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Chapter Two
"Oh!" Evelinde gasped when she realized she'd dropped the man on his injured head again.
She hadn't meant to, but she'd suddenly realized where she'd pressed his head while searching for the wound. At first she'd simply frozen, mortified at what she'd done, and when he'd tried to speak, his mouth against her breast had caused the oddest tingling sensation to shoot from where his mouth moved. It had been stunning in the pleasure it caused. So, of course, she'd released him. Anything that felt that good must be bad.
The man rolled onto his side, his tartan shifting so that she had a lovely view of his legs almost all the way up to his personal bits. Evelinde forced herself to look away from the intriguing sight and instead leaned forward to peer at the wound on the back of his head. He was a Scot, but that didn't worry her. Her father had several friends who were Scots, mostly highlanders he'd met at court or on his travels. They'd had many visitors over the years from Scotland, and Evelinde supposed this was another, and expected he'd treat her with the same respect and kindness the others had. She'd found that Scots weren't nearly the primitive heathens they were reputed to be.
A curse of pain from the man brought Evelinde's attention back to his head wound. There had been a good deal of blood on the gown, and there was still more caught in his hair. However, she found it impossible to tell how bad the wound was with the blood and dirt obscuring the injury.
"Are you all right?" she asked worriedly, shifting her gaze to what she could see of the side of his face. He was grimacing in pain, his one visible eye squeezed tight shut. Evelinde shifted on her knees and glanced around the meadow as she tried to think what to do. Then she asked, "Do you think you can stand?"
A grunt was his answer. Unsure if that was a yes or no, she stood up herself, then bent to catch his arm and try to help him to his feet. "Come. We have to tend your head. "
"Me head is fine," he growled, but would have been far more convincing if he weren't still grimacing in pain.
His words, spoken with a heavy burr, reminded her that he was Scottish, and Evelinde found herself leaning anxiously over him again as she asked, "Do you know the Devil of Donnachaidh?"
The way he suddenly stiffened suggested he at least recognized the name though most people did. It was the name parents all over England and Scotland used to terrify children into good behavior. 'If ye don't behave, the Devil of Donnachaidh will get ye,' was an oft-repeated warning by nursemaids and mothers.
When the man started to sit up, Evelinde quickly sat back to give him room. Much to her dissatisfaction, however, he didn't answer her question but simply stared at her, his expression closed.
"Do you know him?" she asked fretfully.
"Aye. I'm the Duncan," he said finally, and Evelinde frowned, not sure what that meant. Was Duncan his name or title? She suspected it was his title, but wondered if the Duncans were a neighbor of clan Donnachaidh? She opened her mouth to ask, but then decided it didn't matter. What was important was that the man knew the devil she was supposed to marry.
"Is he as cruel as they say? He is not, is he?" she asked hopefully. " 'Tis just a rumor, is it not? Tales told by the fireside that grow all out of proportion? I am sure he will be a fine husband. Really, he could not be more cruel than Edda. Could he?"
The man wasn't answering any of her questions, which Evelinde thought was terribly rude. Then she saw the streak of red running down his neck and recalled his injury. It really was not well-done of her to sit here pestering him with questions when he was wounded.
"You are bleeding badly," she said with concern. He reached to feel the back of his head, and Evelinde saw pain flash through his eyes at just that tentative touch.
Snatching up her ruined gown, she stood and glanced around. Much to her relief, he'd taken his tumble at the end of the meadow nearest the river. She hadn't paid attention to where they were when their mounts had reared—her attention had been taken up with keeping her seat—then she'd been more worried about him than anything else as she'd rushed to dismount and reach him. Fortunately, they merely had to walk a short path through a narrow band of trees to reach the water.
Turning back to the man on the ground, she held out a hand. "Come. We should tend to your injury. "
The man noted her offered hand but got to his feet without accepting her help.
Men can be so proud, Evelinde thought with an exasperated shake of the head.
"Wait here, and I shall retrieve our horses," she instructed. Both animals had moved a good twenty feet away. Her mare was standing still, studiously ignoring the other horse, who was nosing at her side.
Evelinde had only taken a step in that direction when a piercing whistle made her pause. Eyes wide, she glanced back to the Duncan, then gasped in surprise when he caught her arm as his horse suddenly charged over and presented himself with a proud flick of the head.
Evelinde waited long enough to see the Duncan murmur a soft word of praise to the animal and run a hand over his mount's neck. She then turned and headed off to collect her mare.
"There is a river just through the trees here," she announced, returning with Lady. "We can wash your wound, and I can get a better look and see how bad it is. "
"I be fine," the Duncan muttered, but followed when she moved past him with her mare and started through the trees.
"Head wounds can be tricky, sir," Evelinde said firmly as she led him into the clearing on the edge of the river. "It needs to be cleaned and tended. And you need to be careful about sleeping and such for a bit. You lost consciousness after the fall. "
"I be fine," he repeated, his voice a growl.
