Never Seduce a Scot (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #1)(78)

Bowen and Teague had given up trying to bully her into resting. She didn’t even know how she was able to remain conscious herself. It was through sheer force of will that she was able to remain upright to tend to Graeme.

She even refused to have Nigel look her over after her fall from Graeme’s horse. She could see for herself that she was bruised from head to toe. But nothing felt broken. She was stiff and sore, and if she moved too quickly, she wanted to scream in pain, but she kept mostly to Graeme’s bedside and she could handle the discomfort caused by soreness just fine.

It was likely she was back to being considered completely mad by the people of Graeme’s clan, but she cared not. She stoutly refused to allow anyone into his chamber save his brothers, Rorie, Father Drummond, or Nigel.

Graeme was … hers. The only person in his clan who’d made her welcome from the very start. He’d fought for her. He’d stood on the hillside and pleaded with her for a chance to make her happy. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so rooted in her own misery, her husband wouldn’t even now be lying in his bed with a stitched wound from an arrow.

She felt selfish and humbled and so very guilty. Someone from her own clan had tried to murder her husband. No one in the Montgomery clan had done something so dastardly. They may have mocked her, they may have worked her to the bone. But no one had ever actually tried to harm her. They may not have accepted her, but they’d never raised a hand to her.

And yet her own clan had done something so evil, she wanted to weep.

The sun hadn’t yet risen on the second day after Graeme’s injury and Eveline sat by his bed, cold and aching. She needed to tend the fire, but she’d been afraid of making the chamber overly warm if Graeme took a fever.

He’d awakened a moment during the night and he seemed to recognize her. He’d even spoken, but his lips had barely moved and she hadn’t been able to read what he’d said. Frustrated with her inability to hear him, she’d leaned over and tried to prod him into speaking more clearly, but he’d slipped back into unconsciousness.

She touched his forehead and found it hot and dry to the touch. Icy dread filled her chest. She’d prayed ceaselessly that he wouldn’t take a fever. She’d cleaned and rebandaged his wound many times in an effort to prevent swelling and redness.

Nigel had a deft hand and the stitches were tight and clean, effectively sealing the wound so the flesh would heal. The knock to Graeme’s head hadn’t opened the flesh enough that it required stitching, but there was a large bump that worried Eveline.

She knew well the damage an injury to the head could cause.

It took every bit of her strength and resolve to push herself up from the bed so she could hurry to dampen cloths for his forehead. She felt like a woman in the advanced stage of her life, gnarled and decrepit. She even moved like an old woman, hunched over, her muscles protesting every inch of the way.

Her fingers fumbled clumsily at the pitcher of water by the washbasin. She laid several strips of cloth in the bowl and lifted the pitcher to pour water to dampen them.

After wringing them out, she hurried back to the bed and laid one across Graeme’s forehead and then set about wiping down his body with the rest of the cool cloths.

In her periphery she saw the door open and she swung her head up, prepared to defend her territory, but relaxed when she saw Bowen and Teague enter the chamber.

“How is he?” Bowen asked when he drew close enough to the bed for Eveline to see him.

“Fever,” she croaked out.

She continued to swab the cloths over Graeme’s chest, neck, and shoulders, but her own shoulders drooped with despair.

Teague touched her cheek, causing her to turn to him once more. “We must speak to you, Eveline. ’Tis very important we receive an accounting of what happened. We’ve been able to find no trace of the man you say shot Graeme.”

Dread centered in her stomach, made worse by the fact she hadn’t eaten in two days.

“Eveline?” Bowen frowned and knelt by the bed, his face level with hers. “You look fearful. You must know you’re safe here. We won’t allow any attack on the keep.”

“ ’Tis what I must tell you that upsets me,” she whispered.

Even as she spoke, she pulled away the cloth she’d been wiping over Graeme’s flesh and balled it into her hand.

Bowen reached for her hand, rubbing it between his to infuse warmth into her icy fingers.

She swallowed hard, tears crowding her eyes because she knew that what she would say would only bring her heartbreak. The family she loved had tried to murder the husband she loved. There would be no peace, because Graeme’s brothers would not allow such an attack to go unpunished. They would retaliate and there would be war.

Both clans would be branded outlaws and hunted to extinction.

It would be so easy to say nay, that she hadn’t seen anything at all, but she refused to protect a clan that had acted without honor.

They’d made a vow before God and the king. They’d signed a blood treaty. And her family had broken that sacred vow.

Teague pulled a chair from across the room and placed it next to the bed so he was sitting next to Bowen in her line of vision. He wore a heavy frown and he stared intently at her.

“What is it?” Teague demanded. “What do you know of the attack?”

She took in a deep breath and then focused on both of the brothers, praying they wouldn’t hate her for what she must confess.