Together they changed the bloody bandages on Miles’s wounds and Morag applied warm, wet, herb-filled poultices over the sewn cuts.
Miles slept again in the afternoon and Elizabeth left the little cottage for the first time. Sir Guy sat outside under a tree and only looked up in question when he saw her.
“He’s resting,” she said.
Sir Guy nodded and stared off into space. “Not many boys could fall into a pack of five boars and come out alive,” he said with pride.
There were tears in Elizabeth’s eyes as she placed a trembling hand on the giant’s shoulder. “I will do all in my power to see that he gets well.”
Sir Guy nodded, not looking at her. “You have no reason to help him. We’ve treated you badly.”
“No,” she answered. “I have been given more than courtesy; I have been given love.” W
ith that she turned away toward the stream that ran through the MacArran land. She washed, tidied her hair, sat down for a moment’s rest, wrapped in her plaid, and when she woke it was night. Sir Guy sat not far away from her.
Sleep-dazed, she hurried back to the cottage.
Miles was awake and the frown he wore disappeared when he saw her.
“There she is,” Morag scolded. “Now maybe you’ll drink some of this.”
“Elizabeth,” Miles said.
She went to him, held his head while he drank nearly a cup of the brew and continued to hold him until he fell asleep.
Chapter 13
“YOU WILL NOT WALK,” ELIZABETH SAID TO MILES WITH steely firmness. “I have lost too many nights’ sleep in trying to heal your wounds without watching you break them open.”
He looked up at her with meltingly soft eyes. “Please, Elizabeth.”
For a moment she almost relented, but stopped herself with a laugh. “You are a treacherous man. Now be still or I’ll tie you to the bed.”
“Oh?” he said, eyebrows raised.
Elizabeth blushed at what he was obviously thinking. “Behave yourself! I want you to eat more. You’ll never get well if you don’t eat.”
He caught her hand and, with surprising strength, pulled her down beside him. Or perhaps it was that Elizabeth had no will to resist him. He was half sitting up, propped on pillows against the corner of the room, his legs on the cot before him. Carefully, she stretched beside him. It had been four days since Miles had been gored but his youth and natural resistance had made him recover quickly. He was still weak, still in pain, but he was starting to heal.
“Why have you stayed with me?” he asked. “One of Bronwyn’s women could have tended me.”
“And have her jump in bed with you and tear your stitches?” she asked indignantly.
“I’ll tear my stitches if you make me laugh. How could I have touched another woman when you’re so close?”
“When I’m gone, I’m sure you’ll manage to gather your courage.”
His hand tangled in her hair, pulled her head back and his mouth took hers possessively. “Haven’t you learned yet that you’re mine?” he half growled. “When are you going to admit that?”
He didn’t give her a chance to answer as he kissed her again, and much of the worry Elizabeth’d felt in the last days went into that kiss to make it one of desperation.
The touch of cold steel against Miles’s throat made them break apart. Instinctively, he reached for his own sword but met only bare flesh under the plaid he wore.
Over them stood Roger Chatworth, his eyes full of hate, his sword pressing against the vein in Miles’s neck.
“Do not,” Elizabeth said, moving away from Miles. “Do not harm him.”
“I would like to kill all the Montgomerys,” Roger Chatworth said.