He shook the shirt. “Should I set it on the table?”
Her mouth suddenly turned as arid as a hot pan with no water. She licked her lips and plucked the clothing from his grasp. “I’ll do it.” She turned her back to him on the pretense of folding the shirt. You are here to tend his wound and that is all. She steeled her nerves with a deep inhale. “Tell me what happened.” After she pulled a cloth from her basket, she swathed his wound. It was still weeping, but thankfully the heavy bleeding had stopped.
“I suppose it was my fault.” Eoin held up his palms and shrugged. “Sir Aleck came into the courtyard and I needled him a bit for not being present for our training sessions. It turned into a challenge and, the next thing I knew, we were throwing fists.”
“And he pulled a dagger.” She pushed against his belly to see how deep the injury went. A hand’s breadth long, it wasn’t the worst she’d seen, but the cut needed to be tended for certain.
He hissed. “Aye. I should have been expecting him to pull a blade.”
“Why? I heard the part where you said no weapons.”
He hesitated and pursed his lips, but Helen gave him her inquisitive eye—it worked on everyone but Aleck.
Eoin gave her a lopsided grin. “Some people don’t like to play fair.”
“That would be Aleck MacIain.”
“Aye, m’lady,” he whispered, a touch of color flooded to his cheeks as if he were embarrassed to admit to it.
She fished in her basket for a bone needle and thread. “It needn’t bother you to speak the truth.”
“No, m’lady.” His voice rasped.
“Your wound must be stitched.” Helen held up a needle and threaded it.
“I can think of no gentler hands to tend me.”
She regarded him over her shoulder. His chin was slightly lowered and he looked up to meet her gaze. There was a hunger in that crystal-blue stare, fringed by long, dark lashes. It was Helen’s turn to flush. From the heat spreading across her cheeks, she knew she must be as red as a berry. If he asks, I’ll say the room is overwarm.
She stepped into him. “Shall I call for some whisky?”
He continued to stare. “Nay, it’ll be fine.”
Helen swallowed and ignored those piercing blues, at least tried to make a pretense of doing so. “S-sir Aleck always ensures he has plenty of drink before being stitched.”
“Do you stitch him often?”
“I did once, but now he has…someone else tend to his ills.”
Eoin’s gaze narrowed and he looked at her with a concerned expression. Then he grasped her chin and examined the bruising around her eye. “It has almost completely faded.”
She turned her head away so he couldn’t see the eye. “I’ve been trying to keep it hidden.”
He smoothed his hand over her cheek—the one without the bruise. His fingers, though rough, were gentle—so unlike Aleck’s. If only things had been different for her.
“I’m sorry you’ve been unhappy,” he said, making her heart skip a beat.
She smiled and knelt, holding up the needle. “Are you ready?” Heaven help her, he smelled of the sea on a warm summer’s day.
“Aye.” And his deep burr curled off his tongue like a lazy wave.
Helen forced herself to focus on the task at hand, lest she hurt him. She carefully used her thumb and pointer finger to pinch Eoin’s flesh together, trying to keep her hands steady. “Things are not half so lonely now that I have Maggie.”
He chuckled. “How is the bairn?”
“She’s healthy. Growing too fast.” She made the first suture.
Eoin didn’t even hiss. “Wee ones have a way of doing that.”
“I suppose they do, though this is the only time I’ve had the opportunity to see it first-hand.” She tied off the second suture.
He tugged a strand of hair from beneath her veil and twirled it around his finger. “Does she have honeyed locks like her mother?”
Helen almost didn’t want to say. “’Tis black with silken curls.” Helen whipped two more stitches. “She’ll be a bonny lass, for certain.” Then her face fell with thoughts of the miserable life her daughter might endure because of her beauty.
Eoin released her hair. “Why so glum?” The MacGregor Chieftain was too perceptive and too disconcerting.
Helen couldn’t help but heave a sigh. “Aleck aims to make an alliance by marrying Maggie off as soon as her menses show.”
She must have stabbed Eoin with the next stitch because the muscles across his abdomen contracted. He let out a grunt. “I’ll wager you’re not happy with the prospect of seeing her married so young.”
Helen tied the last knot. “I would do anything to keep her from an unhappy marriage.”
She snipped the thread and Eoin took in a deep breath. “At least you have a dozen years or more before you must worry about that.”
“Aye.” I’ll have a dozen years to keep her away from Aleck’s lash, too.
“I’d like to see her,” Eoin said as if he cared not if the bairn was a lass or lad.
Something warm flickered within Helen’s breast. “You would?”
He puzzled. “Why have you not brought her to the great hall? Everyone is fond of a glimpse at a wee bairn.”
Another deep sigh slid through her lips. “Everyone except Sir Aleck, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t understand.” Eoin knit his brows, looking rather dangerous. “True, he wanted a lad, but he has a lass to love until a boy is born.”
Helen’s throat closed. If only Aleck could be half as sensible as Eoin. She fished in her basket and pulled out a small stoneware pot. “This salve has avens oil to help you heal.” She couldn’t bring herself to apply it. Smoothing her fingers over his warm and banded flesh was more than she could bear.
He took the pot and his finger brushed hers. It was as if he’d taken a feather and teased her with it. She wrapped her hand around the finger to staunch the tingling. Why on earth did Eoin MacGregor disarm her with a simple touch? Yes, it had been an eternity since she’d had such a friendly conversation with a man, but must a mere brush of his fingertip send her insides into a maelstrom of fluttering butterflies? Helen picked up her basket and dipped into a curtsey. “You’d best find that shirt before you catch your death.” Or you make all the women in the castle swoon into a heap of worthless mush.
Eoin let out a long breath as he watched Helen stroll out of the antechamber. Holy Mother Mary and all the saints, whether coming or going, the lady was a vision to behold. A married vision nonetheless. He still couldn’t believe he sat there and wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger. Then it was all he could do not to hold it to his nose and inhale.
Devil’s bones, he’d acted like a lovesick fool. He wasn’t in love. Even if he were—which he definitely was not—the lady embodied the metaphor of forbidden fruit. Worse, she had to be married to the most insufferable arse in the Highlands. Without a doubt, this was the most god-awful assignment Eoin had endured since he’d joined with the Campbells and the Highland Enforcers.
Christ, his gut hurt worse now than it had after MacIain sliced his dagger across it. The miserable backstabber. That’ll teach me. I should have been wearing an arming doublet and hauberk.