Lessons in Loving a Laird (14 page)

“Right away, sir.” Bannerman withdrew.

Shona stood next to him. “Should we send for a doctor?”

“I am a doctor,” he growled.

She pursed her lips. “Another one, I mean.”

“No. I can take care of myself.”

“Hmph. We’ll see aboot that. Let’s have a keek at what that jackanape did to ye.” She knelt on the bed behind him. Gingerly, she pulled off Conall’s swallowtail coat, and tossed it aside. Instantly, she was awash in admiration. The broad shoulders beneath the oversized shirtsleeves, the tight abdomen hugged by the green and silver waistcoat—it had been a mistake to think his fine clothes made him the weaker opponent. He had clearly emerged the victor against that Highlander. And even though physically Brandubh looked more menacing, the greatest weapon in that battle had rested between Conall’s ears.

Her fingers reached around him to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. The warm silk on her fingertips wreaked havoc on her senses. Her face came down to his neck, and breathing in his scent—heated sandalwood—made her fingers fumble in their simple task. She wanted so to steal a kiss, but she feared that the pressure of her lips on his bruised face would do more harm than good.

Somehow, she was able to accomplish her task, even though she was more focused in absorbing the feel of the rock-hard abdomen rather than in unbuttoning his waistcoat. Open it fell, and he groaned in pain as he bent his arms backward to allow the fabric through.

“Sorry. Only one more bit of clothing to go.”

As she began pulling the white shirt out from the waist of his breeches, Conall unfastened two of the topmost buttons to help ease the fabric out.

“Raise yer arms for me.”

She couldn’t see his face, but she heard him groan. Only one arm made it above his head.

Once she succeeded in pulling his shirt off, he immediately fell backward upon his pillow. He shut his eyes tightly as the pain washed over him.

Shona’s eyes raked down his naked chest. Between the wide pads of muscle of his chest, a deep valley furrowed from the
V
at the base of his throat down to his navel. On either side of it, delicious rows of muscle bricked his abdomen. The half-open breeches revealed a triangular pad of muscle that aimed at the very thing she had been thinking about for weeks.

But poor Conall’s skin was discolored horribly. A deep red bruise had spread along the top of his abdomen, and his side where Brandubh kicked him had purpled darkly.

“You can leave if you want to.”

Her eyes met his. “Eh?”

“It was unfair of me to urge you to stay. Ladies shouldn’t have to behold such gruesome sights.”

Shona realized her face reflected the pain he must feel. “I am made of sterner stuff than that.”

A gentle smile touched his mouth. “Yes. I believe you are.”

“Besides, ye once promised to teach me how to treat people with injuries. Now would be a good time to start, don’t ye think?”

Conall sighed. “So it would.”

Bannerman returned with the medical valise and the tray. A brief look at the master’s injuries, and sweat broke out on his upper lip. He poured some brandy into a glass and then made a hasty withdrawal.

“Right,” Conall said, forcing himself to a sitting position against his pillow. “First things first. Go get me a mirror. And a moistened towel.”

Shona returned with the items he requested. She watched as he daubed the blood from the gash above his eye.

Irritation colored his face. “Damn. It’s longer than I thought. Open my case and pull out a jar marked ‘Blue Vitriol.’” He told her how to mix it—one part powder to four parts water.

“It’s a pretty color,” she said. “As blue as yer eyes. What is it?”

“It’s a styptic. It’ll burn the wound so that it bleeds no more.”

Shona’s heart turned to water. Burning his wound? Hadn’t he been through enough pain already?

She moistened a gauze with the blue liquid. “Take a deep breath.” She applied the gauze to the gash. Conall winced, inhaling through his teeth.

“Damn and blast! I hope to God my head broke the man’s knuckle.”

Shona grinned as she wiped the excess vitriol off his forehead. “In my experience, ’tis a very hard head, indeed. Mayhap your jaw broke another knuckle.”

He harrumphed, shifting his jaw. “I doubt it. And it still hurts like hell.”

“It’s getting fair black, it is. I think I can help ye with that. Ye know, the best thing for bruises is cow dung.”

