Page 13 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
Isolde stood beside the window inside the crofter’s hut, peering around the edge. She felt a flutter lower within her that made her face burn even warmer. She knew she shouldn’t have this type of reaction to her father’s greatest rival.
A man I hardly ken.
It was inappropriate. More than inappropriate. It was just plain wrong. And yet, she couldn’t seem to keep herself from stealing looks at Struan Cameron as he bathed in the chilly waters of the loch anyway.
He was a large, strong man and she admired the way his muscles rippled and flexed as he moved. Her eyes traveled over the hard angles and planes of his body. She’d felt them pressed against her when they rode and Isolde knew he was thick with corded muscle, but there was something very different about seeing the way his body tensed and moved. As she watched him washinghis long, dark hair, the quivering low within her grew stronger. And the corners of her lips curled upward with a shy smile.
But then her eyes took in the patchwork of scars, cuts, and bruises that adorned his back. Some appeared older, but there were many new injuries in the landscape of his body, with many of them courtesy of her father and his men. Judging by the wounds that crisscrossed his body, it was evident Struan Cameron had lived a life filled with fighting and violence.
It was ghastly to look at. But more than that, it was also heartbreaking. Her father was responsible for many of those injuries. The mere thought of what Struan had endured at her father’s hands made her stomach coil.
It broke Isolde’s heart to know he had caused Struan such suffering. She wanted to say something to him. Wanted to apologize for her father’s mistreatment. But she did not know how to bring that up without reopening deeper wounds within him. And he had endured more than his fair share of pain and suffering because of her family.
Struan walked out of the water and Isolde watched the way his body glistened and shined as droplets cascaded off him. He grabbed a cloth he’d taken from the line and wiped himself off, seeming to not care that he was standing naked as the day he was born, for God and everybody to see.
As if he sensed her watching him, Struan slowly turned and glanced back at the window she was sheltering behind. A slowgrin touched his lips, and Isolde squeaked and darted away from it, plopping down beside the fire pit in the center of the hut.
Damn it, he saw me!
A couple of minutes later, Struan walked back into the hut and Isolde was thankful to see that he had dressed.
“That was refreshin’,” he said and the amusement in his tone sent her heart racing wildly.
Outside, the sun was slipping below the horizon, casting the sky in fiery shades of red and gold, making the clouds that were gathering blacker than shadows. The temperature was already dipping, hinting it would be a cold night.
It galled Isolde to admit, but he had been right. Having shelter in the night was far smarter than stumbling their way through the dark and cold. They would have been at a terrible disadvantage should they have stumbled across anybody.
She started to protest when Struan grabbed her pack and sat down beside her. But he took her injured arm and laid it gently across his knee. With surprising tenderness, he rolled up her sleeve then pulled a damp cloth from his pocket and washed away the thin layer of blood that had been smeared across her skin. Once her arm was clean, Struan rooted around in her pack until he found what he was looking for—the kit she had stolen from the healer’s chambers.
“I figured ye’d be prepared enough tae bring some medicines,” he said.
“And what made ye think that?”
“Because ye seem like the sort who tries tae prepare fer anythin’.”
“Ye say that like ‘tis a bad thing.”
“Then ye’re hearin’ things because I didnae say, nor mean, that,” he replied. “’Tis wise.”
Mollified, if not a little embarrassed by being called out on her assumption, Isolde turned her eyes to her arm. He sniffed the different pots she’d brough along then settled on an ointment that seemed to be familiar to him.
Struan dipped the tips of his fingers into the thick salve then spread a thin layer across the shallow wound. The feeling of his fingertips gently tracing along her skin sent that same current of heat she’d had flowing through her when she had been watching him bathe.
Despite her unsettled state, Struan’s eyes were fixed firmly on her wound. Once he was done with that, he took a clean cloth from her pack and wound it around her arm, his movements quick and efficient, but his touch was surprisingly light and gentle. He tied off the bandage then put everything he’d taken out of her pack back into it and set the whole thing aside.
She gave him a curious look. “Dae ye actually ken what was in the ointment ye just put on me wound? Or did ye use it because it smelled nice?”
A wry grin quirked the corner of his mouth upward. “It didnae smell all that nice.”
“Ye didnae answer me question.”
He sighed and fixed her with an expression that bordered on irritation. “’Twas a mixture of borage, thyme, and sage among other things. Some call it St. Hildegard’s herbs,” he replied. “All the dried herbs have different properties—some help stave off infection, some are goin’ tae keep yer arm from becomin’ inflamed, and some will help with the pain.”
Everything he said was correct and it left Isolde stunned. She stared at him blankly for a long moment, blinking at him stupidly.
“Did I pass yer test then?” he asked sharply.
“Aye,” she managed to murmur.
