Highland Heat (3 page)

“Then I shall wrap it.”

His gaze sharpened on her. She looked pale, the red of her lips a contrast against creamy skin.

“Grace,” he said quietly. She looked up at him, her eyes blinking as if his voice had startled her.

Before he could say anything else, her eyes narrowed with determination. “I'm not a frightened ninny,” she said quietly.

“I ken you're not.”

“I just don't want to hurt you.”

“I'll manage,” he said again.

“All right, then.”

She wrapped his arm in utter silence as he tried to breathe and not think about the pain, though he did glance over once just to prove to himself that his flesh wasn't actually tearing itself apart. Good God, it hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced. He knew he was lucky—that so many men inside that hospital suffered far worse than him. But, hell, it hurt.

His breaths were starting to come in short, sharp, painful bursts, and he swayed on the bench, dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripped the edge of the bench with his good hand, and focused on regulating his breathing and not losing consciousness.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he felt her tying off the ends of the bandage. When she finished, her arms dropped away, and he sat still for a few minutes, teeth clenched, as the pain diminished to a dull throb.

She sat beside him, and the bench was so small that her thigh pressed against his. Now
that
was something that might be effective at taking his thoughts off the pain.

Finally, she broke the silence. “May I clean your face?”

He blinked at her dumbly, and she touched a gentle finger to his mud-caked cheek. “I don't know what you look like. I fear that if I was to meet you after today, I would have only the scantest chance of recognizing you.”

He wiggled his eyebrows, felt the crackling sensation across his forehead, and nodded.

She intercepted a boy carrying a bucket of water into the hospital and wet the remaining bit of bandage she had. She came back, and he sat very still as she firmly stroked the wet bandage over his face.

“Well, lass,” he said after a long moment of silence, “I should be asking how I am to be addressing you. If I'll be calling you Grace, an angry Sassenach lord might be challengin' me to a duel.”

Her lips twisted wryly. “I don't think so.” She shrugged as she smoothed the cloth over the edge of his nose. “In any case, I don't know of any English lords in the vicinity, though I'm sure there must be some.”

“Oh, there are.”

She was quiet for a moment, clearly considering how best to answer him. Finally, she said, “My full name is Lady Grace Carrington. My sister is Lady Campbell, your major's wife.”

The breath whooshed out of Duncan's lungs, though he did his best not to show it. Hell, what kind of trouble had he been flirting with? Behaving so familiarly with the major's sister-in-law, for God's sake! The daughter of an earl! If the major saw him now, Duncan would probably be facing a court-martial—if the major himself didn't hang him first.

With another jolt, Duncan realized that didn't scare him away as he knew it should. Clearly, his judgment was impaired. He'd been intoxicated by the fair lady beside him. Or the laudanum. Perhaps both.

“Wait,” he said, confused. “I dinna recall that the major's wife had accompanied him for this campaign.”

“Oh, you're right—she didn't. She decided to come to the Continent just last week, and we only arrived in the area this morning.”

He frowned. That seemed like odd timing. Seeing his expression of confusion, Grace explained, “She and the major have been at odds this past year. She wanted to see him before the battle. To make amends. Just in case…well, in case she wouldn't be able to after the campaign was over.” Grace glanced away from him.

He understood. Just a few days ago at Quatre Bras, the 92nd Regiment had lost Colonel Cameron. High-ranking officers were not exempt from death in these battles.

Turning back to him, she studied his face and rubbed at the edge of his jaw before removing the soiled bandage from his cheek for the last time. Her smile was a mere twitch of her soft lips. “There. Finished. Now I shall never forget.”

There was a deeper implication in that. She was saying not only that she wouldn't forget his face, but she wouldn't forget him. These moments they were sharing.

He breathed in a long draught of fortifying air. “Your father is Lord Norsey?”

“He is,” she admitted with a resigned sigh.

Her tone made him smile. He'd heard rumors about the Earl of Norsey—the man was said to be formidable in politics, giving no quarter when battling for issues he believed in. At the same time, he was said to be a paragon of society who had not taken up the profligate habits of many of his peers. Duncan pictured him as stern and difficult, with an unseen wall around him that a common man like Duncan could never breach.

Duncan patted Grace's leg—another forbidden action on his part—and murmured, “Come, now. It canna be that bad.”

She shrugged. “It's just…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“Verra well.” He wouldn't force the topic, though he couldn't imagine this lass being anything like the image he had of her strict, upright father.

They watched the activity for a few minutes before she ventured to speak again. “I just…I was enjoying…the easy way in which we spoke. I knew that we were breaking decorum, and now you know that as well. I wish that didn't have to be. I wish we could see each other as equals.”

He pondered this for a moment, then grinned. “I'm the only son of a tenant farmer in the Highlands,” he told her. “No one on earth would consider us equals. No' even the sheep, I'd wager.”

