Page 12 of Claimed By a Ruthless Scot
She hesitated, clearly torn between propriety and concern. “That seems… excessive.”
He shrugged one shoulder, feeling the wound protest and ignoring it just as quickly. “I have slept in worse places, I promise ye.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the innkeeper pretending very hard not to listen.
“Come,” Duncan said at last, gesturing toward the stairs. “Let us secure ye a bed before ye decide tae argue me back on tae the floor beside it.”
Despite herself, she followed, still indignant and still proud, but no longer quite so furious. He led her up the narrow stair, listening to the sound of the boards creaking beneath their steps. He paused at the door to his room and stepped aside, letting her pass first.
“It’s nae much,” he said, almost apologetically, pushing the door wider. “But I hope ye’ll be comfortable.”
The room was simple and neat. It consisted of a bed that appeared big and comfortable, a small table, and a chair drawn close to the hearth where the fire had burned low. Elaina stepped inside and turned slowly, taking it in. Then she looked back at him and smiled in a way that utterly disarmed him.
“Thank ye,” she said.
The words struck him more sharply than he expected. Gratitude, offered without suspicion or edge, was not something he often received. He inclined his head, suddenly aware of the space between them, of the way the lamplight caught in her hair.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’ll leave ye tae rest. Ye’ve had?—”
She moved before he could finish.
“Me laird,” she addressed him, as she stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her warmth, close enough that the faint scent of herbs and clean wool reached him. “Let me see yer wound.”
His body reacted before his mind could. Awareness flared. It was unwanted, inconvenient, but keen. He mastered it by habit, schooling his features into ease.
“It’s fine,” he replied lightly, waving a hand as if to dismiss both the injury and the effect she had on him. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m certain ye have,” she said, looking undeterred. “But that daesnae mean ye should ignore it. Let me see.”
There was no challenge in her tone. All he could see was concern and a quiet insistence that startled him more than anger ever could. He hesitated. He was not accustomed to being tended, not accustomed to hands that sought to heal rather than measurestrength or weakness. Tenderness was a language he barely remembered how to speak, much less receive.
“Elaina––” he began, intending refusal.
She lifted her hand, but she was not touching him yet. She was merely resting it near his arm, as though giving him time to retreat.
“Please.”
The word undid him far more thoroughly than any command.
With a resigned breath, he nodded once. “Very well,” he said. “But dinnae scold me.”
Duncan drew a slow breath and reached for the buttons of his shirt. He unfastened them one by one, then tugged the fabric aside just enough to bare his shoulder. The lamplight caught the plane of muscle and the darkened smear of blood beneath it.
Elaina’s gaze dropped and stilled. For the briefest moment, she looked stunned. Her eyes widened as if she had not quite expected the sight of him so close and so unguarded. Duncan felt the pause like a held breath. Then she blinked, once, and whatever had startled her vanished behind focus and purpose.
“It is nae bad,” she told him calmly, stepping closer. “Painful, aye, but clean. Ye were lucky.”
“Luck had little tae dae with it,” he replied lightly.
She ignored that and gestured toward the table. “Sit. I can clean it properly, and bind it well enough for the night. With what we have here, that is.”
He obeyed without argument, lowering himself onto the edge of the chair. Her skirts brushed his knee as she moved, and he became acutely aware of her nearness, of the careful way she handled him and the faint warmth of her hands as she worked.
“When we reach Castle Grant,” she continued, tearing a strip of clean linen, “I will find arnica fer the bruising, comfrey tae knit the flesh, and yarrow tae keep it from festering. Calendula as well, if I can get it, mixed with honey. If ye follow me instructions, it will heal cleanly, nae even leaving a scar.”
He glanced at her, faintly amused. “Nae even leaving a scar, huh?”
“Aye,” she confirmed, meeting his eyes briefly before returning to her work.
