Page 5 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
“That’s yer other patient.”
The whisper came from beside Nicola, at shoulder-height, which is how she knew ‘twas Sister Mary Titania, and managed to keep from startling.
“He came to us with a broken arm, a sword wound in his hip, and a knock on the head which kept him insensible for a bit. We ken he’s a warrior—the farmers who found him also found a bloody tremendous sword, by which I mean ‘twas hugeandcovered in blood—and we assume he was attacked and left for dead. Thank St. Dorcas, he’s stopped vomiting at every breeze, and now can get around fine. But he cannae remember who he is or why he was in our area.”
Nicola nodded without drawing her attention from the warrior. “Aye, head wounds can do that,” she murmured.
And mayhap he heard her.
Because at that moment, the warrior looked up. He looked up and met her eyes and grinned, and Nicola’s knees went weak.
Oh fooking hell.
He had one eye. The other was covered by a leather patch, the injury old and doing naught to detract from his easy good looks. A lock of hair fell in front of his cheek, and he brushed it off his forehead in an easy movement, all while gently bouncing the swaddled bairn in the crook of his other elbow.
He was gorgeous.
And she knew who he was.
A golden-haired, one-eyed fallen angel? One who carried a mighty sword and looked as if he was built to do the King’s work?
Och, aye, she knew who he was, even if he didn’t.
And she had to care for him. Care for him and send him on his way, before he had reason to remember tobeware the Oliphants!
Chapter 2
Ramsay staredat the cracks in the white-washed plaster—at the way the breeze caused the linen drapes to billow gently—at the floorboards worn by generations of feet…
Anywhere but ather.
He was also trying not to inhale, but that was harder. Her scent—herbal and light—surrounded him as she bent over his arm where it rested against the bed.
God’s Wounds, did the lass have any idea how enticing she was with that thick red hair braided about her head? Tendrils were coming loose, flying about her temples and across her forehead and down her neck, and his fingers itched to touch them, to tuck them back behind her ears.
Instead, he curled his hands into fists and focused on the ceiling beams above the bed.
“I need ye to relax,” she coaxed softly, her fingertips trailing down his left forearm.
Ramsay tamped down a shudder at her touch and forced his fists to unclench.
“Ye’re verra stiff,” she murmured.
Ye have nae idea.
Had he really been so long without a woman that this healer’s touch would light such a spark under his skin? Was he really so desperate?
Nay, he’d been here at the convent since the beginning of the season, surrounded by nuns—some of them young and comely. Although he’d never dishonor the sisters by lusting after them, not a one caused him such discomfort.
Discomfort? Nay, ‘twas arousal. He felt it from the moment he’d turned around yesterday, trying to coax wee Relic to sleep, and met her warm gaze. She had the most remarkable eyes; brown, aye, with flecks of gold. Mayhap ‘twas her hair which made them seem to blaze like flames. Not angry but full of heat, nonetheless.
Passion.
There was passion in her gaze, banked passion, and she seemed to not even realize it.
“Ramsay, ye must relax.” Her small, capable fingers prodded his forearm, pressing into his muscles, checking the bone. “Unless ye’re tense because this is causing ye pain?”
“Nay,” he was quick to assure her, his gaze still locked on the ceiling over the bed he’d been given. “I told ye the break has healed well.”
