wife—no wonder she’d fled.

Liquid anger shot through his veins, though he said not a word. She was tense, waiting for Keane to remark, but he merely wrapped the wool about her foot and ankle, weaving the wool up, and folding the end above the bruise, taking care not to injure her any further.

And then, once again, he asked for her right foot. This time, she gave it to him without any challenge and he wasted little time in wrapping that foot as well, noting an even darker bruise in nearly the same spot.

Son of a whore.

Keane wanted to ask how she’d received them, but he didn’t truly need answers. He knew enough to know that whatever the cause for those bruises, it had everything to do with that dress she was wearing and the bruise on her cheek. If she’d purloined the stones in her flight, well, good for her. By the gods, he would help her find the rest of her stones, and heaven help the fiend who would put a hand to a woman. Keane would break him in two.

“Thank you,” she said, once Keane was finished with the task.

Here, in the strange light surrounding them, her face appeared bloodless, making the bruise stand out all the more distinctly. Unable to keep himself from it, Keane reached out to touch the dark spot on her face, but she caught his hand. Their gazes met and locked.

“How di’ ye get it?” he asked, tempering his rage.

“More than likely from the fall I took because of you.” She shoved his hand away.