Page 20 of A Wife for the Highland Villain
“Aye. Good.” He cleared his throat and moved to her side again, the tension between them thicker than a storm.
For now, he would have to keep himself in check.
Lily leaned closer to Timothy’s food, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead as she examined the wound. Her brow creased in concentration, the tips of her fingers already gloved and stained.
She worked in silence at first, then finally murmured, “The surface is clean, but it’s only the first step. I still have to go deeper. If the slightest grain of dirt remains, the wound will only keep festering.”
Timothy let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Do what ye must, me Lady. I’m still riding the joy of kenning that I’ll walk again. Whatever comes next, I will survive it.”
Lily gave him a tired smile. “Aye, well, I’m afraid that euphoria may nae last. I am about to use the whisky.”
Timothy waved her off. “I will manage. The pain will remind me of what I almost lost.”
Alasdair had been standing quietly by, but at that, he stepped forward and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Trust me, lad,” he said gently. “Do as she says. Bite down on something. There’s nay glory in suffering needlessly.”
Timothy shook his head. “Let it hurt. I want to remember it.”
Lily met Alasdair’s eyes. “He is just as stubborn as someone else I ken.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Ye’ll have to be more specific.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she uncorked the bottle. Just as she was about to pour, she turned to him. “Ye could have just asked nicely, Alasdair. Ye could have simply told me what was happening in yer clan, and I would have come.”
Alasdair’s jaw tightened. “I couldnae take that risk. Every second counted. The council wouldnae wait. Me people wouldnae wait. But the most important thing is that ye’re here now and ready to take yer place.”
A coldness swept across her expression like the wind from a terrible blizzard. “Daenae twist this. I am here to care for the wounded. That is all. Nothing has changed. And ye would do well nae to forget it.”
He swallowed the words that threatened to rise and said nothing as she turned back to Timothy.
She poured the whisky.
Timothy arched off the cot with a scream, his fists clenching around the sides of his blanket. Lily whispered an apology, her hands already working fast and steady as she cut the infected tissue away layer by layer.
Alasdair pinned down the boy’s leg with both hands, keeping him from thrashing as Lily worked. But his gaze wasn’t fixed on Timothy. It was fixed on her. Not just her skill, but also her calm, her voice.
Lily glanced up at Timothy’s face and noticed the tension in his jaw. “Tell me about yer wife, Timothy. What’s her name?” she asked softly.
“Clara,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“And what did Clara do before she got with child?”
“She… she sewed dresses for the ladies in the village,” he said, sweat beading on his brow.
“And what do ye think the bairn will be? A lad or a lass?”
Timothy coughed a laugh. “She says a lass. I am hoping for a lad. But I’ll love it either way.”
“Aye. And if ‘tis a boy, what will ye teach him first?”
“Nae to be like me,” Timothy muttered.
“Nonsense,” Lily said firmly. “Ye will teach him to be kind, brave, and strong enough to walk through fire and still carry love in his heart.”
Timothy exhaled shakily. “And if ‘tis a girl?”
“Then ye will teach her the same,” Lily replied. “And maybe how to sew a stitch better than her maither.”
