Page 9 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
“So, are we going to discuss this, or what?”
At his wry question, her chin jerked toward him even as she straightened, busying herself with unraveling his bandage. “Discuss what?”
“The elephant in the room.”
She made a show of glancing around the curtained space, private and tiny. “Elephant?”
Elephant. Why did that word send a shooting pain through his head? It sounded similar to…to…God’s Wounds, the thought had slipped away!
With a scowl, Ramsay rubbed at his temple and pulled the blankets back over himself. “Never mind.”
“Ah, ye were speaking of something huge and long, impossible to ignore, staring me in the face. Also a bit gray. Yer cock, mayhaps?”
Damnation, how could she sound so flippant while blushing so fiercely?
“I said, never ye mind.”
She thinks yer cock is huge.
The realization made him grin suddenly, and she rolled her eyes.
“Get dressed, Ramsay. Ye’re no’ completely healed, but ye’re healing well enough.”
She turned her back to him, busying herself with her satchel and vials and strong-smelling concoctions she’d laid out on the table. He used the semi-privacy to sit up once more, reaching for the kilt he’d arrived in. It had been stitched and cleaned for him and felt comfortable, as if he were wrapping himself in something old and well-known.
It felt odd to not have to account for the bandage at his hip, but he was pleased to discover his range of movement was much greater now. After wrapping the plaid, he buckled his belt and rolled to his feet, adjusting the garment.
“Are ye clothed?” she asked without turning around.
His lips twitched again. “Aye, my modesty is preserved,” he drawled. As if she hadn’t been staring at his crotch a few minutes before.
With a brisk, “Good!”, she pulled open the curtain which had separated his invalid bed—the saints knew how he’d come to hate the thing during his convalescence—from the rest of the ward.
Today, only Lady Helen’s bed was occupied, the curtains still drawn about it. Nicola must have left them closed, knowing the lady wasn’t waking up.
He told himself it was acceptable to feel sorrow at such a fact. He didn’t know the lady, but he knew she was dying. He could smell it in the air of the ward.
“Verra well, milord—” began Nicola. But before she could turn back to him, they were interrupted by a figure floating toward them.
“Ramsay and friend, ye’ve reached the end?” the delicately beautiful nun asked in her breathy whisper. “I’ve brought ye the lad, who seems quite sad.”
Stifling his sigh, he forced a smile and reached for the crying bairn the dazed woman carried. “Och, aye, ‘tis obvious. Lady Nicola has finished with me, Sister, and I was going to—”chop wood, swim in the loch, lift heavy rocks, swing a sword, aught to forget the ache in my ballocks and the need in my blood. “Going out,” he finished weakly, placing the fussy babe against his shoulder. “But I’ll get wee Relic to sleep first, aright?”
The nun smiled. “Thank ye so verra much, ye have the right touch. No one else brings him such calm; for certes, ye’re his balm.” She waved airly. “He needs his afternoon snooze, and to miss Nones is against the rules. Thus I’ll make haste instead of yer time to waste.”
“I understand. Join yer sisters at prayer and rest assured the lad is safe with me.”
The nun turned and began to drift toward the corridor. “Ye have my thanks, and now I’ll—”
She stopped suddenly and her hands went to her hips as she cocked her head to one side.
Ramsay guessed her hesitation. “Banks?” he offered. “Hanks?”
“Lank!” Nicola chimed in. “Shanks?”
“Tanks.” God’s Wounds, ‘twas hard to keep his expression clear, especially with the bairn wriggling against his shoulder. “Ranks? Sank.”
The nun shook her head and sighed. “Yer words make sense, but now I’ll owe penance.”