“Cow dung?” Conall chuckled, and then winced from the pain.

“Dinna laugh! Mayhap ye dinna use it in London, but up here ’tis good medicine.”

He tried to bite down his laughter, but it escaped his clenched teeth.

“Keep laughing like that and I’ll pinch ye in the ribs.”

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make sport of it.”

“Ye could do worse than to try it. I can go get some fresh cow pats if ye like.”

He battled to keep the laughter in. “No. But thank you all the same.”

She shrugged. “Please yerself.”

“All right. There’s one more thing I need you to do for me. Place the flat of your hand here, right on my ribs.”

She did as he asked. Shona had wanted to touch his body for some time, but this was not as she had imagined it would be. The skin was hot, and he winced with the slightest touch.

“Right. Now I’m going to cough. I want you to tell me if you feel crepitation under your fingers—that is, any rattling of the bones. Can you do that?”

“Aye, I think so.”

Conall took a deep breath and coughed. The exertion made him grimace in agony.

“I felt nothing, Conall. No—rattling.”

“Good. That means the bones aren’t broken.” He swallowed down the brandy before lying back down, exhausted.

Watching him suffer, Shona’s heart broke for him. “I’d give anything to trade places with ye.”

He stretched out his hand and stroked a thumb across the small puncture wound made by Duncan’s knife on Shona’s jaw. “You’ve been through so much already, your whole life. If I could, I’d take all your hurt onto myself if it meant that you’d feel it no longer.”

Emotions knotted up in her throat. He fisted his hand in her hair and brought her face down to his lips. In that kiss, Shona did the one thing she never thought she’d do. She surrendered.

Her hand undulated over his shoulders and along the ridges of his muscled chest. How strong he was, in body and mind, and she wanted to be joined to all that strength.

“Ye were so incredibly brave in that fight with Brandubh McCullough. I was so proud of ye, knowing just how to put a man doon. Would ye teach me all that ye know?”

“Only if you promise not to use any of it on me.”

She bit her lower teeth. “So what else can I do to give a man excruciating pain for a very long time?”

He harrumphed. “Introduce him to a Scotswoman.”

Her mouth fell open in mock affront. “So that’s how ye feel, is it?”

He chuckled at her reaction, but immediately winced. “I withdraw that comment. I’m in no condition to wage war with you.”

She gave him a sidewise look. “Very well. Apology accepted.”

“And speaking of apologies,” he announced loudly, “you and I must have a reckoning on that lie you told me yesterday.”

“What lie?”

“That fiction you made up about the sprained ankle, attended by that superb bit of acting that continued all the way to this morning.”

“Oh. That.”

“When I get out of this bed, I shall put you over my knee.”

A wicked grin slid across her face. “What makes ye think I’m going to let ye out of bed?”

An expression of inaccessible lust came over him. “By Jove, you’re a cruel woman to provoke an injured man like that.”

She shrugged. “I am as ye find.”

“Perhaps. But there is one thing I intend to change about you at the very first opportunity.” Conall spread his fingers behind her head and brought her lips closer.

“What’s that?” she asked, her words smoky against his nearness.

“Your last name.”

*   *   *

Six weeks later, Shona and Conall found themselves again in his bedroom. Except now, they were man and wife.

Below, they could still hear the revelry of all the tenants, friends, and former clients who had turned out to celebrate their wedding. Stewart and his bride, Violet, had toasted the happy couple, having organized a wedding breakfast for more than three hundred people. Hume and Iona were among those crowded into the ballroom or spilling out into the garden, joining in the spirited Scottish dancing.

Conall went to the window. Squares of light fell over his tall form, melting across his wide chest, over his belted waist, and down his kilted hips.

Shona grinned appreciatively at the profile of her husband.
Now
he looked like a born-and-bred Scotsman, every inch of him. The height of a warrior, the wide shoulders of a caber-tosser, the firm butt lifting the blue and green tartan of the MacEwan kilt. He closed the last of the drapes, blotting out the light and muffling the noise from downstairs.

He turned to face her, his massive silhouette darkened by the muted light behind him. Shona’s sexual anticipation hit her full force then. She had anxiously waited for this day for weeks, and now their wedding night was upon them.

