Then, in the distance, he saw smoke from a hearth, and he dug his heels into his horse’s side, ignoring his men.
Thank fook this village had a tavern. As he threw himself from the saddle, clutching Robena to him, Kester found himself praying there were rooms upstairs for rent. He left his men to care for his exhausted horse and strode inside.
Cradling the woman he loved, he planted his boots and glared at the man who’d frozen in the middle of stirring something thick and bubbling over the fire.
“A room, now!” he demanded. “A fire, and a big bowl of whatever that is!” Once Robena woke—and she would wake—she’d be hungry, for certes.
The Murray man just gaped at him.
Did he recognize Kester? He recognized the MacBain plaid, undoubtedly, but would that be trouble? It didn’t matter; Kester would gladly forfeit his freedom—his very life—to keep Robena safe.
Slowly, the man straightened, wiping his hands on his apron. “Aye, milord, but—“
“Now!” repeated Kester, hefting Robena so her head lolled against his shoulder.
“But this is soap, milord.”
A cautious sniff confirmed that, aye, there were more florals and less meat in the pot than necessary for a stew.
“Then a bowl of something edible,” he snapped. “The fire is more important.”
As Kester took the stairs two at a time behind the proprietor, Robena began to shiver. That was a good sign, aye? That she was waking? For certes, as the Murray man began to build up the fire in the small room, Kester was gratified to see her open her eyes, her gaze dazed, as she tried to determine where she was.
“Shh, lass,” he whispered against her hair, trying to take her shivering into his own body and grant her some warmth. “’Twill be aright.”
But would it?
Aye, she was alive, but he’d come so close to losing her. Now that she was safe, Kester’s body was reacting to what might’ve happened.
He was barely aware of the proprietor’s words as the man bowed his way out the door, knowing Pudge or Giric would pay the man whatever he asked, since the proprietor didn’t realize the MacBains had originally come to Murray land to cause mischief.
Now, Robena was all that mattered.
Whispering nonsensical promises and cursing his heavy hands, Kester stripped Robena’s plaid from her waist and pulled her soaked shirt over her head. He had no time to hang them properly, and instead turned his attention to the bindings around her breasts.
She was unable to help, standing there before the hearth, clinging to him, shivering so hard he thought she might fall over. She gave no indication she saw him or understood what had happened, and each moment that passed without her being warm seemed a lifetime.
Finally, in frustration, Kester pulled his dagger from his side and sliced through the wrappings, leaving them to fall to the floor as he scooped her up.
Tucking her into bed was difficult because she couldn’t seem to release him. And, truth be told, he didn’t want to let her go either.
Ever.
“Hold a moment, Robena,” he whispered gruffly, knowing where he belonged.
Sure enough, as soon as he stripped out of his sword belt, boots, and shirt and climbed into the bed with her, she latched onto him as if her life depended on it.
Mayhap it did.
He wrapped himself around her, and slowly her shivers subsided. Thank fook ‘twas summertime, even if late in the season, and the water hadn’t been truly frigid. But ‘twas only his stupidity in allowing his men—and himself—one last adventure, which had resulted in Robena’s current state.
“I’m sorry, lass. Ye’ll never ken how sorry. I should never have agreed to this.”
“Dinnae blame yerself.”
Her voice startled him enough to pull back and peer down into her eyes. Her half-grin was wry, and she pressed her cold palms to his back, as if encouraging him to return to her.
“Kester, I wanted to come along as much as the rest of yer men. I was just stupid enough to risk my life for my pipes—“ She stiffened with a gasp. “My pipes?”