Sutherland's Secret (9 page)

Washed and in a clean gown, Eleanor slipped into Brice’s bedchamber. Hannah was with him, sitting on a hard chair near his bed. A lit candle sat on the table beside the bed; the flames from the fire in the grate were the only other light.

Someone had taken off Brice’s bloody shirt and left his chest bare. All the better for her to change the bandages, but that expanse of sun-browned skin and smooth muscles made her insides quiver.

“He hasn’t awoken yet,” Hannah whispered as she stood and stretched.

“It’s probably for the best. Let the body heal.”

“He’ll be ready to get up as soon as he awakens,” Hannah said.

“He can try.”

Hannah grinned. “Ye’re good for him.”

Eleanor shook her head. “What is it with you Highlanders? Colin said the same thing.”

“Maybe we know better than you.”

While Eleanor would like to believe so, she knew it couldn’t be true, and it hurt. She’d been through so much that one would think she deserved a small spot of happiness in her life. But that was not to be. At least for the long term. “You have to know I’m English,” she said softly as she smoothed the blanket absently. “I’m sure my speech gives it away.”

“Aye. We know. We also know ye saved our lord’s life and that something horrible happened to ye at the hands of the bloody English.”

Eleanor drew in a breath. She’d never mentioned what had happened, and these words from Hannah were an unwanted shock. “You don’t know that.”

Hannah touched her shoulder. Eleanor still wasn’t able to look at her.

“Cecilia isn’t the best at keeping secrets,” Hannah said. “She told us of yer wounds.” Her hand moved to touch Eleanor’s wrist. “Those came from something, and I know a Highlander wouldn’t do that to his woman.”

Eleanor hid her hands in the folds of her gown and looked away.

“Ye’re safe here, Eleanor.”

But for how long? Until Blackwood decided to return? Until one of the clansmen accidentally let it slip that an Englishwoman was living here?

Hannah gathered the sewing that was sitting by her feet. “I’ll leave ye two. There’s a guard outside the door. Call out if ye need anything.” She quietly slipped out of the room.

Eleanor turned her attention toward her patient and away from the memories that Hannah had loosened. But her words stayed with her.
I know a Highlander wouldn’t do that to his woman.

Eleanor had been here long enough to note that the women at Castle Dornach were treated with reverence. She’d not seen the same from the English soldiers at Fort Augustus, and she was embarrassed to call herself English after seeing how her fellow countrymen treated not only her but the Scottish as well. It was disgraceful and shameful.

She drew the chair closer to the bed and sat down, studying Brice’s face. There was a bit more color in it, she was glad to see. He was breathing normally, and every so often he would twitch, which gave her hope that he wasn’t too deeply unconscious and gone to a place where no one could reach him.

The fire crackled and popped in the grate, and the room grew warmer. Eleanor fought to keep her eyes open. The excitement of the night had given way to lethargy. She leaned forward and took Brice’s hand in hers, rubbing her thumb along the top of his hand.

He stirred and moaned. His eyes fluttered open, closed, then open again, as if he were struggling to lift his lids. He stared up at the canopy of his bed, then slowly turned his head toward her. His eyes were dulled with pain and confused. “Am I in heaven?” he asked, his voice rough.

She smiled. “Hardly. You’re in your own bed.”

His eyes drifted closed, and with an effort, he opened them again. “What happened?”

“You’ve been shot.”

He grunted, then grimaced. “What really happened?”

She frowned. “You were shot in the shoulder.”

“I don’t get…shot.”

She bit back a smile. Apparently it was beneath him. “Well, you were this time.”

“Huh.” He looked up at the canopy again. “Feels like I’ve been trampled by a dozen horses.”

“I’m sure it does. Rest, and you will feel better.”

“No time to rest.” But his eyes drifted closed again.

Some time passed. Shadows danced on the walls from the reflection of the fire. She still held his hand, loath to let it go. It was warm, and it enclosed her entire hand, fingers and all.

“Who fixed me up?”

She was so sure he was asleep that his question made her jump. “I did.”

He opened his eyes to look at her in disbelief. “Ye?”

“Aye. Me.”

“How?”

“Well, if you must know, I dug around in your shoulder and pulled the ball out.”

He grunted, still looking at her. “Ye’re speaking.”

“I had to in order to tell your men what to do while I performed surgery on you.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. “Ye’re sassy, too.”

Feisty and sassy. She was collecting all the monikers tonight.

“I like it,” he said softly.

“You like what?”

“Sassy women.”

