“Aye, but no’ the church,” Aileen said with a frown, and then her eyes suddenly went round.
Startled by her expression, Dwyn turned her gaze to see what had made Aileen react that way and stared blankly at Father Archibald as he entered the room. She was vaguely aware of her father greeting the man and closing the door, but most of her focus was on the Buchanan priest. Expression solemn, he crossed to the bed and murmured something to Aulay. Dwyn couldn’t hear all of what he said, but caught the words penance, anointing of the sick and viaticum, and suddenly couldn’t breathe. The priest was here to perform the sacraments for the dying, and while she knew it had to be done, it just seemed to her to push Geordie closer to death in her mind and she couldn’t bear it.
“Is he conscious?” Father Archibald asked Rory.
“I am, Father.”
Dwyn turned sharply to Geordie when he said that and was in time to see him lift his head.
“Do ye have the strength to give me yer confession, m’laird?” Father Archibald asked quietly.
When Geordie grunted in the affirmative, the priest glanced to Aulay. “Mayhap ye could move everyone to the other side o’ the room?”
“All but Rory,” Aulay said grimly. “He’ll continue to try to save his life even while ye try to save his soul.”
The moment the priest assented, Aulay started around the bed to help Jetta to her feet.
“Go ahead, Alick,” Rory said quietly. “I’ll work on his chest first.”
Alick eased Geordie onto his back, and then glanced to Dwyn.
“I have her,” Aulay said, and she turned just as he scooped her up off the bed. Alick immediately shifted to the edge of the bed and followed Aulay when he carried Dwyn to join the others now standing as close to the fireplace as possible without getting in it. They all turned their backs then, as if that would stop them hearing anything. Dwyn almost didn’t. She was sideways in Aulay’s arms and almost turned to watch Father Archibald and Geordie, but a stern look from Aulay made her turn her head to the fireplace as well. The silence on their end of the room was deafening; even so she couldn’t make out what was said at the other end of the room. It was all soft murmurs in her ear, the priest’s and Geordie’s voices hushed. It seemed to her as if eons had passed when the priest said, “Lady Dwyn?”
Aulay turned at once and then carried her across the room when the priest gestured to them.
“Geordie would like to marry ye now,” Father Archibald announced.
“Now?” Truly, Dwyn hadn’t meant to squawk the word that way, but this was not how she’d imagined her wedding. Dear God, she wore a dress that kept flashing her nipples and now barely reached her knees. Her feet were muddy and bloody. She had scratches on her arms and legs, and mussy hair from the branches that had caught at her as she’d dragged Geordie through the woods, and Dwyn was quite sure she had a fat lip from when one of her attackers had hit her. At least, it felt swollen . . . and split, she thought grimly as her tongue slid over it.
“Dwyn.”
She shifted her gaze to Geordie at that soft growl, and Aulay carried her around to set her in the bed next to him. Dwyn immediately shifted closer to his side so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice, which he couldn’t do anyway.
“Ye’re no’ getting out o’ marrying me good and proper in front o’ a priest, Dwyn Innes Buchanan,” Geordie got out in a weak, raspy voice. They were the exact words she’d barked at him in the woods. Well, except for her name, she acknowledged, and then his hand found hers and squeezed with little strength. “Marry me, lass. I love ye, and would have me name protect ye in case I canno’.”
Dwyn felt tears fill her eyes at the words, and nodded soundlessly. She didn’t hear or see Aulay call the others over, but suddenly they were surrounding the bed. Aulay, Jetta, Alick, Rory, Aileen, Una and her father. Their family. They stood witness as Father Archibald married her to Geordie Buchanan so that they were husband and wife, not just in the eyes of the law, but in the sight of God too . . . until death did they part.
Chapter 13
Geordie opened his eyes, stared at the drapes overhead and then turned his head to the side where Dwyn slept, only she wasn’t there. That made him immediately cranky. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry and his wife missing. Grand, he thought grimly, and tried to sit up, only to find he didn’t have the strength to manage it, and that trying caused a great deal of pain in his chest.
Cursing, he flopped back to lie flat and then peered down at the furs covering him. When his gaze caught on something dark on his face, and he realized he had a beard and mustache, his eyes widened incredulously and he wondered what the hell had happened. He was still trying to sort through the store of fuzzy memories in search of the answer to that when the door opened.
Turning his head sharply at the sound, he relaxed, and almost smiled when Dwyn came in. But before the smile could fully form, a scowl took its place as he realized Dwyn was walking. Hell, she was practically skipping, and looking pretty damned pleased with herself too. He opened his mouth to berate her for walking on her wounded feet, but all that came out was a dry and cracked sort of squawk. Geordie’s eyes widened in alarm at that, but Dwyn had heard, stopped walking to gape at him and suddenly hurried to the bed with a squeal of delight.
“Ye’re awake! Oh, I’m sorry I missed it, husband. I only left to use the garderobe.”
Somewhat mollified by her joy at his waking, Geordie grunted when she threw herself on him. She landed with her head on his stomach, her arms hugging his hips. It didn’t hurt so much as surprise him. As did the fact that the lass’s breasts were pressing against his groin, and his groin didn’t care. That was new, he thought with bewilderment, and opened his mouth to ask what was going on, only to emit another dry, cracked squawk.
The sound made Dwyn lift her head to look at him, and then she was up off the bed and standing next to him. The next thing he knew, she had caught him by the shoulders and managed to drag him up a bit so that his face was cuddled against her breasts as she held him there with one hand just long enough to shove a pillow behind his back. Raising him up again, she pressed him to her bosom and shoved another pillow behind him, and then did it a third time. Each time she did it Geordie stared at the tops of her breasts just visible above her neckline and inhaled her sweet scent, then frowned when he realized how little bosom there was visible above the neckline.
“There,” Dwyn said after she’d stuffed the last pillow behind him. Settling her hip on the bed beside him, she then reached for a goblet on the bedside table and moved it to his lips, holding and tipping it to help him drink.
Geordie could have wept when the sweet, cool cider slid over his tongue and filled his mouth. It was the best damned thing he’d ever tasted, he decided, and would have gulped down the entire contents, but she wouldn’t let him.
“Slowly, husband, until we see how yer stomach handles it,” Dwyn cautioned, before tipping the goblet again. She tipped it four times in a row, but then set the goblet on the bedside table again and turned to look him over with bright eyes. “I should go fetch Rory. He made me promise to get him when ye woke, but . . .” Dwyn sighed and then bent to kiss him softly, before straightening to look at him again, as she said, “’Tis so nice to finally have ye awake again. I just want to look on ye for a minute.”