Lois Greiman (7 page)

“A
ltogeth…Oh…” Cook roared and howled with laughter. “Well of course he is. I couldn’t hardly let him lie there hour after hour in that filthy rag he come in, could I?”

Keelan remained mute, for despite his usual demeanor, he was almost as embarrassed as the girl. Which was interesting because, truth to tell, he’d always thought modesty was well overrated. He was, in normal circumstances, quite comfortable with nudity. Indeed, it was his favorite state, for himself and, say…half the rest of the population. But it seemed he was at something of a disadvantage here. For one thing, he was fully aroused, and his embarrassment seemed to be doing nothing to diminish his size.

“Cherry luv,” said Cook, still chuckling, “why don’t you fetch the potions I left on the
table. I’ll get the boy here settled safely into the tub.”

Despite the girl’s obvious consternation, she didn’t faint. Instead she skittered her gaze to his, to Cook’s, then fled like a hunted bunny.

Silence settled over the room, broken by Cook’s chuckle. “Our little Charity ain’t been around much. Cook, on the other hand…” she began, and reaching out, snapped the blankets aside. The words died on her lips. Her eyes went wide in the folds of her face. “Well now,” she said, still staring. “Is that for me, lad?” They stared at each other for a full five seconds, and then she roared in glee. “I jest, boy,” she said, grabbing his arm and hoisting him to his feet.

He was almost too stunned to feel the pain. Almost. But his first jarring step changed that. Agony stabbed through every inch of him. And yet his erection bobbled merrily, leading them toward the tub.

“There now, laddie luv, you’re doing good. Just keep going. That’s right. One foot in front of the other. So you got a thing for our Cherry, do you?” Cook shouted.

Keelan’s skin felt as if it were being peeled off his back with a paring knife. But they’d finally reached the tub.

“Well done,” said the fat lady. “Now all you
got to do is step inside. Won’t be no big task for a hero like yourself. Just one little step. Then you’ll feel better.”

He could feel his knees giving way, but his member was holding up nicely under the pressure.

“Unless that thing is too heavy for you. I could lift it for you, if you’re in need of assist.”

Keelan never remembered stepping over the rim. Didn’t remember drawing his second foot inside. But he wasn’t likely to forget how she chuckled as she eased him down into the gentle waves. The water felt like an odd mixture of fire and satin, soothing and burning all at once.

“Cook?” Charity’s voice was uncertain from the bedchamber.

“Just a moment, lass,” she called, then to Keelan, “we don’t want her fainting dead away, do we now.” She glanced around. “So maybe we’d best cover up your finer features.” Picking up a towel from a nearby commode, she draped it across his nether parts. “There now. How are you feeling?”

“Am I in hell?” Keelan asked.

The big woman chuckled. “Come on in, lass. He’s ’bout as decent as a Scotsman can be.”

Charity came on timid feet, carrying the notorious tray of bags and vials. She was already
blushing. Or maybe she was still blushing.

“Here now,” Cook said, reached for the tray, and set it on the nearby commode. “Much as I hate to leave you here with a naked Celt, I can’t hardly let Mrs. Graves alone for a blink without her burning down the kitchens. So listen pert, Cherry luv. You must wash his wounds with this.” She held up a fat brown bottle. “And wash them thorough. It’s going to hurt some, but not so much as if they start to fester. Leave the ointment on while he soaks, else…” Her voice droned on, but Keelan was beyond listening. Holding the tub’s rim in aching fingers, he eased himself carefully against the slanted back. The contact didn’t make him pass out. He closed his eyes, settled more firmly against the smooth metal, and let out a cautious sigh.

“…and call me if he causes you any trouble,” Cook was saying.

“Trouble?” The girl’s voice was breathy with sympathy. “The poor bloke can’t hardly sit up.”

“Aye well,” said Cook, tone dark. “Sitting up ain’t necessary for some things. I’ll be in the kitchen sharpening the cutlery,” she said, and waddled away.