“Ah.” She never used to be sassy, but she’d had sassy thoughts that she would squelch because they weren’t ladylike and men didn’t like sassy women. Turns out her mother was wrong about that.

A wave of grief washed over her at the thought of her mother. What had she been told about Eleanor? Did she even know that Eleanor was a widow?

Brice shifted and grimaced. “Thirsty.”

Eleanor slid her hand from under his, but before she could stand, he grabbed her wrist, moving surprisingly fast for one so injured. “Stay.”

“I was going to get you something to drink.”

“Have someone fetch it. Do no’ leave.”

She looked down at this big bear of a man laid low by a pistol ball to the shoulder. “Very well. But I need to tell the guard to fetch something.” It took only a moment before she was back at his side, but he had fallen asleep already.

Eleanor resumed her seat, thoughts of her mother and father and brother intruding. She hoped they weren’t grieving for her. She’d hate to think that they thought her dead. Or worse, that they knew her to be imprisoned. That would be worse than thinking she was dead. She wished she could write to them, but she didn’t dare. Blackwood might find out, and then he would discover where she was. She shuddered at the thought of that man.

“Talk.”

She jumped and looked at Brice. Though his eyes were closed, he was awake. He slid his hand out to her and she took it again. His fingers closed over hers. She liked the feel of that large, calloused palm.

“I beg your pardon?”

A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Ye sound so prissy when ye say that.”

“Sassy and prissy?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Aye.”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

He made to shrug, then grimaced and cursed. “Damnation,” he breathed through clenched teeth.

“It’s probably best that you move as little as possible.”

He cracked an eye open to glare at her. “My thanks for the warning.”

His face had gone pale again, and Eleanor fell silent, hoping he would fall back asleep and she wouldn’t have to talk. Her throat hurt, though she found that it was getting easier and easier to speak. She wasn’t certain what had made her stop speaking to begin with. Just one day she couldn’t.

She thought back to that day and the memories came pouring out, unstoppable. Desperately she tried to think of something else, but it didn’t work. Even reciting her Latin verbs didn’t work. Suddenly she remembered the exact moment when she stopped speaking.

She’d been in that prison for…she had no idea how long. One day was the same as the next until they all melted together, punctuated only by the people who came and went. And the beatings.

There had been a boy, no more than twelve, in the cell next to hers. She hadn’t spoken to him. No one spoke to anyone, because that could result in a beating or even torture if the guards thought you were conspiring. As if prisoners even could. No one made it out of the Fort Augustus dungeon. That was made perfectly clear to all of them.

She didn’t know what had happened for the guards to pull that boy out of his cell, but they did, and they beat him unmercifully. They liked to do it in the middle of the dungeon where everyone could see. It was a warning of sorts:
Behave or you will be next
.

The young boy cried and begged them to stop. Eleanor had put her hands over her ears to muffle the screams, and even that didn’t work. The strike of the whip against the boy’s flesh was a sound she would never forget. His screams were etched on her brain to visit her in the middle of the night.

Then he started begging for his mother, and that had urged the guards on. They thought it was funny that the boy wanted his mother. They mocked him, telling him that he hadn’t needed his mother while he tried to kill the English. He cried, and his cries spurred them on. The whip flew through the air, hitting the boy’s tender flesh until the screams stopped.

The boy had died.

Eleanor never spoke after that.

“Yer thoughts are so heavy, I can feel them over here,” Brice said into the silence.

“My apologies. I will endeavor to think lighter thoughts.” She shook the memories away. There was naught she could do for the lad now. She just wished she’d known his name, spoken to him before that. Offered some sort of comfort. Maybe she could have found his mother. No, it would have been horrible for his mother to hear such a story.

“Where do ye hail from, Lady Eleanor?”

“It’s just Eleanor. No lady. Not anymore.”

He turned his head to pierce her with those bright blue eyes. “Ye canno’ deny who ye are.”

“I can try.”

“It won’t work.”

“You should sleep.”

He grinned. “Ye’re only saying that so I stop telling ye the truth.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Maybe I should sleep, then.”

“Go ahead. There’s room on the other side of the bed.”

“Not with you.” She rolled her eyes.

“Why? We’ve done it before.”

She pressed her lips together, and he chuckled, then groaned. “Now ye’re being prissy. I like sassy better.”

Someone knocked softly on the door, and Colin entered with a large mug. He held it up. “Ale.”

“Colin, ye are my savior,” Brice said.

Colin handed Brice the mug. “Eleanor is yer savior, ye big dolt.”

