Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(40)

He nodded at Geoffrey and Deaglan, exchanging a few low words that she couldn’t hear—although Brodie kept gifting her with the strangest looks.

When he was done with his brief conversation, he walked toward the bed. There was a peculiar light in his eyes, one she wanted to question him about, but she stifled the urge. There were some things she’d rather not know.

“How does he fare?” Brodie asked in a low voice.

Genevieve set her plate aside on the small table by Bowen’s bed.

“He has settled. Geoffrey and Deaglan gave him another potion after he became agitated. ’Twas obvious he was in pain.”

“And fever?”

She shook her head. “Nay, he is still cool to the touch. My hope is that the next time he awakens the pain will have subsided enough that he doesn’t require further sedation. If God is willing, he’ll pull through and be back on his feet in a short time.”

Brodie nodded, his features easing. He looked tired. As though he’d not slept the night before, and ’twas likely he hadn’t, given all she’d heard from Taliesan. She bit her lip to prevent the inevitable questions from bursting out. She wanted to ask him about the McHugh traitors. What the mood of the McHugh clan was, and if he feared another attack. And, most important, would he and the remaining warriors from the Montgomery and Armstrong clans be capable of fending off yet another attempt to reclaim the keep?

“You did a fine job, Genevieve. Bowen will owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Nay,” she refuted softly. She knew better.

“I have matters to attend, and ’tis important we keep careful watch on the borders,” Brodie said. “Summon me when he awakens and alert me if his condition worsens.”

“Aye, I will.”

He touched her shoulder briefly with his hand, and then he was gone before she could react to his gesture.

She sagged when Brodie departed the chamber. What a fraud she was, playing savior, making herself important.

Though none would likely believe it, she had no ulterior motive for helping Bowen Montgomery. She knew that she would answer for her actions, regardless of her role in keeping Bowen alive.

Despite all the wrong that had been done to her, she still had a burning sense of right and wrong. Perhaps her view was not shared by others, but it was what she thought that mattered to her. She could only control her own actions, and, if she could help it, she would not act with dishonor, for to do so would make her no better than Ian or Patrick, or the countless others who’d made the choice to sell their loyalty.

Deaglan and Geoffrey rose from their places by the fire. Deaglan stood by Bowen’s bed long enough to offer his and Geoffrey’s services should they be needed, and the two quit the room to resume their posts outside the door.

The chamber was once again blanketed in silence, and Genevieve sat staring at Bowen as he rested with ease.

Tentatively, she slid her fingers over Bowen’s warm hand that was palm down on the mattress.

“I know you sleep, Laird,” she whispered. “But ’tis my wish for you to recover even though I must answer for my actions when you awaken. You are the only hope for this clan. For me. I would have you live so that you may see this clan through the coming days. I do not want Ian and Patrick to win, though they are both dead and lie in cold graves.”

She left her hand covering his, enjoying something so simple as an innocent touch. Completely harmless. His warmth bled into her cold hand, warming all the way into her arm.

He moved her in a way that was unfamiliar to her. She felt none of the loathing, fear, or disgust that she felt with Ian or the others with whom he tortured her.

He left her hungry, for what she couldn’t be certain, but he instilled an ache deep within her soul, for no matter what he decided her fate to be, she knew him to be an honorable man.

Aye, she would be at peace whatever his edict. She deserved his anger and censure. She had done the terrible thing he’d accused her of, and yet he hadn’t come to her in rage, making threats, and neither had he abused her.

He simply asked her if what he’d learned was true. And when had anyone questioned her before rendering judgment?

For that he had her respect. She only hated that she couldn’t deny his claims.

Having forgotten the warm water she’d requested, she hurried to the fire, where the pitcher had been placed, hoping it hadn’t chilled too much.

After dipping a finger into it and finding it still warm, she dipped several cloths into it and then laid them by the fire so they would be comfortable on Bowen’s skin.

When she returned to Bowen’s bedside, she carefully unwound the linen strips from his arm and examined the cut. She then cleaned it with the warm cloths, watching all the while for signs that he’d awakened.

After cleaning the wound to her satisfaction, she wrapped it in clean dressings and directed her attention to the stitches on his chest.

She wiped away crusted blood and placed a heated compress over the length of the cut.

Appeased that she’d done everything in her power to ensure his comfort, she settled back in her chair, weariness assailing her.

She would stand guard by his bedside, her prayers lifting to heaven for his quick recovery. Until she was forced away, she would remain here, Bowen’s own guardian.

She’d prayed often enough for a champion of her own, and until now, her prayers had remained unanswered. Although it was likely Bowen would no longer champion her cause, she would hold dear the memory of the gentle warrior and his careful treatment of her for the rest of her days.