“Still,” she said, turning earnest midnight-blue eyes on him, “I do wish you would.” Her voice was fervently honest, and something twisted inside him, a potent blend of darkness and sweetness he didn't fully understand.

“If that's what you wish, milady.” Everything about her screamed of the aristocracy, so it wasn't going to be easy. But he already knew that he was going to have a difficult time denying this woman anything.

“Grace.”

He nodded. “No' in public, though. That could be dangerous.”

“You're right,” she said wistfully. “I
do
wish it wasn't this way.”

“Aye, but it is. No point in wishing otherwise.”

“Well, you've a very practical attitude about it, don't you?” She smiled and folded her hands in her lap. Small, delicate hands, unmarred by the telltale calluses and scars of hard work. So different from his own.

He laughed. “Always.”

“Tell me more about yourself, Duncan.”

He knew she was trying to keep him speaking of lighter things as they waited for the surgeon. “What would ye like to know?”

“Well…what is it like being in the 92nd Regiment? Is my brother-in-law your commanding officer?”

“Aye, he was second in command under Colonel Cameron, who died at Quatre Bras, so he led us in yesterday's battle.”

“I was sorry to hear of the loss of your colonel,” she said quietly.

Duncan nodded.

“What is the major like as a commanding officer? Is he different from the colonel?”

“The major demands respect and loyalty just as the colonel did,” he said honestly. “And we give him both.”

“Is he deserving of
your
respect and loyalty, though?”

He nodded, thinking of the major's dedication to all the men in the regiment, down to the lowliest private. “Oh, aye. Without question. Those of us in the 92nd ken the major better than the colonel. He was more like to mingle with the enlisted men, to work with us and fight with us to earn our trust rather than issuing orders from on high.”

She looked truly surprised by that.

He frowned. “Why'd ye ask?”

Her lips pressed together and she shrugged. “I was just wondering.” Her eyes slid in his direction. “I would have thought he'd be aloof with his men. It's almost difficult to reconcile the man you describe with the one I know.”

“Tell me about the man you know, then,” Duncan said.

She took a shaky breath. “Well…he is quiet and reserved, and very serious. And…” She shook her head. “Sometimes he is not as caring or as…as kind to his wife as I would expect him to be.”

Duncan raised his brows.

Grace continued, “I suppose he was never my favorite choice for my sister. But of course I had no say in the matter.”

Duncan's frown deepened. He couldn't imagine why Grace would say the major wasn't caring or kind to his woman. Major Campbell was wholly dedicated to those close to him. Duncan knew it wouldn't be any different—in fact his dedication might be even more complete—for his wife.

Though…maybe she found his background to be coarse, and that was why she felt that way. The major was no simpering English fop, that was for certain.

“Mayhap you feel this way because he's only a baronet?” he asked, truly curious. “Or because he's a Scot?” On top of being Scottish, the major had only recently been awarded a baronetcy, quite a step down for the daughter of an English earl.

Grace gasped. “Of course not!” After a moment of silence, she added, “It is neither. I should be offended you think me such a snob, but you don't know me well, so I shall forgive you. He's different from most of the men I know, but that's not it at all. It's just…he…” She shook her head, and her features seemed to darken with sadness for a moment. “Goodness. I shouldn't be speaking of this. Please—let's talk about something else.”

Duncan didn't push. It wasn't his business, in the end.

“I'm glad you admire him, though,” she said, some of the brightness returning to her voice. “It gives me hope that my opinion of him might be changed someday.”

“It should,” he said firmly. “He is a good man.”

Just then, a harried-looking man with a wild mass of black curls coiling from his head rushed up to them. He reeled to a halt before Grace and bowed. “Lady Grace, forgive me for taking so long. Once I heard it was you—”

Grace rose. “Dr. Hanson? It is so good to see you again.” She gestured to Duncan. “This is Sergeant Mackenzie. His arm was wounded in the battle. Would you be so kind—”

“Of course, of course. I've set aside a private area for you to be seen, sir. Please, follow me.”

Duncan's brows rose. A private area? Oh, how different was the world of the privileged.

He stood and followed the doctor, unable to bite back his smile as Grace fell into step beside him.

Duncan blinked heavily, and Grace tightened her hand over his fingers. He'd imbibed a good portion of brandy to go along with the laudanum, and his body had turned heavy, his smile slow, and his looks at her brimmed with something she hadn't seen before. Appreciation…Well, that was a mild way of putting it. Grace had never had a man look at her that way—with so much heat that his gaze fairly sizzled. It made her ache in unfamiliar ways.

“Does it hurt terribly?” she murmured as Dr. Hanson pulled taut the thread of yet another stitch.

