Page 23 of A Wife for the Highland Villain
It covered her like silk, easing all the ache and tension she felt in her shoulder blades and lower back almost immediately. She could stay here all day, thinking about nothing at all.
But her mind, traitorous as it was, wouldn’t rest. She tried to focus on the reflection of the candlelight dancing on the water and even the scent of lavender oil and soap. Hell, she tried thinking about the faces of the men in the hall, all writhing on their beds in pain. But she kept seeinghim.
Alasdair.
His face in the moonlight. That smug smirk she wished she could wipe off. His hands over hers as they worked on Timothy’s foot. The solid and grounding feel of him behind her on the horse.
Him. Her husband.
She cursed under her breath and sank deeper, letting the water cover her ears until the world went quiet.
Why had he picked those dresses? Why did they all feel so right? How dare he still remember things about her?
She clenched her jaw and drew a ragged breath, wiping water from her eyes.
This wasn’t about him. It would never be again. She was here to save lives, not to rekindle foolish feelings or relive the pain of what could have been. She grabbed the bar of soap and began scrubbing her arms in sharp, firm strokes, as if she could wash away his memory.
“I’ll do me work,” she muttered. “But I willnae care for him. Nae again.”
She glanced once more toward the wardrobe. At the dress he had chosen. She hated how perfect it looked. She hated how well he knew her.
She stayed in the water longer than she had intended, the heat slowly losing its edge. Her fingers were wrinkled and her skin scrubbed red, but still, she lingered.
It took a while, but she managed to push all the other thoughts from her mind. There was something about the silence and the solitude that held her there.
In the bath, the world seemed far away. No Alasdair. No wounded men. No tension pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. Just water.
Eventually, she grew cold. She sighed, pushing herself up. Water trickled down her arms and collarbones as she reached for a towel. She dried herself quickly, wrapped her hair in a second towel, and slipped into the plain linen robe that was left near the tub.
Minutes passed. Then, the door creaked open.
“Hope ye daenae mind,” Sorcha said as she stepped in, carrying a large wooden box with handles. “I brought ye the dresses.”
Lily turned from where she’d been brushing her hair in front of the mirror. “Where’s Daisy?”
“Feeding the wounded. Poor lads. Most of them cannae even lift their hands to eat, much less hold a spoon. She’ll be busy for a while.”
Lily nodded, stepping toward the box. “Thank ye for bringing them.”
Sorcha set it on the bed with a faint grunt and then dusted her hands. “Aye, well. I ken what it means to want to spite a man. But I’ll warn ye now—some of these dresses are… unsightly.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “I daenae care.”
Sorcha opened the box. “I figured as much.”
She reached in and pulled out a dress, holding it by the sleeves. It was a heavy maroon piece, too long and too wide at the shoulders. Hideous lace climbed up the sides like an unwanted vine.
Lily grimaced.
Sorcha laughed. “I told ye.”
Lily nodded. “I’ll wear them.”
“Ye will?”
“Aye.”
Sorcha shook her head, half in disbelief. “Ye’re just as the Laird described ye.”
