Page 102 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“Had.”

“Ye refused treatment until me scratch was dressed.”

“It wasnae a scratch.”

“It was very nearly a scratch.”

“It bled.”

“So daes a nose if struck hard enough, and yet one daesnae challenge death over it.”

Fionn looked as if he might be enjoying himself despite the blood.

Colin held out his hand for the cup. “I will drink later.”

Elspeth did not give it to him. “Ye will drink now.”

“I must speak with the prisoner.”

“Breac can speak with the prisoner.”

“I must set the guard rotations.”

“Murdoch can set the guard rotations.”

“I must?—”

“Sleep,” she finished.

Their eyes met. For a moment the room, with its bitter scent of herbs and blood and smoke, seemed to fall away. Colin looked at her as if she had done something far more dangerous than contradict him, as if she had placed a hand not upon his arm, but inside some hidden place he had kept armored for years.

Elspeth knew then that she failed to hide the worst of it.

Her fear.

Her ribs stung, and the bandage pulled when she breathed too deeply, but the pain was a shallow thing compared with the terror of seeing Colin struck, of seeing him bleed, of understanding, with appalling swiftness, that his strength had become something she relied upon and resented needing in equal measure.

At last, Colin took the cup from her hand. Elspeth’s shoulders lowered by the smallest measure.

“If this kills me,” he warned, “I will haunt ye.”

He drank. The potion was bitter enough to make even Colin’s mouth tighten, which gave Elspeth a small, vicious pleasure. Its strength began to show before Fionn had even finished the final bandage. Colin tried to remain upright, of course. He would have attempted to argue with unconsciousness itself if he had thought it challenged his authority.

Elspeth watched him with solemn certainty. His lids grew heavier. His face remained stubbornly severe. He hated being seen in weakness, that much was plain. He hated the weight gathering in his limbs, hated that his body, traitorous from blood loss and herbs, was surrendering without permission.

“I am nae asleep,” he spoke.

“Nay,” Elspeth replied gravely. “Ye are merely reconsidering wakefulness.”

Skye coughed into her hand.

Fionn tied the final bandage and stood. “He must be moved carefully. Nay riding. Nay fighting. Nay questioning prisoners.”

Colin opened one eye. “That last instruction seems personal.”

She stepped closer, her hand returning to his arm. “Come. Bed.”

The word left her mouth before she considered the effect of it. Only after saying it did she remember the room contained Skye, Fionn, bloodied cloths, and a husband who once made her understand that bed was not merely furniture.