Page 7 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
It took him a moment to remember he’d asked what would happen if he couldn’t remember his past. “Will I?” he asked, more of himself than her.
The thought of spending the rest of his life without a name, without a clan, without knowing if there was anyone waiting for him…
This time he shuddered for an entirely different reason.
“If ye cannae remember who ye are, we’ll just have to find someone who does,” she declared firmly, having already turned away from him. Why couldn’t she meet his gaze when she spouted such nonsense?
There was no one here who knew his identity any more than he himself did.
He sighed and rolled onto his back, running his fingers through his overlong hair in a gesture he was coming to recognize as an old habit born of frustration. Heneededto remember, needed to know if whoever did this to him—wounded him and left him for dead—was still out there, waiting.
He needed to know who he was and what he was doing with a sword which felt like an extension of his own arm.
He needed to know why he’d been attacked and if there was business left uncompleted. If there was anyone waiting for him.
Not for the first time, he wondered if he was married, if he had a family, bairns. Was that why he’d taken to wee Relic, and the lad to him? The nuns had commented on his easy way with the bairn, and how ‘twas uncommon to find a warrior so at ease with a wee babe. Was it because he had children of his own somewhere?
The thought turned his stomach; that he might have children and not remember them was too much to bear.
Nay… He huffed out a sigh and watched the healer—Nicola—bustle about. She wore a simple linen gown of the same cut the nuns wore, despite being a lady. What clan was she from? Was she a laird’s daughter?
Surely, if he was married, his body wouldn’t be responding to her this way. Hehadto believe that, were he married, even if he couldn’t recall his wife, his heart would be faithful to her. He wouldn’t be lusting after a beautiful scarlet-haired healer.
Lusting? Nay, this was more than lusting. He’d lusted before, for certes. This was…
As if every inch of his skin, every breath of air in his lungs, everypieceof him, was aware of her and what she was doing.
‘Twas strange. ‘Twas inconvenient.
Could she help him? He was healed well enough and had already told Mother Superior he would leave the convent in a sennight to travel to the King’s court and hope someone there could tell him who he was.
But if Lady Nicola had faith, mayhap he should trust her to care for him.
Andthat’swhen she turned around holding a knife.
Ramsay might not know who he was, but he bloody well knew who hewasn’t; a man who allowed anyone—lass or not—to loom over him with a knife.
He pushed himself up, not caring that the blankets fell around his waist. With his attention on the knife, he tried not to flinch as she stepped toward him. “Where do ye think ye’re going with that, lass?”
Mayhap trusting her is a terrible idea after all.
She must’ve heard the thought in his question, because her lips twitched. “Where I’m going? I’m going to yer hips, Ramsay. Lay down, I need to cut away the bandage.”
She grabbed for the blanket with her free hand, and he was surprised how quickly he yanked them back.
“My hip is fine,” he bleated. Aye, ‘twas most definitely a bleat, worse than the nanny goat who provided wee Relic’s milk. “I checked it yesterday afore ye came.”
She didn’t back down, but rolled her eyes, as she stood over him with that knife. “Ye’re no’ a medical professional. I need to see how ‘tis healing.”
“’Tis healed.” There was no way he’d allow her to examine the wound. By His Wounds, he wasnakedbeneath the blanket and his cock was hard and aching.
Medical professional or nay, she didn’t need an eyeful ofthat.
But she bent over him, still holding that knife. “Ramsay…” Her tone managed to be sweet and threatening and cajoling all at once. “Iwillsee yer wound. If ‘tis healed, I’ll even leave the bandage off. Think of how nice ‘twill be to no’ have to worry about it.”
Damnation.
Ramsay’s eye narrowed. “Ye fight dirty, lass.”
