Page 14 of The Highlander's Dangerous Bride

Arne frowned. What on earth could she mean by that? He decided she was a little fey, as some healers were known to be.

“Aye, Maeve Carter. That’s her name,” he replied decisively.

“Well, Arne MacLeod, she should be right as rain in a few days, but let me ken if ye need anythin’ more or she takes a turn for the worse. Right, I’ll be off,” she declared, going to fetch her bag and making for the door. “I’ve quite a few patients still tae see, the poor things. What a terrible calamity.”

“Aye, terrible indeed,” Arne agreed, opening the door for her. “Good night tae ye then, Mistress Meg. Thank ye again.”

When she had gone, he went to sit by the bed, wanting to keep a close eye on Maeve. She was till sleeping soundly. He idly wished he had ordered some ale and whisky for himself, for he felt he could do with stiff drink. Plus, sleeping on the floor was going to be uncomfortable, and a few drams would surely help.

But alas, events had overtaken his original intentions for blissful oblivion, and he had forgotten all about it. He did not want to risk leaving her to go down to the bar in case she took ill or woke up and did not know where she was. He had just about reconciled himself from doing without ale, whisky, or blankets, and sleeping in the chair when there was a knock at his door.

Wearily, wondering if it was Meg come back for some reason, he went to open it.

“The things ye ordered, Sir,” lisped a young maid, holding out a tray with a smile.

Arne frowned, confused. “I didnae order anythin’,” he told her, realizing too late that he could have claimed the tray as his own without much harm to whoever had ordered it.

“’Tis down fer this room,” the maid said, “fer Mr. Arne MacLeod, Sir.”

“D’ye ken who ordered it?”

“Aye, Old Meg. She said ye had urgent need of some sustenance.”

A chill ran up Arne’s spine. “But—” he began to say but then thought better

of it. “What have ye got there?” he asked curiously.

“Erm, some ale, some whisky, some fish stew, some bread, and a slice of sweet pie, I think,” the girl recited. “D’ye nae want it, Sir? Shall I take it back?”

“Nay, nay, bring it in. Would ye put there on the table lass, please?” She obediently did as he asked and departed. Arne stared at the tray, wondering how the hell Meg had guessed he was thirsty and hungry. But then he decided his hunger was more important right then and sat down at the table to eat and drink his fill.

He had just downed the first dram and was pouring himself a mug of ale when a realization hit him, sending another tingle up his spine. Part of the conversation he had had with the healer earlier came back to him.

“Well, Arne MacLeod, she should be right as rain in a few days, but let me ken if ye need anythin’ more…”

She had used his given name. But how? He had never told her who he was.

Strange indeed, he thought, taking a long draught of the ale before glancing over at the bed.But maybe nae as strange as having Maeve in me bed again after all this time.

He finished his meal and then went over to sit with her, leaning his arms on the side of the bed, finally having the opportunity to really look at the face of the woman he had once loved so much, then hated, and never thought he would ever see again.

She had changed much, and yet not at all.

Her naturally pale skin now seemed deathly white, framed against the curling mass of jet-black hair that lay over her shoulders. In the flickering light of the candles, the long, damp strands glimmered almost blue, like a magpie’s back.

Her once plump cheeks were now hollow, filled with shadow. The lips he had so often kissed seemed the same, though, full and red. The eyes he had gazed into so many times with a heart full of love, and often lust, were closed, the long black lashes laying like miniature fans upon her cheeks.

In truth, he was profoundly shocked to see that the bonny girl he had last set eyes on three years before, her cheeks and eyes glowing with health and happiness, smiling whenever she looked at him, her belly big with the baby they had made with love—or so he had foolishly believed at the time—had been overlaid by a mature woman, one who radiated the ethereal yet sorrowful beauty of a fabled tragic heroine.

His anger wavered in the face of it. The urge to simply throw himself down beside her, to take her in his arms and kiss her, to forgive her everything, was strong. His hands curled into fists against the coverlet as he struggled against it, summoning strength from his inner hurt and fury.

How can such an angelic face hide so much treachery?

“Wake up, Maeve, and get better. I have questions fer ye, many questions,” he whispered. “And I have many things tae say tae ye too.”

Ye must ken how ye ripped me heart from me chest and made it impossible fer me ever tae trust a woman again. I want tae make ye pay in kind fer all ye’ve taken from me.

Raven could see the light shimmering above her as she swam upwards towards it, holding her breath, desperate to make it to the surface, to see the sun again. Finally, just when the air in her lungs was about the run out, she made it, bursting out of the water, and into the golden light and warmth.

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