“Nay, ye must remain with your men.” She dried her hands on her skirts, trying not to look at the blood on her gown.
“I will leave the men in Sorley’s capable hands.”
“’Haps he wants to go home to his woman.” If she were he, she would.
“Then Fin’s.”
Fiona swiped at her eyes. “Only for a little while. And then I will come back.”
“All right.” Brogan rubbed his thumb over her chin.
“Ye need no’ stay with me.”
“I’m never leaving ye again.”
“Aye, but ye will. This is no’ a real marriage, Brogan. Ye said so yourself.”
The smile faded from his face, and he took on a fierce seriousness. “But what if I want it to be real? I told ye I love ye, and I didna lie.”
She frowned, his words lodging in her chest and surprisingly warming her, but she tried to put a box around them. Ice, something to keep them from overheating her insides. “And I told ye that ye canna love me.”
“Ye canna tell me what to do,” he teased, poking the tip of her nose.
Fiona bit her lip, denying the emotion welling in her chest, for she was fairly certain what she’d been feeling for weeks now was love, too, but she just couldn’t come out and say it. Didn’t want him to feel trapped.
“I want for ye only what ye want,” she whispered, repeating his words.
“Then ye must want for me to want ye, because, sweet love, I do.” He leaned forward, his lips pressing to hers, soft, gentle, warm.
Brogan’s scent, his strength, surrounded her, and she sank into him, the fear and anxiety of the past hours dissipating some and easing into a few moments of peace.
He loved her. And she loved him. They were both alive.
What more could she ask for?
Seventeen
Fiona was curled into Brogan’s lap atop his mount as they made their way back toward Dòchas Keep. Milla trotted at their side. It’d be several days before they arrived, and for the better part of a few hours now, he’d kept his eyes peeled for a tavern that wasn’t teeming with dragoons or enough Scots to question their arrival and intentions.
After the prince found out about Cameron, everyone at camp was thoroughly vetted, themselves included, to find that no one else had traitorous thoughts on their minds. Even MacDonald. Sorley had indeed returned to Dunvegan for a short sojourn with his wife, while the rest of their men had remained with the prince and would go on to the find the ship with Fin in charge.
Eventually they would all meet up again, but right now Fiona was Brogan’s priority.
“Did the men make mention of who they were or why they would try to take ye?” he asked.
She shook her head, snuggling close. “No’ a word.”
Brogan frowned and pressed his lips to the top of her head. He’d not recognized any of the men, not that he’d expected to, but they were on Grant lands, and being they were Scots he half expected them to be part of his clan gone rogue or in league with his father.
With the prince lying only a few feet away in a cave, it was surprising they’d gone after Fiona.
Smoke curled from the trees perhaps a mile or so away, and he headed in that direction, hoping it was a tavern and not a burned-out croft.
The road curved into a small village, and they approached the inn, watching the town with cautious eyes. Like some other towns they’d passed, it was quiet, eerily so, most people keeping indoors and away from the eyes of any passing redcoats.
“We’ll see if they have a room to let and at the verra least grab a bite to eat.”
Fiona nodded, and he dismounted, reaching up to assist her down. She winced when he set her on her feet, and he wanted to pick her right back up again. He started to do just that, but she stopped him.
“I can manage, if ye let me hold your arm.”
“Of course, but if it becomes too much, ye need only tell me and I’ll carry ye.”
“Thank ye.” She smiled shyly and ducked her head.
The tavern was mostly empty save for a few locals, and the proprietor was more than happy to have someone rent the room upstairs since they’d not had many people coming and going of late.
“I can have your meal brought up and then your lady willna have to sit with the animals,” the man said with a little laugh.
“We’d like that, thank ye,” Brogan said with a nod.
“How many horses?”
“Two. And a hound.”
Though Fiona had not ridden her own, they’d taken it all the same for when she was able to ride.
“We’ve got plenty of room for them too. Will cost ye a wee bit extra though for my groom to take care of them.”
“’Tis fine,” Brogan agreed.
The man showed them to a chamber abovestairs that had seen better days, and apologized for that while they profusely told him it was fine. For it was. A roof over their heads, a door to lock, a warm meal coming.
They were grateful, relieved. Milla snuck up the stairs behind them and slipped into the room before the innkeeper could complain.
Fiona sagged back on the bed, her skirt up a little, revealing her boots but not her ankle.
“Can I look?”
“Are ye a doctor now, sir?” she teased.
Brogan approached the foot of the bed, kneeling before her. “No’ a doctor, but I’ve seen plenty of men injured.”
“Have your fill.” Her gaze was on him as he unlaced her boot and carefully pulled it off, then rolled down her hose, his fingers brushing over silky skin.
Brogan sucked in a breath at the sight of her purple and swollen ankle.
“Looks worse than it feels,” she offered, gazing down at the puffy appendage.
He doubted that. “Looks awful.”
With gentle fingers, he probed the wound, and she winced, hissing a breath. Milla approached, giving Fiona’s leg a little lick before sitting to watch him examine her mistress.
“Doesna feel broken though, which I feared.”
“Aye.”
He glanced up at Fiona, who looked to be trying hard to mask her pain. “Should be better in a fortnight.”
“Let’s pray.”
Brogan bent down without thinking and pressed his lips to the purple of her ankle.
“I’m no’ sure ye want to do that, no’ with me having been wearing my boots all day. I’m bound to smell.”