“Oh,” Tildy repeated, more calmly, and pressed a hand to her chest as she shook her head. “Nothing. ’Tis just that for a moment I thought yer father’s eyes were open and he was awake. But it must have been a trick o’ the shadows in here. He’s sound asleep still.”
Evina glanced down at her father. His eyes were closed, his face in repose. Bending over him, she pressed a hand to his cheek, relieved to feel how much cooler he was. Good Lord, Rory Buchanan was a miracle worker. He’d only arrived the night before and her father was already improving, she thought, and then smiled when he moaned and turned his face into her caress. “Da?”
His eyes blinked open slowly and settled on her face. “Daughter?”
Evina winced at the rasp to his voice, but nodded. “Aye.”
“I’ll fetch him some mead to wet his whistle,” Tildy murmured, hurrying for the door.
“How are ye feeling?” Evina asked, settling on the edge of the bed and watching him with a combination of worry and relief. He was awake. He was not fully recovered yet and was still ailing, but she never thought she’d see him even this well again.
“Better than I did yesterday,” he growled, lifting one hand weakly before letting it drop back to the bed.
Evina took his hand in hers and squeezed gently.
Her father shifted restlessly, and then scowled and asked, “Who was the man trying to drown me in me bath?”
Evina frowned, a combination of concern and confusion rising within her at the question, and then understanding pushed the expression away, and answered, “Rory Buchanan. He was no’ trying to drown ye. He was trying to cool ye off.”
“The water was ice cold,” he complained.
“Aye. Donnan told me the Buchanan said ’twas necessary to get yer temperature down,” she said soothingly. “And it worked. Ye’re much better today.”
Her father grunted at the claim, and then asked, “How did he get here?”
“Who?” Evina stalled.
“The Buchanan,” he growled impatiently. “Who do ye think?”
“Oh, aye,” she muttered, and forced a smile as she admitted, “Well, I took Donnan and Gavin with me and fetched him.”
“And he came willingly?” the Maclean asked, eyes narrowing as if he knew something about the way the man had got here.
Evina hesitated, several responses coming to mind, including the truth, but in the end, she simply said, “He is willing to help ye, Father, and we are lucky he is. Tildy and I had tried all that we could think of and nothing was working to get yer fever down. Yet he’s achieved that in one night.”
“Hmm,” he muttered, and shifted restlessly before asking, “And where is he now?”
“Below breaking his fast,” she answered at once.
“By himself?”
She blinked at the question, surprised by it. “Well, aye. He’s taking a break and I am sitting with ye while he eats.”
“Hmm,” he grunted, and then narrowed his eyes and asked, “What is he like?”
Evina sat back slightly, startled by the question. “He seems very . . . competent,” she finished finally because, really, she hadn’t spent much time with the man. At least, not while he was conscious. What she had seen of him conscious, aside from that he was an amazing kisser, which she would never tell her father, was that he was apparently well-hung. That was something else she would never tell her father.
“And?” her father prodded.
“And what?” she asked uncertainly.
“Surely there is more to the man than his being competent,” he said with exasperation.
“Aye, well . . . he’s bossy,” Evina added, irritation beginning to prick at her as she recalled his ordering her from her own father’s room as if he had a right to. She almost told her father that the man had bit her too, and tried to drown Gavin, but that would mean explaining how he’d come to be there, so she kept the information to herself. It didn’t stop her from thinking about it and getting irritated herself though.
“Hmm.”
The sound drew her gaze to her father to see that he was eyeing her closely.
“Well,” he said finally, “even so, he should no’ be left to eat on his own. He’s a guest here. Ye should go keep him company. Tildy can sit with me,” he added before she could protest, and as if the sound of her name had conjured her up, the bedchamber door opened and Tildy bustled back in with the drink she’d gone to fetch.
“Go on,” her father said, tugging his hand free of hers. “Keep the lad company, else he might feel unwelcome and leave ere he finishes healing me.”
Evina peered from her father to the maid and back, but then sighed and stood. Her father had taught her that hospitality was important here in the inhospitable north of Scotland. Besides, if he was willing to put up with Tildy’s company to get her to leave, he was serious about this. Her father usually avoided the maid like the plague.
“I’ll come sit with ye again later,” Evina murmured, heading for the door.
“While ye’re down there, ask the Buchanan if the laird can have something to eat now he’s awake,” Tildy suggested. “I should have done it meself, but did no’ think o’ it until just now.”
“Aye,” Evina murmured, and stepped out of the room. She pulled the door quietly closed and then walked to the top of the stairs. With one hand on the rail, she looked down over the busy great hall until she spotted Rory Buchanan seated alone at the high table. One of the maids must have directed him there, she supposed.
Evina stared at him silently, her mind battling with itself. While part of her wanted to go below, throw herself at him and get him to give her some more of those kisses she’d enjoyed so much, the rest of her was horrified that she’d let him kiss her at all. She didn’t even like the man, for heaven’s sake. He’d tried to drown Gavin, and then he’d bit her, and yes, perhaps there were good explanations for those two things—well, at least the drowning-Gavin part, Evina supposed. She couldn’t think of a good excuse for his biting her. But none of that mattered anyway, because there was no good excuse for his throwing her out of her own father’s room last night. Or for the insulting way he’d done so. In her own home! And when she was so obviously worried sick about the man.
Nay. She didn’t want to go anywhere near Rory Buchanan again. Unfortunately, her father had just ordered her to. She watched Donnan approach the man and knew that he was doing so only because the Buchanan was all alone. He was taking up her hostess duties in her absence, she acknowledged with shame, and started down the stairs.
“How’s he doing?”
Conran glanced to the large man who had just settled on the bench beside him.
Donnan. The Maclean’s first. A huge bull of a man who he was coming to realize was as wise as he was big. A rare combination. Men of this soldier’s size generally didn’t have smarts to go along with their brawn. But this man had said and done a couple things while they’d worked at cooling down Fearghas last night that had made Conran think he might be an exception to that rule.
“Better,” he said finally, realizing the soldier was still awaiting an answer. “He is no’ out o’ the woods yet, but his fever has gone down quite a bit.”