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The lass bobbed a curtsey and the pair left.
Eala braced her hands on the arms of the chair, but Ambrose shook his head. “Stay there. Yer dinner will come to ye, my lady.”
He removed the trays, setting them on the floor, lifted the table and positioned it in front of the fire. Then he retrieved the trays and put them on the table. She was reminded of the careful, methodical way he’d carried out the surgery. For a big man, he moved with an athletic grace that only intensified her desire to run her hands over his impressive muscles.
“Voilà!” he announced with a boyish grin as he sat down. “Who says this inn is a house of ill-repute? They even have forks!”
He picked up the three-pronged utensil, considered by many Scots to be an Italian affectation, and speared a piece of chicken. “Tuck in.”
* * *
Ambrose chuckled as he watched Eala’s valiant attempts to stay awake long enough to eat. Having relished every morsel of his own meal, he moved his chair closer to hers and began to feed her, coaxing open her lips. Eyes closed, she chewed slowly, a wistful smile on her face. Taking care of Eala filled his heart; he could see himself spending the rest of his life fulfilling her every need.
When she’d eaten most of the bread pudding, he managed to get her to swallow a few sips of ale before she nodded off.
“Hold on to me,” he whispered, putting her arms around his neck and lifting her out of the chair.
She nestled into him as he carried her to the bed, but was clearly fast asleep. He set her down gently and covered her with the surprisingly clean linens. The deep-seated need to protect a vulnerable person wasn’t new. It had driven him to pursue a career in medicine. But Eala roused different, more turbulent emotions. He couldn’t look at her with the detachment drummed into him as vital for any surgeon. She’d somehow insinuated herself into his blood.
He’d never truly understood his parents’ talk of soul mates and Uncle Munro’s insistence on love at first sight, but the overwhelming need consuming his body and making his heart race had to be what they meant.
He wanted to shout his jubilation to the rooftops. He’d found love at last.
Certain it was what she wanted, he lay down beside her, reasonably confident the linens between them would help him control the driving need to make her completely his.
Besotted
Panic surged through Eala when she awoke in a place she didn’t recognize; unfamiliar kitchen aromas wafted to her nostrils. She calmed when she quickly recognized the protective weight of Ambrose’s arm draped across her body.
“’Tis only me,” he whispered. “Sleep. The sun hasna risen yet.”
She turned to face him, unable to see his features clearly in the pre-dawn darkness. “Good morrow,” she said with a smile, wishing she could wake up every morning in this man’s arms.
“I was going to sleep in the chair…” he began.
She put a finger to his lips. “I’m glad ye didna.”
A warm glow blossomed in a very intimate place when he nibbled her finger then sucked it into his mouth. “Ambrose,” she murmured. “What’s to become of us?”
He took hold of her wrist and kissed her palm. “We are safe here for the time being. ’Tisna the most luxurious place to spend a few days, but…”
She took a risk, hoping he wouldn’t consider her a wanton. “I can stay here forever, so long as ye are with me.”
“Aye, lass, I feel the same, but I’m only human. Ye ken I want ye, and these linens willna always keep me from ye.”
She caressed his beard that seemed to have grown redder by the day. “Why couldn’t we have met under different circumstances?”
“We canna look at it that way. Things happen for a reason. We have to trust we were meant to meet now.”
The beginnings of a headache throbbed at her temples. She hated herself for the wretched truth stuck in her throat. “We can only be together if Evan dies.”
* * *
Ambrose had taken an oath to dedicate himself to the preservation of life. The notion of wishing someone dead made him nauseous. “At the moment, I can do naught for Evan but, if the opportunity arises, I will do all I can to save him.”
Eala gasped. “I ken. Ye’re an honorablemon. ’Tis one of the things I love about ye.”
Ambrose had long since given up hope of hearing confessions of love, especially from a woman who aroused intense needs and emotions. “Ye love me?” he rasped.