Keelan opened his eye just in time to see Charity’s gaze dash from the towel to a point just above his left shoulder. She cleared her throat
and refused to look him in the eye. In fact, everything else in the room seemed absolutely fascinating, but finally she planted her gaze firmly on his right ear, as if challenging him to say something about her wayward glance. “Is the water warm enough?”

“Aye, lass,” Keelan assured her. “Dunna trouble yerself. In fact, I am certain I can handle what needs doing with the ointments and such.”

She tilted her head, seeming to momentarily forget the uncomfortable fact that she was sitting beside a battered man covered in naught but a towel. “You know something of medicines?”

“Na a thing, but I’ve na wish to see ye faint dead away.”

His ear seemed all the more fascinating.

“Perhaps ye might shift the tonics close beside the tub that I can—”

“I ain’t a little girl, you know.”

He couldn’t help but notice how her bosom swelled above the edge of her simple bodice.

“I mean, I ain’t as innocent as I seem.” She had settled her bottom on the tub’s rim, blocking the door from his view as she sat staring at him. Her chin was raised in defiance, and somehow he couldn’t quite stop himself from imagining her doing the same thing without a stitch of clothes to cover her glory. “I’ve seen men in the…in
the altogether before.” She was slanted slightly toward him, the rim of the tub nestled firmly in the cleft between her legs. “Well…” She fumbled the fat brown jar from the tray. “I’ve seen…
a
man in the altogether…before.” She cleared her throat and unstopped the jar. The smell of mint filled the room. “I’ve been down to Gray’s Mill, you know.”

“Oh?” He had no idea where she was going with her current train of thought, but so long as she was sitting on his bathtub it hardly mattered.

She dipped her fingers into the ointment and leaned forward. Her bosom swelled toward him, but he managed to refrain from doing anything that was likely to get him killed. Her fingers were unsteady against his cheek, but the ointment was soothing, her voice the same. He closed his eyes and tried not to imagine her nipples.

“Gray’s Mill?”

“’Tis a favored place when the summer days grow long. Brady Cushing could swim like a merman.” She gently dabbed a bit of ointment into a cut above his left eye. The pain eased a little.

“Was he?”

She gave him a scowl, dipped out more stuff, and smoothed it into the wound on his neck. “Was he what?”

“A merman.”

“He was the miller’s son,” she said, and winced as she smoothed ointment into the oozing wound on his arm.

“So Brady and ye were…” Naked? “Friends?” he asked.

That scowl again, cute as an inchworm. “Sure. I mean…I didn’t know him real good being as I lived some good distance away. Me father used to say handsome boys was all well and good, but they was more trustworthy if you kept a couple miles betweenst them and yer daughter. Still…” She tried to look worldly-wise, but only managed adorable. “I got to see him now and again.

“If you lean forward I can have at your back.”

He couldn’t fight down the grin, even though leaning forward made every muscle groan in agony. After all, in his mind she was naked.

“Oooh your poor, tattered skin. The terrible beast must have dragged you half a league by the look of things.”

“Aye,” he said distractedly. “So ye and Brady were…swimming mates?”

“Well we—” she began, then her eyes went wide. “Naw! I mean…naw.
I
didn’t…That is to say, I’ve never been…” She flashed her gaze to him and away. “Swimming.”

But blessed Mary, she would be beautiful. Floating on her back with her bonny brown hair sweeping silken free across her lovely breasts. He could imagine it well.

“So ye remained on the shore,” he said, “waiting for yer love to come to ye?”

“He was not my love…” Her eyes were beyond expressive, her fingers fidgety. “Exactly.”

Against all likelihood, her hand felt like heaven against his skin, easing away the pain. “So just a dalliance then?” he asked.

She cleared her throat and gently doused his back with a steady stream of water. “Friends more like. Like you said early on.”

“Tell me, lass,” He couldn’t help but smile into her eyes. “Do you always treat yer friends so well?”

“Why sure I—” she began, then jerked away. “I never…I didn’t mean to say I…We was only friends.”

