Away performing his service for the king, he supposed. Or perhaps off with some lover somewhere. Maybe there was a reason Evina had been so free with him. Mayhap her marriage was miserable and her husband neglected her.
Conran shook his head slightly. It didn’t matter. She was married. He would do better to stay away from her while here. His conscience couldn’t bear his trysting with a married woman when there were so many unmarried and available women out there willing to satisfy his needs. From now on, he would keep his distance from Lady Evina MacPherson, he told himself firmly . . . and just hoped that was something he could manage.
Chapter 4
“What’s going on between ye and me daughter?”
Conran was reaching out to retrieve more bandages from the trunk he’d pulled over beside the bed when the Maclean asked that. The question startled him sufficiently that he dropped the wrappings on the floor. Cursing, he bent to pick them up and eyed the bits of dirt and pieces of rushes clinging to the formerly clean cloth. Conran tossed the soiled material aside with disgust and grabbed a clean one.
“Well?” Fearghas Maclean asked, sounding testy.
“What do ye mean?” Conran asked carefully. Nothing was going on between him and Evina. At least, nothing had gone on between them in the four days since he’d learned she was married. He’d been avoiding her like the plague since then. Fortunately, she appeared to be doing the same, making it easier for him to steer clear of the temptation she offered with her very presence.
“I ne’er see the two o’ ye together,” the Maclean growled, sounding annoyed. “She sits with me while ye eat, and leaves the minute ye return. ’Tis like ye’re avoiding each other. Are ye still mad at her for kidnapping ye and dragging ye here?”
Conran sat back to peer toward the man’s face, but since Fearghas was lying on his stomach in the bed with his head down, he couldn’t see his expression. Narrowing his eyes, Conran asked, “Ye ken about that?”
“I was awake when they first brought ye up here,” he admitted. “I heard everything. Well,” he added, his voice wry, “most o’ it anyway. I was a bit out o’ me head at the time. The fever was doing me in. But I got enough to understand ye did no’ come here willingly.”
Conran remained silent for a moment and concentrated on packing the wound, but finally said, “I am no’ angry about that. I do no’ believe she intended to kidnap me.” Well, certainly she hadn’t intended to kidnap him, he thought. He wasn’t Rory. But he didn’t even think she’d planned to kidnap Rory. “’Twas just an unfortunate turn o’ events that ended with me being knocked out, and carted here without their gaining my agreement first.”
“Hmm,” Fearghas muttered, and then asked, “So why are the two o’ ye avoiding each other?”
“Where is her husband?” Conran asked instead of answering the question.
“Her what?” The Maclean reared up on the bed, pushing his chest up with his arms and turning to gape over his shoulder at him with amazement.
“Her husband,” Conran said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I asked why she was no’ married and she said she was.”
“Oh. Aye.”
Conran caught the grief that flashed across the laird’s face, but then the Maclean allowed himself to drop back to lay flat again with a sigh. A moment passed before he answered his question though.
“Her husband’s dead.”
The words were blunt and spoken in an empty voice that told Conran how much the loss had affected Fearghas Maclean. Conran stared at the back of the man’s head, his thoughts in a mass of confusion. Part of him wanted to shout, “Yes!” at the news that Evina was widowed and so had not been messing about behind some poor husband’s back when they’d kissed on this bed. The other part though was noting that Evina’s husband had obviously been well-loved by his father-in-law, and he suspected that meant probably by Evina too. Was she still in mourning? How long ago had the husband died?
“He drowned some years back,” Fearghas added sadly as if he’d asked the question aloud. “Long enough ago I forget some days that she was ever married. And then other days I can think of little else but what happened that day. ’Twas a terrible tragedy.”
Conran returned to packing the man’s wound, but his mind was filled with Evina. She wasn’t married. She was widowed. Dear God, this changed everything. Being widowed was much better than just being unwed. It meant she was no innocent. She was a woman experienced in the bedchamber, and free to indulge in affairs if she wished. So long as they didn’t flaunt the affair too much, no one would think twice about their having one. He could stop avoiding her and start wooing her instead.
A heavy sigh drew his attention back to his patient and Conran considered him briefly. The Maclean had obviously been brought low by thinking about Evina’s husband’s death. Which made him feel like a bit of an ass for being so grateful that she was widowed. Hoping to distract him, he asked, “Are ye going to tell me how ye came by yer wound?”
“What wound?” The Maclean glanced over his shoulder with befuddlement.
“The one I am presently tending to, m’laird. On yer left arse cheek,” he said dryly as he packed the last bit of bandage into the large hole in the man’s derriere.
Snorting, the Maclean turned his head away. “’Twas no wound. The only thing on me arse was a boil that’s come and gone as it pleased for years.”
“For years?” Conran asked with disbelief. “Why did ye ne’er tend to it?”
“Well, I could no’ even see it being on me arse as it was, could I? How could I tend it?”
“Ye could have had Tildy lance it or—”
“Oh, hell, no!” Fearghas Maclean roared, interrupting him. “That lass has been trying to get a look at me arse for better than a decade. Since before me dear wife passed even. The hell if I was giving her an excuse to see and fondle me jiggly parts,” he said with affront, and then added, “Besides, ’twas a bit o’ bother when ’twas tender, but otherwise no’ a problem.”
“No’ a problem,” Conran muttered to himself with disgust, and then snapped, “It damned near killed ye, m’laird.”
“What?” The Maclean glanced around with amazement and then shook his head. “Leave off. The fevers are what near killed me, no’ a bloody boil.”
“The boil was the reason fer the fevers,” Conran growled impatiently. “Yer left butt cheek was so full o’ infection and rot when I got here I had to cut half of it away. That infection is what caused the fevers. Ye’re lucky it did no’ kill ye.”
“Ye jest!” he said, raising himself up to peer around with dismay. “All o’ this from a blasted boil?”
“Aye,” Conran said shortly.
“Well, hell,” Fearghas Maclean muttered, and flopped back on the bed again. Heaving a sigh, he said, “’Tis good ye cut it out, then.”
Shaking his head with exasperation, Conran continued his work, but then said, “I’m thinking I should send a message to Buchanan to let them ken where I am and that I’m well. They’ll be worrying about me.”