Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(37)

When they saw her, they rose to their feet, any sign of fatigue quickly wiped away.

“I have need of your aid,” she whispered. “The laird is in pain and ’tis time for another potion. I cannot do it myself.”

“Of course, mistress,” Geoffrey said. “Deaglan and I will see to the matter.”

The men followed her back inside, and Deaglan collected the small cup that held the mixture he’d concocted. With Geoffrey’s help, they held Bowen’s head and shoulders up enough that they could tilt the cup into his mouth.

Bowen coughed and sputtered, but most of the liquid went down.

They settled Bowen back onto the bed and then turned to Genevieve.

“He should rest easy for the next several hours,” Deaglan said. “If you have need to return to your chamber, we will keep watch until you return.”

She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Whether it was an offer for her to rest or a suggestion because she stank of blood and sweat from the earlier battle. Either way, she must look a mess and, truth be told, she would appreciate the opportunity to wash.

“I should like to take a moment to change my clothing and rid myself of the smell of blood,” she said with a faint smile. “I shall return in a short while.”

Both men nodded, and she quickly retreated from the chamber to go next door to her own.

Stripping out of her clothing, she went to the small basin along the wall and poured water from the pitcher into the washing bowl. She’d love a full bath—it might take two to scrub the blood, dirt, and smell of death from her body—but she dare not risk venturing outside the keep, not only because of the dangers presented by a possible attack but from the McHughs themselves.

She had no way of gauging the current mood of the clan, or if Brodie had indeed uncovered more traitors than the one who had tried to murder Bowen. It was a sure bet that by now word would have spread as to her part in Meagan’s husband’s death and that she’d singled him out as a betrayer.

Having intelligence didn’t signal being a coward. A smart lass knew when to stay out of direct fire, and she had no intention of braving the McHugh clan until she was certain as to what occurred after the attack on the keep.

She brushed her hair and took a washing cloth to the long strands, scrubbing as best she could the dirt and matted blood from her tresses. When she was reasonably satisfied with the result, she donned a clean dress and then sank onto her bed. A bed that she still marveled was her own. That she didn’t have to share with anyone or fear that she would have unwanted bodies there.

She lay her head down and closed her eyes, enjoying the comfort of her pillow. It was heaven. And yet she’d slept so soundly next to Bowen. It was an oddity she wasn’t sure she understood.

Never did she sleep too soundly. Too many times she had awakened to Ian’s abuse, and she’d learned to always be prepared—even in sleep—for the worst. But the entire keep could have been laid siege to over the last hours and she wouldn’t have known.

Surely it was because she was exhausted from the stress of the day, as well as from the mind-numbing task of stitching Bowen’s wounds.

It had been no easy feat, and there had been extraordinary pressure for her to seal the wound properly. One misstep could have earned her serious reprimand and censure. She shuddered to think what her punishment might have been.

One of the ties securing the furs over the window had loosened, and a light breeze lifted the end, allowing the first faint shades of dawn into the room. Soon the keep would be alive with activity, though she was uneasy about the sort of goings-on that would be initiated.

’Twould be best if she remained here or in Bowen’s room until such time as she was forced out. She had no desire to face what awaited her. She was delaying the inevitable, but at the moment, she cared not. She was more concerned with her self-preservation than with anything else.

When a knock sounded at her door, her dread immediately intensified. She scolded herself for being so quick to draw conclusions. It could simply be one of Bowen’s men, seeking a report on his condition. Or Brodie himself come to ask how Bowen had fared through the night.

As she was attempting to right herself enough so that she could rise from the bed, the door swung open and she frowned at the breach of her privacy. Not that she’d been guaranteed any such thing. But she’d assumed, and she should have learned better by now.

Relief was instant when she saw it was Taliesan poking her head through the door. Genevieve immediately smiled in welcome, happy to see a friendly face.

“Oh, ’tis good you’re awake. I much wanted to speak to you regarding the laird’s condition and what is happening within the clan,” Taliesan said. “May I enter?”

“Of course,” Genevieve said, motioning her forward.

She patted the edge of the bed encouragingly, aware that she’d never been so openly inviting to another person in all her time here.

Taliesan seemed delighted with the overture and limped over, her gait much quicker and smoother this morn. Genevieve hoped that meant Taliesan’s leg wasn’t paining her as much as usual.

Taliesan settled on the bed next to Genevieve and impulsively reached over to hug her.

“What was that for?” Genevieve asked in bewilderment. But she found she didn’t mind the affectionate gesture at all. It made her feel … wanted. Liked.