“Naked friends be the verra best sort.”

Her mouth opened and shut, her face red as a berry. “
He
was in the altogether. Not me.”

“Ahh.” Keelan couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t quite manage to force herself to say the word
naked
. If he weren’t aroused to the point of explosion, that might be terribly sweet. “And he did na mind ye watching?”

“Well he…he…”

“Didn’t ken ye were there?” he finished quietly.

She opened her mouth and gave him a peeved glance “Scooch down in the water so’s I can wash your shoulders.”

He did so. It hurt. When he eased back up, the towel slipped lower, but Keelan pulled the shield resolutely into place.

Charity swallowed and raised her gaze back to his.

“Tell me, lass, how old was Master Brady when ye last saw him…in the altogether?”

She bunched her brows over liquid eyes. “I don’t see how that matters none.” She cleared her throat. “There’s blood in your hair.”

“How old were ye then, lass?”

She was avoiding his gaze again. “Close your eyes. I’ll wash it for you.”

He did so. After all, his imagination was ever as clear as his vision…and twice as lurid.

The water felt soothing on his scalp, her fingers magic against his skin. The scent of lavender mingled with thyme, easing his battered senses. Her thumb brushed his ear with tender slowness. His hair washed against his shoulders, slick as a seal.

“You need a trim,” she said, but her voice was
as soft as a sigh. He opened his eyes to find hers. “I can cut it for you if you like.”

He imagined that…alone with her, her hands soft as a dream against his skin. She’d laugh at his jests. And of course…they’d be naked.

He cleared his throat. “Mayhap that would na be a good idea, lass.”

“We might wait until you’re feeling better,” she said, dipping into the brown jar again and reaching down to rub ointment in the wound above the towel.

Keelan tensed beneath her ministrations and gritted his teeth against the titillating agony. She eased her fingers over the aching muscles of his abdomen. He was but a sigh’s distance from ecstasy. She was a towel from fainting.

“I’m a fair hand with a scissors,” she murmured, and dropped her hand with breathtaking slowness to the next wound.

He caught her fingers before he knew what he was doing. “I’m certain ye’re a fair hand at a host of things, lass,” Keelan rasped, “but…” He paused, remembering to breathe. “I fear the experience might be more than me poor system can handle just aboot now.”

She scowled. Kissing her would be so simple, so pleasant, so deadly.

He cleared his throat and tried to do the
same with his thoughts. “Mayhap I was entirely wrong, lass. Mayhap ye’ve na idea what ye do to a man.”

Her lips moved prettily. “If I’ve hurt you I—”

“Nay,” he breathed. “Nay, lass. Yer touch is naught but magic.”

Her scowl deepened. Her lips were but inches away, teasing, tempting, begging.

“Tell me, lass, if this Brady resisted ye I would ken his trick.” Her scent, as light as a morning breeze, tantalized him. Her fingers felt soft and fragile. He drew them near and kissed the tips.

Her lips parted. No sound escaped.

He raised his gaze slowly to hers. “Did he resist?”

She nodded.

“And what of the others?”

“What others?” Her words were barely a whisper.

“The other men who be smitten by yer merest glance. Who follow ye like lambkins on a string. Have they resisted also?” He brushed her knuckles with his thumb and held his breath, not certain whether he hoped she would confirm or deny. Innocence, after all, was its own guardian.

Her nod was more thoughtful this time, her eyes wider still. She licked her lips with seductive slowness.

“So ye are…” He searched for the proper words, trying to remember that he had not come here to lose himself in a bonny maid’s sweet embrace. “Ye are untried?”

Her lips parted the slightest degree. He kissed her wrist and was rewarded with a puffed exhalation. When she spoke, her words were breathy. “I’m not certain I take your meaning, Mr. Angel.”

He kissed her arm. “Have ye never been loved, lass?”

“Loved? Oh aye, me mum loved me something—”

“Nay.” He shook his head and touched her face. She shivered beneath his hand, and with that physical proof of her arousal, he couldn’t resist slipping his hand behind the weight of her fragrant hair and pulling her down for a kiss.

