Page 44 of Beyond Dreams

Chapter Thirteen

The rain continuedto pound down upon the earth and Duncan’s anger remained, seething inside him. Not only did his head and arm and thigh throb with pain, but enough rain had seeped through the generous branches of the pine that most of him was wet, only further irritating him. He’d gone over it again and again, angry with himself that he’d not simply mounted the horse with Holly and made for Thallane. But that was only hindsight squawking in his brain, not knowing prior to the fight how inept the outlaws would prove. He still wasn’t sure of their motives, supposing they might only have been passing through, taking advantage of isolated persons, as he and Holly had been. It wasn’t the first time people of ill-intent had trespassed on Thallane, nor was the fight the most brutal, but Duncan was still riled up over it hours later. Mostly, he was angry that those clumsy outlaws had ruined the kiss that Holly had bestowed upon him. That in itself was a crime, that he’d not been afforded any time, not one minute, to savor the glory of her kiss. He’d have pursued more, that initial offering being ripe with so much promise and titillation, if not for the advent of those worthless brigands.

More than once over the ensuing hours, he recalled not the fight against five men—four actually, since the dough-faced lad had, as Duncan had guessed he might, turned tail and fled as soon as Duncan had squared off against him—but the feel of her lips and the taste of her kiss. He didn’t feel that he was in any jeopardy of dying, but knew that if he were, he’d be even further annoyed, to have been teased with her kiss but unable to know her fully intimately. A significant injustice, that would have been. But, since his life was not in peril, he discovered that his mood began to improve, heightened and invigorated by that small taste of his wife’s passion and what it might mean for their future.

It was late afternoon now. He’d dozed on and off and knew that Holly had done the same. But then he’d also been aware of her being up and down, here and gone, doing what, he could only guess—possibly looking out for Graeme or any MacQuillan search party. They’d have been sent by now, he was sure—he would have strong words for his captain if a unit had not by now been assigned to find their missing laird. However, there were thousands of acres to cover and miles of beach to consider as well, so that he wasn’t worried that they wouldn’t be found. ’Twas only a matter of when.

And likely, he could have managed the walk back to Thallane, even as the idea of traversing two miles of rugged rock and hills presented a concern because of his condition, but he needed to be careful of Holly’s presence and the fact that should any other opportunists be about, he wasn’t sure he could protect her again. All things considered, they were safer here, fixed and waiting.

Duncan rubbed at his eyes and ran his hand over his jaw and then through his hair. Scratching vigorously, attempting to rouse himself from the grogginess that had besieged him since the fight. He guessed the smack to the head had instigated the fatigue but hoped to be removed from it as evening came.

At that moment, Holly turned from her side of the tree and laid her hand over his forehead, as she’d done a dozen times by now. She pulled her hand away but made no comment on his fever or lack thereof and said instead, “I don’t know why I’m so whipped. I feel as if I fought off those guys, or if I’d run a marathon, miles and miles. I’m just drained.” She shivered then and returned to her perch, with her back against the trunk of the tree.

Duncan noticed that she’d used more of her cut-away chemise to bind the wrist she’d been favoring earlier.

“How is your hand?” He asked.

“It’s fine, probably just sprained. Actually, it feels better since I wrapped it nice and tight.” She angled her arm and hand out for his inspection, just for a moment before she returned it to her lap.

Having only just met her and having been mostly annoyed by her before today, having at times believed she might be simple, and mostly being confused about and by her, Duncan resolved now to modify his estimation of her. She’d behaved fiercely and with intelligence throughout their ordeal, had shown little of her penchant for useless tears, had acted swiftly and efficiently, taking charge of the situation as well as any suitably trained soldier might do. He could find no fault with this version of his wife, certainly when that kiss remained so constant and pleasant in his recall.

However, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He should be pleased and proud to have discovered that his wife had some merit, that she’d not buckled under pressure. And yet part of him knew that this knowledge coupled with the kiss they’d shared meant that keeping his distance, maintaining a polite but detached relationship with her might not be so easy now. With little else to do, his brain was available to respond instantly—would that be such a bad thing?

The rain hadn’t let up, but it was now only a drizzling mist, cool but not dangerously so. And yet, if they did not move, if they were forced to stay here overnight, the cold would become an issue.

“We’ll freeze overnight, lass,” he remarked, “if they dinna find us by then.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” she said, and then paused to yawn, lending credibility to her statement of being drained. “And you’re not wearing a shirt. I guess wearing that sliced and bloody thing might be better than being bare-chested.”

“Aye, but we’ll need more layers, you especially,” he returned. “You need to steal their clothing.”

“What?” She balked, her head spinning toward him. “No, Duncan, anything but that. I can’t—I’m not going to wrestle a shirt off a dead man. Can’t you...can’t we...warm each other?”

He chuckled at this, the sound and feeling behind it almost foreign to him, considering he wasn’t sure how he felt about his wife having denied his rights now showing a preference to being in his arms rather than wearing a dead man’s shirt. Duncan didn’t know if he should mark this as progress or not.

But he’d never been one to ignore an issue. “Warming each other presents challenges, lass, certainly to you, having expressed a want to ken me first.”

“What are you talking about?” She asked absently, fidgeting with the skirt of her léine, possibly sitting on it improperly that it tugged uncomfortably. He’d already noticed throughout the day that she didn’t idle well, wasn’t capable of sitting motionless for too long.

“I’m half naked, lass, and despite the adventure of today—”

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