Duncan lay in a bed in the “private” room, though it wasn't very private at all. Blankets hung from the ceiling to make three small curtains, and a bed had been pushed against the wall. Still, given the fact that none of the other men appeared to have any privacy whatsoever, she was happy for it.

He gave her a lazy smile. “As long as my eyes remain on you, lass, nothing hurts.”

Her cheeks burned, and she glanced at the doctor, who remained focused on his task, discreetly ignoring his patient's statement.

Impossibly, she liked the suggestiveness of Duncan's words. They made her feel feminine. Powerful in a way that she'd never felt before. It was a heady sort of power.

Lord, he was a handsome man. Thick and muscular, with a ruggedly masculine face and russet-brown hair. And those startling light blue-green eyes. He wasn't dark or brooding like her brother-in-law; he was quick to smile, and there was a sort of boyishness to him she found intensely appealing.

“How old are you, Sergeant Mackenzie?”

He frowned. “Duncan, Grace. Didna I say ye should be callin' me Duncan?” Along with the drink, his Scottish brogue had thickened and his tone had grown rougher. She knew she should be put off by him revealing this less-controlled side of himself, but she wasn't. She was more intrigued than ever.

“Ahem.” She raised a brow and glanced meaningfully at the doctor. Duncan glanced over at him as if he'd forgotten the man was in the room. “Oh, aye. That's right. Lady Grace.” He gestured to her then himself. “Sergeant Mackenzie. I forgot myself. My apologies, lass. Er, milady.” He grinned, letting her—and the doctor, undoubtedly—know that he was in no way sorry. She couldn't be annoyed with him, though. In fact, she was charmed.

Goodness. She liked this man. This sheep-farming soldier. She liked him quite a lot.

“You didn't answer my question,” she chided.

“Question?” His brow furrowed. “What question?”

“How old are you?”

“Three and twenty,” he announced. “And you, lass? How old are you?”

“Three and twenty,” she parroted.

“I thought you were younger,” he said.

“Well…not many people think I am younger than my years. So thank you. I think.”

“What?” He looked aghast at this. “Surely not. You look to be seventeen or eighteen, at most.”

“Ha! I don't think that's true. Much of the
ton
believes I'm nearer to forty than twenty.”

“How is that possible?”

“Because I am quite…oh, I don't know. Proper? Staid? Boring?”

“You?” The expression of total bewilderment on his face made her laugh. When she'd told him she was a hoyden he must have taken it to heart.

“Yes,” she assured him, “I am the sober, serious one. The dullest person in my family.”

“Dull? Surely you'll be confusin' yourself with your da.”

“Not at all. I've been told more than once that I behave like a fifty-year-old matron more than I do a woman of three and twenty.”

He snorted rudely. “Idiots. Dinna listen to them.”

“Oh, it doesn't offend me. Most of the ladies who tell me such things mean it only as a high compliment.”

“An underhanded compliment, more like,” he muttered.

“Well,” she said lightly, “that might be true. But honestly, it never bothered me.”

“Because you've a strong character.”

“How could you know that?”

“Och,” he said confidently, “I kent it right away. If you didna have steel-plated character, you couldna been out on that battlefield.”

She smiled at him.

“Anyhow…ye're no matron and ye're the opposite of dull.”

“I might not be a matron, but I do behave like one. And I am sorry to say”—she leaned forward a bit and whispered conspiratorially—“I am actually quite dull.”

“I'll be proving you wrong.”

“Oh? How?”

“Easily, I think.” He flashed her a wicked smile. “You canna pretend with me, lass. You may try to give the appearance of being a proper miss, but I see the fire underneath, aye?”

She sucked in a breath and sat back, looking at him warily. On Duncan's other side, the doctor continued his slow work, his face impassive as if he hadn't heard a word of Duncan and Grace's exchange. Grace hoped to heaven the doctor was discreet…and that he would blame Duncan's forwardness on the laudanum, not on the man himself.

Duncan's arm must hurt terribly—not only was the gash deep and long, the doctor believed the bone had been fractured as well. But Duncan didn't seem to mind the pain. She'd never had laudanum, but it must be a very powerful drug.

Suddenly, someone screamed, the sound coming from just beyond one of the curtains. “Noooo!”

Grace's head jerked up, and she nearly pulled her hand from Duncan's, but he gripped her tighter. When she looked back down at him, he was gazing at her. “Dinna listen,” he said quietly. “Try not to listen.”

“No! No, for God's sake, no!” the man cried.

“What's happening?” she whispered.

“They're taking his leg,” the doctor said, no inflection in his voice.

On the other side of the curtain, there was a clatter, a dull
thunk,
and a grunt, and Dr. Hanson jumped up. “Excuse me. I'd best go check…” And he pushed through the makeshift curtain.