Her lips touched his, as soft as a sigh, as tempting as sin itself, but suddenly the world exploded.

“What the hell is this!” Roland snarled and stepped into view.

“R
oland!” Charity’s tone was breathy, her eyes wide as she leapt to her feet. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“I guess time moves right along when you’re with our patient here,” Roland said, and took a strutting step forward. “Thought I’d come on in and see how he’s doing, but it looks to me that you’re doing quite well, aye Highlander?”

Merciful God, so Chetfield wasn’t the only bastard who hoped to bed the girl. “The lass here was kind enough to see to me wounds,” Keelan said, fighting to keep his tone level.

Roland smiled, but it was carnivorous at best. “It looks like she’s seen a good deal, all right. Cherie luv, why don’t you run along to the kitchen. Cook’s been asking about you.”

She fidgeted. “But Mr. Angel here needs my assist.”

Roland turned toward her, eyes flat. “We’ll manage on our own.”

“I don’t think—”

“And it’s just as well you don’t start now.” For a moment rage twisted Roland’s face, transforming it from angelic to satanic, but he drew a calming breath. His features relaxed into a semblance of normalcy, but his eyes remained rabid. “Run along to the kitchen before supper is ruined.”

“Very well then,” she said, “if you’re sure you can handle him.”

The bastard smiled, his eyes never leaving Keelan. “Quite sure.”

“You soak as long as you like then, luv. I’ll be back in a bit with your meal,” she said, then turned and hurried from the room.

Keelan cleared his throat. “This is na what it looks to be.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Roland, tone level, eyes insane. “’Cuz it almost looked as if you were kissing my girl.”

“Ye see,” said Keelan, “’tis just what I was saying. The situation is na a’tall what it seems.”

“Then you’d best explain yourself,” Roland said, and reached with malevolent slowness into his jacket.

Keelan felt the blood rush from his face as the bastard drew out a cigar. “The lass…Charity, is
it? She but hopes to see me gone from this place. Said as much, in fact. Wanted to get me healed as soon as possible and thought a bath might bring me quicker toward that end.”

“Ahh,” Roland said, and twirled the cheroot between his fingers. “And you, Highlander, what were you thinking?”

“Well…” Fook it all, he was at a terrible disadvantage, lying nearly prone at the other’s feet like a slab of shrinking beef. “I thought the quicker I mend, the quicker I can see to the duties me new master has given me.”

“So you weren’t planning to bed her.”

“Bed her!” Merciful God, he was in trouble. He was as weak as a milk-fed pup, there were no weapons close to hand, and he seemed to be the only one in the room who was naked. God, he hated being the only one naked. On the other hand, having the bastard naked would hardly make the situation any more appealing. If Charity returned, though…Roland stepped closer, stopping Keelan’s thoughts. “Nay. I hardly know the lass. I would na consider—” he began, but at that moment the bastard yanked a knife from inside his coat and reached down.

“Damn you to hell!” he rasped.

Reaching out frantically, Keelan grabbed the first thing that came to hand. His fingers closed
around a bottle. He threw it with all his might. It bounced off Roland’s cheek, sloshing liquid in his face.

The bastard screamed and stumbled back, but Keelan was already scrambling out of the tub. His feet slipped on the floor. He bobbled, caught his balance, and prepared to dash for the door, but Roland was already recovering and stood between him and safety, arms outstretched and knife held ready.

“Listen.” Keelan glanced through the doorway that seemed a lifetime away. “I can understand yer feelings. She’s a bonny lass and no mistake, but this be a bad idea.”

“I believe you’re wrong there, Highlander.”

He was breathing hard. The exertion burned deep in his chest and back, nearly doubling him over. “Leave me be and I’ll not tell the lass ’twas ye who wounded me at the start.” There was nothing close to hand that could possibly be misconstrued as a weapon. Wrapping his arm about himself, Keelan cradled his lower ribs in his right hand. “But if ye kill me, she’ll ken yer true nature.”

