Page 129 of Ruined By the Ruthless Highlander
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“Ye need to stop thanking me, lass.”
She shook her head slowly. “I cannot,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “You saved me, Lachlan. Even when...” Her voice broke.
Lachlan took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. “Ye daenae need to thank me for that, either,” he insisted. “I’d do it again. A thousand times over.”
Marian drew a deep breath, blinking back the tears that had started to well up in her eyes.
Lachlan reached for the small container Mrs. Campbell had brought.
“The ointment,” he said, distracting her from her thoughts. “It’ll help with the bruisin’.”
Marian nodded, loosening her grip on the blankets.
Lachlan dipped his fingers into the salve before warming it between his palms. The scent of herbs—lavender and something sharper, perhaps arnica—filled the air. His fingers found the marks her uncle’s hands had left, and his jaw clenched slightly. It was an ugly purple stain on her pale skin.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly as he rubbed the ointment over the bruises with gentle circular motions.
“A little,” Marian admitted. “But your hands help.”
His hand stilled briefly at her words, and his gaze flicked to hers. The look in her eyes made his breath catch, so he looked away, focusing on the task at hand.
Her pulse quickened beneath his touch as he massaged the ointment into her wrist, and he swallowed, meeting her eyes again. He reached for her exposed shoulder. His eyes lingered on the bruises, darker than the rest, and his face hardened.
“I should have killed him slower,” he growled.
Marian’s hand came up to cover his. “He is dead,” she soothed. “That is all that matters.”
His eyebrow arched slightly. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Marian replied, stroking his fingers in a way that calmed him. “I am here. With you. And he can no longer hurt me.”
Lachlan held her gaze for a long moment, then he leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the bruise.
Marian’s breath hitched. “Lachlan,” she whispered.
“Aye?”
“Let me see your wound.” It was not a request.
Lachlan hesitated. It was the third time she’d asked.
He had forgotten about his wound entirely, and quite frankly, he could hardly feel it. But explaining that part of being a laird would have been harder than just showing her, so he obliged, bringing his leg slightly up so she could see it. The blood had dried on his trews, the fabric sticking to the skin around the wound.
Marian’s brow furrowed tightly. “It needs cleaning,” she said firmly. “Properly.”
“Mairi, I’m fine?—”
“No arguments.” She shrugged the fur blankets off her, wincing slightly as she moved. “I might be weak, but that doesn’t mean I will not do what is proper.”
His chest warmed at the stubborn determination in her voice. It was the first thing he had fallen for, though he had not known it when they had first met.
He moved to the washbasin and dipped a clean cloth in the already cold water for her to use. When he turned back, Marian had shifted to the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor.
“Come here,” she said, patting the space beside her.
