Afterwards, they lay together, spooned warmly beneath the fur. He sighed with contentment, nestling against her as he settled in for the long sleep denied him. And while he slept, he held her tightly, not like a whore, but like a lover.
She felt that, too. Her feelings she had for him hadn’t subsided. Love, it must be, though she dared not name it. And maybe not so inexplicable after all.
Though Malcolm was a quiet man, he was a man of deep emotions. A man who was fiercely protective, and stoically strong. A man who needed her, perhaps as no one had ever needed her. A man who might love her in return.
When they awakened together, later in the day, Malcolm whispered soft endearments in Gaelic. And when she whispered them back, he said, “I canna marry you lass.”
“I know,” she replied. “I wouldn’t make a good wife to any man…”
“You’re wrong. You would make a perfect wife for me, because I love you.”
Her heart stopped. “You do?”
Kissing her hair, her ear, the side of her neck, he whispered, “Aye. After Lorna, I didn’t think I could feel this way again about any woman. But there is no denying I do love you. Truly.”
She sighed. Not with sorrow, but with happiness. It seemed the most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to her. And of course, it was.
“I would marry you, Arabella. And make a family together. It is only the vow I made never to marry again. I canna break it.”
She would be his mistress. His harlot. His whore. Gladly. “Then does it matter if we marry? Malcolm, I—”
“Don’t say it,” Malcolm whispered. “If you would declare your love for me, I cannot hear it, because it will break me.”
Arabella turned to face him. Her eyes searching out answers in his dark, inscrutable gaze. “Why should it break you?”
“Because Davy loves you too. And unlike me, he can make an honest woman of you.”
Chapter Twelve
“You have the wrong herb,” Arabella said to the overtaxed physicker as he tended the wounded men in the makeshift infirmary.
“What?” the harried man said, with nary a glance at her.
“You wanted mistletoe,” Arabella replied. “But you grabbed the jar with the whortleberry.”
He looked down, his eyes widening with surprise. “So I did…”
Arabella, who had spent the afternoon making bandages and tending to wounded men, pressed her lips together. She needed this distraction. Needed it very much, given the way her heart ached for Malcolm. Given what he’d said about Davy making an honest woman of her. And she would be vexed if the physicker sent her away.
“How did you know I wanted mistletoe?” the physicker asked.
“Because the man you’re treating has gone into seizures,” she whispered, waiting for the inevitable accusation of witchcraft.
Instead, the physicker nodded and went about his business, letting Arabella help him where she could, until her stomach was growling so loudly, he said, “Go to the kitchens and get yourself something to eat.”
But the kitchen girls turned her away, saying that she’d been asked for in the main hall.
Arabella had never been to dine in the castle proper. Never thought to be included at the tables with the notables and retainers. But as her sister was seated with the laird at his table, as if she were his lady, Arabella had a place in the hall, too. It was Davy who saved a place for her, offering her the choices bits of food.
He was always so careful with her, so accommodating. And whenever she was frightened, his bright smile had eased her fears. Even now, he sought to cheer her. “We’re rationing,” he explained, as if to excuse their meal. “But it’s a wee bit better than porridge!”
In truth, it was finer food than Arabella had ever tasted in her life, excepting, of course, her sister’s meat pies. A thing she hungered for, even as she nibbled at fresh fragrant bread and a dish of cabbage with smoked ham. It was autumn, the blood season, when the animals who could not be fed were sacrificed for meat. But all that would have to be smoked and preserved to see them over the winter.
That was, of course, about as much as Arabella knew about domestic matters—reminding her once again what a poor daughter she had been and what a poor wife she would make. She couldn’t believe what Malcolm had intimated; that Davy—Davy of all people—might intend to propose marriage to her.
If he had ever said such a thing, it was surely said in jest. For Davy’s sense of humor was always a bit off. And yet, sitting at a table with him for a meal, she realized it was more than his sense of humor that was off. Not a bawdy tale escaped his lips, and instead of drinking and swearing and laughing as he might normally do, he griped, “I hate sieges.”
“Not dangerous enough for you, Davy?” asked a brawny warrior, taking a big mouthful of bread. “There was a skirmish yesterday morning. Some men badly hurt.”