Eleanor stood, took the mug, and held it while Brice raised his head and drank deeply. When he was finished, she placed it on the table beside the bed.

“What happened?” Brice asked Colin, his gaze surprisingly alert.

Colin shot Eleanor a swift look. “English soldiers. We came upon them unexpectedly. They shot first, hit you right in the shoulder.”

Brice growled and cursed.

“We shot back, got a few ourselves.”

“Good,” Brice said. “Do we know who they were?”

Eleanor held her breath. Blackwood?
Please let it be Blackwood, and let him have died.
She’d never hoped for something more fervently and was a little taken aback that she would wish for someone’s death.

“No one I recognized,” Colin said. “But then it was dark.”

Brice shifted on the bed. Colin backed toward the door. “We’ll talk later. Ye rest now.”

“What were we discussing?” Brice asked after Colin departed.

“I don’t remember.”

“Sure ye do. I called ye prissy.”

“Ah, yes.”

They fell silent. He wasn’t sleeping. She could tell by the cadence of his breathing. It was a bit erratic because of the pain.

“I like the sound of yer voice. It’s…pretty.”

She smiled. Her voice had been called many things—melodious, musical, lyrical—but “pretty” was by far her favorite description. “My thanks, my lord.”

His lips twisted. “None of this ‘my lord.’ Call me Brice.”

“As long as you don’t ‘my lady’ me and call me Eleanor.”

“Eleanor. Prissy name. You need something sassy, like Ella.”

“Ella.” No one had ever called her Ella. Her parents would have had a fit.

He opened one eye and looked at her. “Ye don’t like Ella?”

“I think I’m more upset that you don’t like Eleanor.”

He closed his eye and settled more comfortably. “I like it well enough. I like Ella better. So that is what I will call ye.”

“Imperious.”

He turned his head to look at her with both eyes. “What?”

“Imperious. It means arrogant. That’s you.”

He grinned. “Aye. That’s me.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. If she’d thought to insult him, then she had failed miserably.

“Before I left, I told ye that when I returned, I would have yer tale.”

Her stomach clenched. She would have to tell her tale at some point. He deserved to know. But not tonight. Not now.

“Remarkable that you remember that, but you don’t remember being shot.”

He shot her a cutting look. “And will I have yer tale? Ella?”

His eyes twinkled at her, and she shook her head at him. Imperious.

“Some day.”

The twinkle faded. His eyes drooped, and she knew he would not have stayed awake long enough for her to tell her tale.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice weak.

“Tomorrow.”

“Ella!”

The guard assigned to Brice burst through the door of the bedchamber, broadsword in his hand. When the guard saw no immediate danger, the broadsword dipped. “My lord?”

“Where is Ella?” Brice had awakened all alone, with a powerful thirst, a shoulder that felt like someone was stabbing him with a hot poker, and no Ella.

“Ella, my lord?”

“Eleanor,” he bit out between clenched teeth.

“Ah.” The guard’s eyes darted around the room.

“Where is she?” Brice said slowly. He was in quite a bit of pain, and he wanted Ella.

“I believe she’s in the great hall, my lord.”

“Why is she in the great hall?” She was probably hungry. She’d spent the night with him, sitting in that chair—the empty chair. He knew because he’d been unable to sleep, so he’d watched her sleep. Eventually she’d given in to the need, her head dropping to the mattress, her cheek pressed against it. He’d held her hand all night long and watched her. If he hadn’t been so bloody wounded, he would have lifted her onto the bed and curled his big body around her wee ’un and held her tight throughout the night. Since he couldn’t do that, he’d held her hand and watched over her, waiting for the nightmares that never came.

Her voice was just as beautiful as he had imagined it to be. He hadn’t even minded the clipped English that was so different from his own, because her voice had a songlike ring to it.

Though he’d wanted to hear her talk all night long, she’d fallen asleep far too soon for his liking. He wanted her story as well, but he knew he wasn’t in the right mind to take it all in. She didn’t seem eager to tell it, either. But he would know how she came to be in the Highlands before the sun fell tonight, or he would shake it out of her.

No, he wouldn’t. He could never do that to her.

He realized the guard was still standing in the middle of his bedchamber, looking at anything but him. “Tell Lady Eleanor that I wish to speak with her when she is finished eating.”

It seemed to Brice that the guard gulped audibly, but he nodded. “Yes, my lord.” Quickly he backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

It seemed an interminably long time later that she came to him. “It’s about time,” he grumbled. “The meal ended ages ago.”

