Page 73 of The Scot Beds His Wife
Samantha had to admit, after the first initial shock,some of the throbbing in her calf did abate after the application of the dubious substance.
“Worry not, lass, the wound isn’t as deep as we feared. The bullet grazed you by instead of poked you through. More a cut than a hole, which will heal faster, and did less damage to the muscle.”
“Oh, that’s excellent news,” Eleanor breathed, patting Samantha’s hand.
That it was, Samantha agreed. Being helpless was bound to make her mad. If she couldn’t walk, then she couldn’t run.
And something told her she’d need to run before long. Because if her lies didn’t catch up with her, the Masters brothers might. As much as she relied on Gavin’s offer of protection, she didn’t want to bank on it for longer than she had to.
Just in case…
In case her instincts about him turned out to be as terrible as they had about the first charming, beautiful man she’d married.
Samantha decided to save a brood for a more private time, as Eammon’s attempt to charm Lady Eleanor distracted her.
“Did ye know, my lady, that Great Scot sired another foal?”
Samantha suspected Eleanor had carefully constructed her placid façade during her years as the wife of the dreaded Laird Hamish Mackenzie.
“That is welcome news,” Eleanor said politely.
“They named him Great Scot’s Ghost, and what do you think of that?”
“How clever.”
“And… uh… he’s a bright lad. Friendly, too. Softest ears I ever stroked, like those fine velvet chairs I carriedto your solarium a few months ago. Might welcome an apple or some sugar cubes if you and Alice are ever inclined to come by the stables during your three o’clock walk.”
“I don’t much have use for the stables anymore, Mr. Monahan,” Lady Eleanor murmured.
Eammon nodded, swallowing loudly enough to be heard as his large, meaty hands deftly dressed Samantha’s leg with a fresh bandage.
“Aye, well… your son’s fiancée rides astride, I’ve heard tell.”
Lady Eleanor’s winged brows lowered. “Is that true, Sam?”
Samantha nodded, feeling like an outsider in this interaction. “Might not be proper, but it’s safer,” she offered by way of explanation.
“It is, at that,” Eammon agreed. “Just about anyone could stay aloft, if they had the right mount.”
“I would never have been allowed to…” Lady Eleanor trailed off.
“Well, you are mistress of your own mind now,” Eammon said softly. “You could do what you like.”
“So I am.” Eleanor thought on that for a moment as Eammon finished his work and retrieved his bag.
“I think you can keep your leg, young lady.”
“Praise be.” She returned his cheeky smile with one of her own.
“I’m leaving you a dollop of this sleeping drought for tonight if the pain gets to you. And I hear congratulations are in order. Never thought our Lord Thorne would be enticed to the altar.”
“Not so much enticed as contracted,” she clarified with a look that assured him that she was more a coconspirator than coerced.
“Even so. Let me know if there is aught I can do.” Hestood to take his leave, reaching down to take her hand in a firm shake. “Miss Ross.”
“Mr. Monahan.”
He hesitated about what he did next, and then his jaw set behind his beard in firm resolve. “My Lady.” Before Lady Eleanor could protest, he caught her hand in his and bent to press a lingering kiss to her pale, delicate knuckle.
