Page 18 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
“Of course,” Nicola sighed, knowing there’d be no more kissing for the afternoon.
Likely for the best.
Is it, though?
When she glanced at Ramsay, he was watching her with a rueful grin.
“Do ye mind if I—if I…”
“Go help our hostesses?” he finished, then shook his head. “By all means.” He reached for his belt.
Her brows shot up. “And ye?” she squeaked. “What will ye do?”Here. Alone. Without me or the goat.
“Me?” One corner of his lips twitched higher, and he shifted his attention to the loch once more. “I think I’ll go for another cold swim.”
Unbidden, her gaze dropped to the front of his kilt, which—aye—was tented impressively. The sight made herproudsomehow. She’d done that to him?
He reached for his belt, and when her gaze snapped up to his, he winked.
Well, it might’ve been a blink. But his smirk said, were he a man with both his eyeballs intact, it would’ve been a wink.
She knew who he was, and he didn’t. But he was smiling at her in a way that made her want to know even more about him.
And so, she began to chuckle when she turned away to check on Sister Mary Rhubarbara, knowing her heart was lighter than it had a right to be.
All because of Ramsay McIlvain’s kisses.
Chapter 4
‘Twaswell after midnight and the moon was streaming brightly through the open double doors at the end of the infirmary. Once Ramsay had been well enough to walk, he’d insisted on taking the bed closest to those doors; with Lady Helen at the opposite end of the room, the curtains pulled tightly around her bed, this was the most privacy he could offer.
He should’ve left St. Dorcas the Ever Petulant long before now. Once he could ride, he should’ve dragged himself down to Scone to see if anyone there had a clue to who he was. In the King’s plaid, mayhap he was a Bruce, a kinsman to the King himself.
But that didn’t feel right, either. Heknewhe was a Highlander, that his connection to the King was one of fealty and trust…but who was he?
And why, now that Lady Nicola was here, did it not matter?
With a sigh, he stacked his hands behind his head and stared at the moon. He’d pulled back the curtains on one side of his bed so he could feel the breeze, and ‘twas lovely.
Lady Nicola…Damnation, he didn’t even know her clan name. But somehow, that didn’t matter either.
Earlier—yesterday, he supposed, judging from the placement of the moon in the sky—Nicola had told him of her family as he’d towed the rowboat. He’d asked as a sort of distraction—and because he liked to hear her voice—but he quickly found himself immersed in her family stories, enjoying the way she didn’t hide her true feelings for each of her siblings and her parents.
He recognized those feelings.
Somehow, he knew he had siblings and parents whom he loved. They were waiting for him…whoever he was.
His head ached, as it had all day, since he’d climbed out of the loch a second time—a semi-successful attempt to cool his ardor after that kiss—and had tried to remember his own siblings. The ache hadn’t been a piercing pain, and he wasn’t certain if that was a good sign or not.
He’d decided to ask Nicola at dinner, but she hadn’t arrived. He’d heard Lady Helen had taken a turn for the worse, and Nicola had spent the evening in the infirmary. But by the time Ramsay had retired, after Compline, she was back in her own chamber.
Damnation, a convent was no place for a warrior! All this praying and being-in-bed-before-dark—and the ale was watered down!
But now that Nicola was here, he had even less desire to leave for Scone.
With a sigh, Ramsay turned onto his side, feeling the stretch of new skin around the wound in his thigh.
Who had wounded him? Who had left him for dead?