She sat on the chair and fluffed out her skirts. Brice squinted at her gown. It was an unusual gown, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

“Did you bellow for me, my lord?”

“Brice.”

“Did you bellow for me, Brice?”

“I’m thirsty.”

She raised a brow, and he knew he was acting like a child. He didn’t understand why. He’d been injured before, and he’d never acted this way, but when he awoke and she was gone, he’d become…agitated.

She handed his mug to him. He looked at her for a moment before taking it from her and raising his head to drink.

“Better?” she asked when he was finished.

He nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How do you feel this morning?”

“Like hell. Where were ye?”

“In the great hall. Do you want to try to sit up?”

“Yes. The meal ended long ago. What were ye doing in the great hall?”

She stood to help him move to a sitting position. He could feel the stitches pull.

“I’ll have to change your bandages,” she said as she adjusted the pillow behind him.

He sighed as he leaned back and closed his eyes against the wave of pain. “What were ye doing in the great hall?”

“Eating.” She began unwrapping the bandage. “I need honey.”

“Honey? Did ye no’ eat enough at supper?”

“Your humor astounds me. Honey stops the wound from becoming putrid.”

He’d never heard of such a thing. “Why’d it take ye so long to come up here?”

“Sit up.”

He pushed himself up, groaning as he did so. “Damnation,” he breathed. “Did ye leave a dagger in the wound?”

“I can give you something for the pain.”

“Nay. It makes my head fuzzy. What were ye doing in the great hall?” Eleanor Hirst was not a good liar. There was something she wasn’t telling him, and he would have it before the day was over.

She lifted the padding and he tried to crick his neck to see the wound, but all he saw was the top of her head, and all he could smell was her floral scent. She was leaning against his arm, her breasts pressed against him, and all other thoughts fled his pain-wracked mind except the warm pressure of her soft breasts.

He groaned for an entirely different reason than she probably thought. There was a different pain now, centered between his legs, and throbbing far more than his shoulder. He shifted to hide his growing erection. Although she was facing him, he didn’t want her to see the bedclothes tented like that. If he had two good arms, he would wrap them around her and kiss her speechless. Instead he lay there like a helpless babe, his cock hurting so badly he had to breathe through clenched teeth.

“I know I’m hurting you,” she murmured as she studied his wound.

He grunted.

“But the bandage needs to be changed frequently.”

He tilted his head back against the pillow and blew out a breath. “Can ye hurry?”

She pulled back to sit on the edge of the bed. Brice clenched his hands together. She pulled her gaze from the wound to look at him and drew in a small breath. Quickly she tried to push away from the bed, but he grabbed her wrist to keep her there. “Ella, I want to kiss ye.”

“Brice, I don’t think—”

He didn’t give her time to finish, because he didn’t want to hear what she was thinking. More than likely it had something to do with kissing not being a good idea, and he thought it was a very good idea.

Her lips were soft and tentative, her body stiff beneath his hand. But he persisted, being gentle when he wanted to be fierce. Soon her body folded in to his and she leaned in to him. She brushed against his wound and he hissed in a breath, but when she tried to pull away, he held her in place. “No,” he said simply, and she stopped moving.

She pressed her lips more firmly against his. He swept his tongue into her mouth, causing her to gasp. Tentatively she did the same and he groaned. His body was on fire, his cock so tight with wanting that he feared it would split.

Eventually Ella pulled away and he let her go. It was either that or roll her over and push his cock into her, and even through his pain and his fogged brain, he knew that wasn’t a good idea.

She pressed the back of her hand against her lips. “Brice—”

He released her arm. “Go get the honey.” His voice was rough with need.

She nodded and stood on what appeared to be shaky legs. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, needing a moment to himself. The feelings flowing through him had little to do with the need to have sex with this woman and a lot to do with the need to keep her near him forever.

He heard the door open and then close quietly behind her, and still he kept his eyes closed, trying to stem his feelings.

Lady Eleanor Hirst, Countess of Glendale, was not to be trifled with no matter how much he wanted her. She would return to England, and he would be left alone up here in the Highlands, where he was needed.

It was too eerily like his wife, Alisa, who had hoped to one day travel to England and meet someone of nobility. If Alisa had met Eleanor, she would have been awestruck. An actual English countess who had attended the balls Alisa had dreamed of attending. Alisa, Brice knew, would have picked Eleanor’s brain on everything from fashion to the latest gossip.

One thing was certain: Eleanor would leave just like Alisa did. And that was as it should be.