Page 19 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
There’d been no other bodies found near him, but ‘twas hard to believe someone had attacked him and he hadn’t been able to kill any of them. Had the enemy taken all their wounded and left him?
Gallingdidn’t begin to cover it!
Mayhap he would’ve laid in bed ‘til dawn, growing more and more irritated, had he not heard the soft murmur of a woman’s voice.
Well, nae shite. Ye’re in a convent full of nuns.
But…there was something familiar about that voice.
He pushed himself upright, his weight on his palms, and listened.
“Just a sip, Lady Helen. Ye can do it.”
She was being quiet—Likely doesnae want to wakeye, ye clotheid—but he recognized Nicola’s murmur and was out of bed before he could consider.
Nicola was here in the infirmary and he wanted to see her. Even if shewasworking.
He yanked the curtain open, then froze.
Mayhap ye should put on some clothes, eh?
He yanked the curtain closed again and reached for his kilt.
This is the third time ye’ve had to put on yer kilt so far in the story and we’re only forty percent of the way through! This one’s naughtier than most.
He stilled, his hand on his belt. What? What story?
Och, never mind. Get yer clothes on afore ye scare someone.
Not Nicola. Nicola had already seen him naked—seen him aroused!—and hadn’t been scared.
Lucky ye.
Sometimes he thought his subconscious was smirking at him.
He finished belting on his plaid and slipped from the private curtained room. He hesitated, his hand on the curtains marking Lady Helen’s small room, then closed his fingers around the cloth and tugged them open.
Aye, there was Nicola, bent over Lady Helen. She looked up and met his gaze, her warm eyes sad. He offered her a small smile but she didn’t respond.
Och, ye dobber, she doesnae need ye to be charming. She’s here for Lady Helen!
His gaze dropped to the ill woman and he sucked in a startled breath. She was as pale as the sheets beneath her, and so frail she looked like a skeleton.
And her eyes were open.
He’d so rarely seen her awake that ‘twas startling. She had blue eyes, pale and dull, open but not really seeing. He could smell death here.
Slowly, her gaze swung to him. “Milord?” she whispered, the faintest breath of air.
Ramsay exchanged glances with Nicola, whose eyes looked sad, then stepped forward. “Aye, Lady Helen.” He kept his voice low, gentle. “I’m here.”
Her fingers, thin and spidery, twitched against the blanket. He sank to one knee, wincing slightly at the pull of newly knit muscles, and took her hand. The skin felt like parchment, thin and light, without any heat.
On the other side of the bed, Nicola had taken Lady Helen’s other hand.
“Last…Rites?” the woman whispered.
“Aye.” Nicola’s voice cracked, and she swallowed. “Aye, Helen. Ye’re dying. Father Blabloblal has given ye Last Rites, so ye might be blessed and enter Heaven.”
