Page 13 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
“Aye, I can imagine,” Ava muttered, still grinning.
She went to the drawer he’d pointed at and rifled through it until she came up with clean cloth and gauze and a pre-made paste to stave off infection. From what she’d seen of the wound, it wasn’t deep. A little cleaning and bandaging, and the Laird might not even end up with a scar. For the first time, she noticed a bowl of warm water and a cloth on the table and felt like a fool for not noticing it before.
Pulling a stool up beside the Laird’s chair, Ava sat down.
“Do ye nae have a healer, then?” she asked, peeling away the filthy bandage. “Who made up those herbs and poultices?”
“We have a healer,” Laird McAdair admitted. “But she’s off in a distant village, helping some women give birth. They’re all due at once, poor lassies. She’s stretched too thin out here.”
“It’s good that ye care for yer people,” Ava murmured. “Laird MacCarthy never lets the healer leave the Keep, in case he needs her services.”
Laird McAdair snorted. “That sounds right. Listen, lassie, I might have had a wee jest or two with ye, but yerservices—the ones MacCarthy spoke of—willnae be needed here, dinnae ye fret.”
She swallowed hard, pointedly not looking up at his face. Of course, she had to sit close by him to clean out the wound, and there was an intoxicating smell of crushed grass and woodsmoke that emanated from him.
Ava couldn’t say why it was so thrilling, only that she wanted nothing more than to breathe deeply over and over again, taking in his scent. His skin was warm under her fingers, surprisingly soft and clean. He’d bathed himself before she came to him, then.
The wound was quickly cleaned, and then she covered it with the herbal paste. Already, it was looking better. It took her a few moments to wrap the bandages back around it, then she was done.
“If ye have no more need of me, Me Laird,” Ava said firmly, rising to her feet, “I’ll find meself a bed for the night.”
He grinned. “Not in here, then?”
She flushed. “Nay, Me Laird. Not in here.”
“Suit yerself. I havenae even tried yer tea yet, though.”
Ava stopped breathing. Laird McAdair reached for the teacup, lifting it to his lips.
“Nay!” she shrieked, batting the teacup out of his hand.
The cup bounced into the hearth, shattering, sending splashes of mint tea everywhere.
There was a taut silence in the room. Laird McAdair had looked almost comically surprised, just for a split second, but now, his composure was back. He shook a few drops of mint tea off his hand and then leaned back in his chair, regarding her curiously.
“I beg yer pardon, Me Laird,” Ava murmured.
“Dare I ask what would have happened if I drank that tea?” he asked coolly, and she felt color rising to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat of the fire.
“Ye would have slept deeply all night,” she confessed, “and ye would have had…vividdreams. Of an intimate nature. And since the dreams take the form of the person ye saw before ye slept, ye would wake up thinking we’d spent a passionate night together.”
Another silence. Ava scarcely dared breathe. She had just tried to drug the Laird of the Keep, who’d really shown her nothing but kindness. Sure, he’d allowed her to think he was going to take advantage of the debt she owed him, but he hadn’t, in the end.
And perhaps, now, she’d be thrown outside the Keep walls, where no doubt Laird MacCarthy’s men waited for her.
Laird McAdair’s lips twitched. Ava realized that he was trying not to laugh.
“I am sorry, Me Laird,” she said as contritely as she could manage, “but I thought ye were going to take advantage of me, what with the bath and the bed and theservices.”
Laird McAdair gave up, laughing helplessly.
“Serves me right, I suppose. And am I to believe ye are truly a lady of pleasure, Ava?”
“Not a lady of pleasure. A woman of the night.” She tilted her head up. “I told ye before that I am nae to be bought or sold, and I meant that. Me customers get the pleasure of me company, but that’s all. I call meself a woman of the night, and they believe it means the same thing as a lady of pleasure. It doesnae, and it isnae me fault they dinnae understand.”
Laird McAdair was still chuckling, and he lifted his good arm to rake his fingers through his hair. He’d undone it from its sloppy queue, letting it fall around his shoulders and the back of his neck. He seemed younger, somehow, and softer, with the firelight casting a buttery glow over his face and his hair falling into his eyes.
Ava felt that odd, clenching heat in her stomach again and balled her hands into fists by her sides.
