Page 49 of Beyond Dreams
“Sure and I’ve sent Harailt further east, to fetch the healer.”
She relaxed then upon hearing this good news.
“I think his arm needs stitching,” she said drowsily. “And he might have a concussion or...at the very least he was wobbly for a while from the knock to his head.”
“And owes his life to you,” Graeme supposed.
The little snort of laughter was weak and quiet. “Hardly. I think it’s just been established that I am seventy-five percent coward...not meant to live in the fourteenth century.”
“The laird would disagree, I ken.”
That was all she would recall of their return to Thallane. Holly knew nothing else until Graeme slid from the horse, disturbing her sleep when he pulled her down into her arms.
She heard Duncan’s voice then and opened her eyes. “Duncan?”
“Is still right behind us, lass,” Graeme said, a hint of amusement detected in his voice, cradling her in his arms as he stepped inside the keep.
Surely it must be well after midnight, maybe even later, Holly presumed. But the huge chandelier in the middle of the hall was well-lit, the large room teeming with people, men and women. Through her fluttering lashes, she saw only shapes and people stepping out of the way of Graeme as he swept through the hall.
“This is absurd,” called a voice in their wake.
Holly recognized the shrill sound as belonging to Duncan’s stepmother, Doirin.
“What has she done to you? This was her doing, was it not? I knew the marriage was ill-fated, that she would bring naught but harm.”
At the sound of the woman’s finger-pointing, Holly decided she might better keep her eyes closed for a while. They moved upward, Graeme’s footfalls sure and steady upon the steps. Below, she heard Duncan’s response to his stepmother, though his answer faded as the distance between them grew.
“Leave off, Doirin,” he clipped, his voice stronger, certainly sounding angrier than it had in hours. “Arrange a bath for my wife, with Marta and Judith. Have that prepared anon. Make sure....”
By the time Graeme pushed open the door to her bedroom and laid her on the bed, most of her fear had subsided. Graeme was right, all was well. Duncan was, or was going to be, fine.
Sadly, she wasn’t allowed to sleep. Within minutes, more people came into the room, bringing with them first a round wooden tub and then buckets of cold water. Graeme remained, kneeling near the hearth to light a fire. Holly was allowed to doze for a bit until the hot water came, steaming kettles carried by some of Thallane’s soldiers. The men, Graeme included, were then shoved out of the room, and Holly was left with two women, both of whom looked as if they, too, would rather be sleeping. But they were soft-spoken and showed no roughness or gruffness as they helped an unbelievably weary Holly strip down naked and climb into the bath.
As awkward as had been her bath at Hewgill House, her first in the fourteenth century, and the first time she’d ever been washed by another person, this time Holly was thankful for their help. She simply didn’t have the energy to wash her hair though she knew it desperately needed it. One of the women sat behind her on a stool, using a comb made of bone to untangle her snarled hair. A crunching sound was heard more than once, leaves and debris being combed away. The other woman took a small scrub brush of semi-soft bristles to Holly’s fingers and hands, nearly scouring them raw to remove all the filth and blood under her nails and on her knuckles. Simply rinsing out her mouth, ridding herself of the dry and blah feel and taste made Holly feel more human.
They spoke little, all three of them, language still a barrier. She understood a fewmy ladysand offered her thanks often, but otherwise they were mostly quiet. The entire room was calm, at times the only sounds heard the crackling of the fire or light splashes of water. Firelight painted the room in a golden haze, further softening the atmosphere.
When the bath was done, Holly was gently towel-dried and dressed in another long chemise, this one blessedly warm for having long sleeves and having hung waiting near the fire. She gave her thanks once more as she was tucked into the bed, under the beautiful weight of several heavy blankets. Later she would not recall the women tidying up or leaving, the door closing, the fire dying, nothing. She closed her eyes immediately and drifted off.
Strangely, she did not sleep long. When next she opened her eyes it was still dark.
She stared at the window, where the only light was found, deciding it was more gray than black, suggesting morning might be coming. Briefly, she wondered if she’d slept all through the next day and night.
Her next thought was of Duncan. She wasn’t sure why she rolled over, why she half-expected him to have come to her, to be lying next to her. But the space next to her was empty.
Restless now, and with concern for Duncan erasing what grogginess still assailed her, Holly sat up and rubbed sleep from her eyes. She ran her hands up her forehead and through her still slightly damp hair—still the same night then—and went to the trunk of her belongings—Ceri’s things—in the corner of the room. There was nothing there that resembled or might be used as a robe and neither were there slippers. But it was dark enough yet that she didn’t suppose it would cause a stir if she sneaked about the house dressed in only the thin nightgown. She only wanted to find Duncan and assure herself that he was well.
Her feet bare, Holly peeked out from the door she cracked open and then tiptoed down the hall when she saw no one about. She poked her head into the next closest bedroom, not surprised to find Duncan here, his room so close to hers. She felt she had some right to be here, that no large fuss would be made if she were discovered. She was his wife, for all anyone knew, if in name only.
The room was quite a bit larger than hers but contained not much more furniture. Aside from the bed and table at its side, there was a chest at the end of the bed, made of planks and crudely pegged, strengthened with iron bandings. Beneath the window at the farthest wall sat a simple table that might have been employed as a writing desk, as suggested by the few items cluttering the top, one of which appeared to be a feather, and hence a pen. A stool sat near that table and another large chair, with arms and a back, sat near the hearth, where sat another tub, this one of copper and more oval than round, still filled with water, she saw.
Her new husband, fantastic for what dragons he’d slain during the day before, was stretched on out his back in a bed that was even larger than her own, but still maybe only the size of a queen bed in the real world. His chest was bare, the blankets covering him only to his waist. Holly crept forward on silent feet, not wishing to disturb him, only wanting to know that he had no fever, that he suffered no lasting ill-effects from the events of yesterday. As was the case in her own room, the fire here had dwindled so much that the room was cool and less golden now than gray.
She stood over him, just staring for a moment, amazed at how peaceful he appeared, not a furrow or frown noted upon his handsome face. In that moment, she watched him with a growing wistfulness, though she was unable to explain such a condition, even as she suspected it might actually be tenderness. Fleetingly and with some silliness, it occurred to her that he was so much more handsome than she was pretty. She was nearly in envy of his wealth of dark lashes, thick and full resting against his cheeks. The details of his face, the chiseled angles and hollowed planes, really put her in mind of music or poetry; surely words had been written or sung that might better convey how breathtaking he was. His injured arm had been tended well, she decided, the present bandage clean and dry and tightly wound. He was very still, his lips parted in slumber. Little was discerned by his color; though his pallor was gray, it might have only been a trick of the bare lighting. Impulsively but carefully, she laid her palm softly against his forehead.
And then yelped when he moved with lightning speed, his hand clutching at her wrist, his eyes opening and attuned so swiftly, she thought he might have heard her creeping from the door and had only pretended to be asleep.
“Christ, Duncan,” she breathed out. “You scared the crap out of me. You did that on purpose,” she accused, her wrist still held tight in his strong hand.