She stood, the folds of her gown swishing down to her legs. It was a sky-blue silk, its bodice and hem decorated with tiny flowers and leaves in royal blue and emerald green, echoing the colors of her new husband’s tartan.

Husband
. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she’d become someone’s wife. As if her feral character were not enough to scare suitors away, the scar of the
slaighteur
upon her hand advertised a warning to any man who might fancy her.

But here was a man who not only accepted her, but also protected her and wanted her.

And she wanted him, too.

Now.

She advanced upon him with steely determination. She wanted to feel the pressure of his body against hers. Touch his face. Smell his hair.

She slid her arms up around his neck. Oh, she could hang on these massive shoulders and he would hardly feel the weight of her. She slanted her mouth against his, demanding a real kiss—not the tender I-love-you kiss when he proposed, not the gentle peck permitted after they spoke their vows, but the wedding-night, private-bedchamber, take-me-like-a-pub-wench kiss.

His mouth was perfect—warm, full lips that could make her want to kiss him forever. But there was another organ that was demanding attention, and she wanted him to finally make her his woman. Her breasts were flattened against his chest, and every subtle movement he made rubbed her growing nipples, heightening her desire.

He pulled away, breathing heavily. “Slow down, Shona. I want to make you keen for me.”

“I’m already keen,” she whispered. “Come on, let’s have the belt,” she said, reaching for the buckle.

He gripped her hands. “No. Not just keen … keen
for me
. Now sit down for a moment. There’s something I want to give you.”

He cast her a bemused glance while she plopped herself on the bed. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a slip of paper.

“This is your first gift. Happy birthday, wife.”

She smiled. It was her twenty-first birthday. At midnight, she was liberated from her apprenticeship, and by noon, she’d been married. Twelve hours of freedom, then once again belonging to Conall MacEwan—this time, for the rest of her life.

Iona had said that marriage was another form of indentured servitude, but she was wrong. Shona could leave Ballencrieff this minute if she wanted to, and never come back. Love—that was the enslaving force. And Shona knew that she had already been bound to the man beyond all redemption.

She unfolded the paper. It was a letter.

To the Much Honored the Laird of Ballencrieff

Sir—

In reply to your request, I can offer the following information. The boy Camran Slayter was smuggled into this parish by an unnamed woman of Clan McCullough, who claimed with all desperation that the child would be killed by her kinsmen if left in her care.

After a stay in our parish orphanage under an assumed name, the boy was sent to be taught seamanship with the Royal Navy, where he has served these many years. At last inquiry, upon the age of seventeen, he was aboard the HMS
Lionheart
, ordered to engage Napoleon’s fleet in the Mediterranean.

I have left word at the offices of the Admiralty to notify Mr. Slayter of your interest in reuniting the young man with his remaining family members. I have no doubt that once his ship puts to port, he will be permitted to communicate with you.

I extend hearty congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, and I wish you and your bride every happiness.

Yours sincerely,

Ian Newton, Churchwarden

Joy leaped inside her. “Camran’s alive!” Shona’s eyes glistened with happiness.

“Yes, my sweet. It took three solicitors working round the clock to find out what had happened to him. It appears that McCullough had ordered Camran to be killed along with the rest of your family. But it takes a man with no heart to kill a five-year-old child, and apparently the one ordered to do so took pity on him. How it happened, no one knows, but Camran wound up in Glasgow in a parish orphanage, and since then, he’s been serving with honor in His Majesty’s service.”

Shona jumped off the bed and threw her arms around Conall’s neck. “Thank ye! Thank ye for finding my brother!”

He hugged her in return. “I’m delighted it pleases you.”

The mere knowledge that her brother was alive, and not torn apart by animals as the McCullough had said, was reason enough to rejoice. But soon her young man of a brother would learn that his sisters were seeking him, and he would know precisely where to find them. For the first time in her life, her hope turned into something solid and tangible, a hairsbreadth away from becoming reality.

“Thank ye for gifting me with my brother. Camran was one of the two things I most desired in the world.”