Page 35 of Here in Your Arms
He shifted, moving to stand, rising slowly to his feet. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed with the effort, his broad frame coiling with tension. And yet now, his face showed no hint of either pain or discomfort.
A moment ago, when he’d thought himself alone, she’d watched a raw wince overtake his features. Now, under her gaze, he locked it away, his expression carefully controlled, his jaw set.
Very curious, she thought.
“You’re hurt,” she said, a bit concerned by what had seemed a large pool of blood on his sleeve. But now, as he stood and nearly faced her, she had no clear view to the back of his arm.
He barely spared her a glance. “Tis naught.”
Rose frowned. “It’s bleeding.”
“Aye, and I’ve bled before.”
She let out a slow, disbelieving breath. She might have admired the sheer, unshakable strength of him if he weren’t also so unbearably impossible—and if she’d not been witness to his earlier, unguarded grimacing.
He took a step forward and faltered slightly.
A sharp inhale escaped her. “You’re limping.”
He exhaled, long and slow, as though she were testing every last shred of patience he had. “I am aware of that as well, but I appreciate you chronicling the trouble that has befallen me.”
Now, she gasped not in concern but in outright offense. Her mouth snapped shut, her spine stiffening.
Well! That was unnecessary.
As quickly as it had surfaced, her indignation cooled. She wondered if his sharpness had nothing to do with her at all. Perhaps it was embarrassment that soured his tone, the sting of wounded pride more painful than the injuries he refused to acknowledge. Here he was, thrown from his horse and struggling to walk, with her of all people as witness.
She hesitated, walking as he limped awkwardly several more steps, grimacing for him since he refused to now.
A jangling noise drew her attention and she pivoted, spotting his horse, returned to the woods but dozens of yards away, though moving closer, ambling slowly as if he had nowhere to be. Maybe he was afraid now to approach, suspecting his master’s wrath?
I don’t blame you, she thought.
“Should I... try to catch it?” Rose ventured.
“Leave him.”
But she had already begun moving toward the horse, stepping carefully over exposed roots and rocks half-buried in the earth. When she got closer, she extended her arms and clicked her tongue, hoping the big horse would prove a gentle and accommodating beast.
The MacRae laird hollered her name at that moment. “Rose! He’ll nae—"
The horse snorted loudly and bolted.
Rose let out a frustrated sound, and sighed, returning to the laird, who—rudely, she thought—had continued limping forward, making his way out of the trees.
She moved after him, quickening her steps to catch up. And she saw now, for the first time, the source of the blood on his sleeve. Her breath caught, the sight horrific to her mind.
Jutting through the back of his sleeve, on the back of his arm, was a broken branch, nearly half an inch thick and at least three inches long. The end of it was jagged, freshly snapped, the raw wood stark against the dark fabric of his tunic. Rose guessed that it wasn’t just tangled in the cloth, but that it was embedded in him.
A sharp gasp tore from her lips.Good God.The damn thing had driven straight into his arm!
“Stop,” she blurted, her voice higher than she intended. “MacRae—stop. Is that...attached to you?”
He didn’t stop of course, but threw casually over his shoulder, “Aye.”
Great balls of fire, the man was stubborn!
Rose rushed ahead and stood in his path, facing him, forcing him to stop—or mow her down.