“Kill you!” The bastard smiled. The expression was strangely beatific. “I don’t plan to kill you, boy. Not right away.”

Near the door there was a ceramic pitcher. If
he could get that far, maybe he could use it as a shield. Of course, if he could get to the door, it might behoove him to run like bloody hell. He almost laughed out loud at the thought. Run? Sweet Mary, he could barely stand up. Laughing wasn’t all that likely either.

And the bastard was stalking him. Keelan sidled sideways. “What would Charity say?”

He smiled again. “If I cut off your balls? She’d probably say,
Look, there’s some poor bastard with no balls
.”

Keelan shook his head, still easing sideways, careful not to make any sudden moves…or pass out. “Truly, I dunna think she’d use such language.”

Roland narrowed his eyes. “Are you laughing at me, boy?”

“Nay!” He chanced another lateral step, stalling, praying. The backs of his legs struck something. He fended it off, worked his way around it. “Nay indeed, but ye must think of the unfairness of the situation.”

Roland remained silent, watching, knife outstretched.

“Ye are clever,” Keelan said.

The bastard’s mouth quirked as he nodded his agreement.

“And strong and hale. While I am…” Keelan
made a motion with his hand. “I am sadly weakened and sore wounded.”

“It’s a terrible truth,” said the bastard, and settled himself on the balls of his feet, arms outstretched, eyes laughing, waiting. “But life is rarely fair.”

Keelan was, quite literally, backed into a corner, and the lovely pitcher was still some feet away. “Harm me and she will know. There will be na way to make her believe ye are…” Human. “The gentle man ye pretend to be.”

The bastard grinned. “You think I care what she believes?”

Oddly enough, he did. “She will na come to a coward.” He knew the moment the words left his mouth that he had made a mistake.

“Are you calling me a coward, Highlander?”

“Nay.” Keelan’s heart was pounding like a runaway steed. “But ’tis na me own opinion that matters, is it now? ’Tis hers,” Keelan said.

For a moment the world was utterly silent, and then the bastard laughed. The sound echoed eerily in the room

“You think I object to taking her against her wishes?”

Keelan’s stomach churned at the thought. “She is sweetness itself,” he gritted. “Any man who is a man would care for her wishes.”

“So you think I’m not a man.”

Fook it all! Keelan clenched his fists, loosened them, tried to force out a soothing rejoinder, but nothing came to mind.

“Maybe you think I’m an animal,” Roland said and shifted the knife to his other hand.

“Nay. Nay indeed,” Keelan said, every ounce of concentration focused on the blade. “In truth I’ve always thought rather highly of the beasts of the—”

“Damn you!” Roland snarled and leapt.

Keelan lunged sideways, grabbing the pitcher. It felt as heavy as a horse, but he swept it in front of him. Roland sliced sideways. The blade slashed across the hard-baked ceramic, missing Keelan’s thigh by the barest inch.

“Yer master will be sore disappointed to find us like this,” he rasped, drawing the pitcher higher.

The bastard laughed. “And you’ll be sore disappointed to learn he’s still in the village,” he said and lunged again.

Keelan just managed to save his throat from the blade that slashed like lightning across the pottery. “You’re wrong.” His voice sounded raspy. His knees wobbled with fatigue. “He’s on his way here even now.”

“Let the old fool come. I’ll give him the same as—”

“Your wish is my command, Mr. Roland,” said a melodious voice.

They jerked toward the doorway in unison. Chetfield stood watching them with an odd smirk, hand lightly holding his staff as if he’d waited there for hours.

“My lord.” Roland’s voice was weak. “I didn’t expect you to return so soon.”

Silence echoed in the room, punctuated by tension as tight as a knot.

The baron smiled without humor. “Is that any reason for you to disembowel our Celtic friend?”

A muscle jumped in the bastard’s jaw. “I found him with the girl,” he said, and Chetfield turned his deadly attention to Keelan.