"I shall be the judge of that," she announced, releasing Lady's reins and moving to the water's edge. Once there, she knelt, found a clean bit of skirt on the gown she carried, and dipped it in the water. She'd been hoping the wind would dry her dress, which was why she'd been riding back and forth, holding it over her head. It probably would have worked better had she simply taken Lady for another, heart-pounding race, but she hadn't wished to be seen charging through d'Aumesbery's woods in naught but a chemise. The meadow was surrounded by trees, and she'd hoped to dry the dress without being seen. Her plan hadn't worked too well, obviously. She'd been seen, startled off her horse, and her gown still wasn't dry.
Grimacing, Evelinde stood up with the now-sopping skirt in her hands. She turned to find the Duncan, only to pause and stare when she saw he'd removed his boots and was standing knee deep in the river, bent forward, with his head under the waterfall.
"Well, bother!" Evelinde muttered, wishing she'd thought of that rather than soaking her skirt again. Sighing, she laid the gown out to dry on the boulder she'd sat on earlier and crossed the clearing to stand on the bank near where he was letting the water wash away the blood.
"Come, let me see," she ordered, when he straightened, pushed the hair out of his face, and started back out of the water.
The man raised an eyebrow at her demanding manner, but paused before her and turned away. Evelinde stared at the wide wall of his back and rolled her eyes. He was nearly a foot taller than she. She couldn't see a thing.
"Here, you need to sit down. " Catching his hand, she tugged him to a fallen tree trunk lying at the edge of the clearing. She urged him to sit, then stepped between his legs and clasped his head to bend it forward so she could see the back of it. With Mildrede's help, Evelinde had taken over tending to the injured and ill when her mother died. It wasn't a task Edda had bothered claiming when she'd become the new lady of d'Aumesbery, so Evelinde had carried on with it and was used to bossing grown soldiers about like they were children. Quite honestly, in her experience, that was exactly how the men tended to act when injured or ill. They were worse than any child when ailing.
"Hmm," she murmured, examining the abrasion. It was still bleeding, but head wounds tended to bleed a lot, and it was really more of a small scrape than a deep gash. "It does not look so bad. "
"I told ye I was fine," he rumbled, lifting his head.
"You lost consciousness, sir," she fretted. "Let me see your eyes. "
He lifted his face, and Evelinde clasped him by both cheeks, her gaze moving slowly over his eyes. They looked perfectly fine to her, however. More than fine. They were really quite beautiful; large and a deep brown so dark they appeared almost black. They were also fringed by long black lashes. The rest of his face was rugged, however, with sharp planes, an arrow-straight nose, and his lips—
Evelinde's eyes paused there, noting that his upper lip was thin, but the lower one was full and looked as if it would be soft to the touch. Before she could think better of it, curiosity made her shift one thumb to rub it over the pillowed surface, and she found it was indeed soft. Then Evelinde realized what she'd done. She could feel a sudden blush rise to cover her face and released him abruptly.
"There was a bit of dirt there," she lied, trying to step away at the same time, but his legs immediately closed on either side of her. Finding herself trapped between his knees, Evelinde felt her first moment of disquiet with the man. Not fear, exactly. For some reason she felt sure she had nothing to fear from this man, but the action did make her nervous.
She opened her mouth to ask him to release her, then sucked her breath in on a hiss of pain when his hands rose up to catch her by the hips. His hold eased at once, but he didn't let her go. Instead, he held her in place and lowered his gaze to the spot he'd touched, a frown claiming his lips.
"Ye took some punishment in the fall as well," he growled, sounding displeased. "Ye've a bruise on yer hip. "
Evelinde bit her lip and tried to pretend she was anywhere else but there as his gaze rose along her side, one hand following the path, then pausing again on the side of her chest just below her left breast. The action stirred an odd tingling along her skin.
"And here. "
She glanced down with confusion. The bruising would be from her fall in the water, but there was no way he could see through her chemise to the bruises he was—
Evelinde's thoughts died as she saw that her still-damp chemise was transparent. She could clearly make out several dark patches through the clinging cloth. One was the large mottling bruise on her hip, the other another even bigger bruise on her ribs, but the others were not bruises at all. Her darker nipples were clearly displayed in the damp shift, and the dark gold at the apex of her thighs stood out against her pale skin.
A gasp of horror caught in her throat, but before Evelinde could pull away and cover herself, he'd taken hold of her arm.
"And here. "
She peered distractedly down at the arm he'd turned slightly. She had seen all these bruises earlier, the result of her tumble in the river, not from falling from her horse as he supposed. She was more concerned with other issues at the moment, like her near nudity. When he leaned a little closer to see her upper arm better, Evelinde sucked in a startled gulp of air. His breath was blowing hot and sweet on her chilled nipple through the damp chemise. The effect was almost shocking.
