Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(68)

She couldn’t stand it; one more minute of not knowing and she’d go mad.

Twisting her hands in her skirts anxiously, she approached the bed and attempted to peek over Mor’s shoulder. Jamie was on his side, facing away from her, as Mor tended his wound.

“How does it look?”

“The same way it did five minutes ago, though it’s hard to tell with you blocking my light,” Mor clipped. Caitrina quickly backed away from the flickering candlelight. Though it was just after midday, the small windows provided little illumination. “But it will look much worse if I don’t finish stitching it up.”

“Are you sure he’ll—”

Two voices cut her off this time.

“He’s fine.”

“I’m fine.”

Jamie’s voice was steady and strong, giving her a moment’s relief. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” Caitrina ventured, only to be cut off again.

“No!”

“No!”

If she weren’t so upset, she might find Mor’s and Jamie’s uncharacteristic agreement amusing. Instead, she moved back to the other side of the room as Mor finished stitching the wound. A few servants hurried back and forth at her nursemaid’s command, bringing fresh water, cloth, and herbs.

Never had Caitrina felt so useless—or helpless. How could this have happened? It was a horrible accident . . . or was it? She hadn’t missed Seamus’s pale face. She didn’t want to believe it, but his words not long before seemed damning in light of what had happened.

Finally, after what had seemed like hours, though it was only a few minutes, Mor pushed back from the stool. “You can come see him now, Caiti.”

She rushed back to the bed and at last got a good view of her husband. He’d sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. His naked chest gleamed, and the tight bands of his stomach muscles rippled in the soft light. He still wore his breeches and boots, but his ruined shirt and plaid had been tossed on the chair beside the bed.

Thankfully, Mor had cleaned away the blood, but there was a thick, jagged cut that she’d laced up his shoulder, and a dark, mottled bruise had already started to form from his collarbone to his elbow. It looked ghastly—and painful.

But he was alive. Her entire body sagged with relief.

She sat beside him on the edge of the bed and tentatively closed her hand over his. “How do you feel?”

One side of his mouth curved up in a roguish half-smile that shot straight to her heart. “I’ve experienced far worse on the battlefield. I don’t think anything is broken.” He glanced at Mor for confirmation.

“Nothing broken, though it will feel like it for a few days,” the old woman said. As if anticipating the kind of patient he would be—disagreeable—she cautioned, “But you’ll have to take care not to open the wound or it will fester. I’ll send up a draught for the pain.”

True to form, Jamie shook his head. “I don’t need it.”

Caitrina looked at Mor, silently telling her that she would give it to him—even if she had to pour it down his throat.

The old nursemaid harrumphed and bustled out the door, muttering about fool lads and their pride, leaving Caitrina alone with her husband.

She bit back a smile and looked at Jamie, who seemed to be doing the same. “I don’t think she cares much for your manly display of fortitude.”

Jamie chuckled. “I think you are right, but that is not why I refused her medicine. I don’t like how it makes me feel. I’d rather bear pain than lapse into a drug-induced stupor.”

Always on guard, she thought. After what had happened today, she could hardly blame him.

Alone now and safe, she was suddenly hit by the reality of all that had happened. Worry had propped up her composure, and now that she knew he would be all right, she was unable to hold her emotions in check. She needed him. Needed to feel his solid strength against her. Needed to assure herself that he was still here. Needed to blot out the moment of gut-wrenching fear that she would lose him, too.

Careful not to jog his shoulder, she laid her cheek on his bare chest, savoring the warm smoothness of his skin and taking comfort in the steady beat of his heart. She’d startled him with her touch, but only for a second, and then his body relaxed under her. “I was so scared,” she confessed tremulously. “God, you could have been killed.”

He stroked her hair, the strong hands that could wield a weapon with deadly purpose as gentle and comforting as a mother to a babe. “But I wasn’t. Though it would have been a price I would willingly pay.”

She sat up, eyes wild. “Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that. I can’t go through it again. My father, my brothers . . .” Tears slid down her cheeks. She’d loved her family so much, and they’d been taken from her. How could she risk that heartbreak again? She knew what he did, the constant danger he faced. It filled her with icy terror. “I can’t lose you, too. Promise me—”

“You won’t,” he soothed, dragging her back down against him.

They were quiet for a moment, with only the sound of her uneven breathing and occasional sniffle as her tears abated to fill the silence. It was a promise they both knew he couldn’t keep. They lived in a world where death was a way of life—especially for a warrior.