The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  “Aye,” Sutherland agreed in a defeated whisper.

  She hurried into the sitting room, startling Magnus in the process.

  “Is he worse?” he asked, jumping to his feet.

  “Nay.” She rushed to the sideboard and poured three generous portions, figuring Magnus could use one as well. “His head pains him fierce when he moves or sees light, so my cleaning him is painful. I promised him a whisky before I finished and left him in peace.” She shook her head as she handed Magnus his glass. “I dinna ken how rough Aderyn will be with him. She’s a gifted healer, but gentleness isna one of her traits.”

  A hard knock whacked three times against the sitting room door. “I’ve come as ye bid, Lady Sorcha,” Aderyn called out, her voice screeching like the eerie caw of a raven.

  Magnus strode to the door and opened it.

  “Ye dinna look to be ailing,” the old woman said, scowling up and down at the glowering man.

  “In here, Aderyn.” Sorcha waved the hunched elder toward the bedchamber.

  “Just the healer,” Magnus interrupted, stepping in front of the two men following her, each of them loaded down with parcels, sacks, and crates.

  “They bear my tools and remedies,” Aderyn said. “If ye wish the injured man healed, I advise ye let them pass.”

  “Raibie and Kiff are good men,” Sorcha reassured, grateful for Magnus’s protectiveness. “I trust them.”

  He remained in place, arms crossed over his chest. The hard furrow knotting his brows deepened.

  Aderyn returned to Magnus, slowly circling him, her twisted cane thumping with every step. Her head tilted as she studied him. “I knew yer mother. The white lady. A more gifted healer could nary be found.” She tapped his crossed arms with her gnarled finger. “Be at peace, lad. While yer mother’s murder was a cruel torturous thing, she rests easy now, and her soul smiles upon ye. Ye know this. Ye see her in yer dreams.” She patted his arm again. “Now, trust these lads and let them pass so I might help the one who needs me.”

  Jaw flexing, Magnus stepped aside and returned to his post beside the door.

  Sorcha hurried around Aderyn and the men with Sutherland’s drink in hand. She had made a promise to him and intended to keep it. “Sutherland,” she called out gently. “I’ve brought the whisky I promised.”

  He risked a sheltered look out from beneath his arm. “God bless ye, love. God bless ye.”

  “Not until after I’ve seen to his wounds.” Aderyn stamped her cane hard against the floor.

  He reached for the glass, ignoring the healer. “Give me the whisky. Now.”

  “I gave him my word,” Sorcha defended as she placed the drink in Sutherland’s hand, then helped him lean up long enough for a healthy sip. Angering old Aderyn was never wise, but she refused to start a marriage on broken promises. “I willna break a word I have given to my husband. Not ever.”

  “Husband?” Aderyn’s squinted eyes widened for the first time in as long as Sorcha could remember. She had often wondered if the ancient woman could even open her eyes more than a slit. “And when did that come about?”

  “This verra night. At the feast.” She took the empty glass from Sutherland and stepped back. “Before the stable fire.”

  “Another,” he ordered, sagging back into the pillows.

  “Nay. Ye were promised one, and one is all ye get until we’ve finished cleaning ye.” She set the glass aside and waved Raibie and Kiff forward. “Help me with his trews and lèine, aye? I like to never got all the other off of him.”

  Aderyn held up a hand. “Wait.” She moved closer, pursing her lips as she leaned against her cane. “Ye married this man this verra night? Right before the fire that caused him this injury?”

  “Aye.” While Sorcha doubted the fire was the culprit, she wasn’t about to discuss the matter with anyone other than Magnus. Not until they had discovered not only what had started the fire but who had committed the loathsome attack on Sutherland.

  With a slow shake of her white head, she pointed at Sutherland. “Ye must not be close to him whilst he is naked nor lie with him until he has healed. If ye get with child whilst he is as injured as he is, yer wee one will be weak in its body wherever yer husband is weak. Heed me, m’lady. For the sake of yer firstborn, take my warning to heart.”

  All in Clan Greyloch knew Aderyn possessed the wisdom of the old ways, and the odd little woman rarely erred. She saw things. Knew things. No one questioned Aderyn or her advice. Not ever.

  “Aye, I will heed yer warning.” Sorcha ducked her head, wishing she could cool her flaming cheeks. “And I thank ye for giving it.” She hadn’t had time to think of the marriage bed nor the consummation of her vows.

  With an approving nod, Aderyn took hold of Sorcha’s arm and turned her toward the door. “’Tis best ye wait in the sitting room. Once the lads and I get him clean and tended, ye can return and watch over him.” When Sorcha didn’t move, Aderyn nudged her harder. “For the sake of the bairn, m’lady. Yer firstborn. I beg ye. Ye’ve not lain with yer husband yet, so it isna proper that ye see him bare in such a humble, weakened state. As a maiden, such a sight could become a blight on yer future children.”

  Sorcha went to Sutherland and squeezed his hand, taking care not to shift his arm from over his eyes. “I fear to ignore her words,” she whispered.

  “She’s just an old woman, but I’ve not got the will to argue with ye right now.” Sutherland squeezed her fingers and forced a half-hearted smile without uncovering his eyes. “When ye return, promise ye’ll bring more whisky to chase away the aching in my head, will ye?”

  “I promise.” Sorcha kissed his knuckles, then hurried out to join Magnus. The least she could do was help stand guard.

  Chapter Seven

  That vile witch had tortured him for what seemed like forever, but Sutherland had to admit, this was the quickest he had ever recovered from a blow to the head. He forced his eyes open wider. The quiet room was dim, lit by nothing but the fire crackling in the hearth. Outside, the wind howled, occasionally rattling the window as if testing the latch. A softer sound reached him, a delicate sigh and the shifting of cloth rubbing against cloth.

  He turned his head on the pillow, wincing as the rough linen scraped across his tightly stitched wound. A sudden sense of being well cared for chased the pain away. Sorcha lay curled on her side in a high-backed chair pulled close to the bed. Firelight flickered across her, setting her peaceful countenance aglow with golden light. Head pillowed in one hand, the other tucked under her chin, she slept with her lips barely parted, a picture of serenity itself.

  Sutherland’s heart hitched, forcing a hard swallow.

  His wife. He had never thought to take a wife, but this woman had latched hold of him last summer when she had threatened to kill him. Even during their several months apart, he had thought of her often, wondering what would happen if they ever met again. And now he knew. They would surrender themselves to fate, and marry.

  She stirred again, obviously at war with the cramped confines of the chair. A grumbling snort escaped her as she repositioned and stretched one long leg over the curved back of the chair and dangled the other over the padded arm. What the hell was the lass wearing?

  He risked rolling to his side and plumped the pillow under his head, propping to a better angle to study her. He blinked hard, ensuring his eyes and the low lighting didn’t deceive him. She wore a strange pair of trews that had the bib and straps of an overdress sewn to the top of them. Her odd attire made him smile. Sorcha didn’t give a damn about convention or what others thought, and he admired her for it. What a priceless woman he had found to be his own.

  She turned her head, and the tip of her braid dropped close to her nose, tickling it enough to make her jerk away and rub it furiously. Poor lass. She would get no rest while stuffed in that chair.

  “Sorcha,” he called out in a gentle whisper, not wishing to startle her.

  She didn’t move.

  “Sorcha, m’eu
dail,” he said a bit louder.

  A flurry of movement followed as she uprighted herself. “Aye! I’m here!” She floundered free of the cushions and bent close. The coolness of her touch to his forehead felt soft and sweet. Even by the soft glow of the fire, concern shone clearly in her eyes.

  “No fever. Thank the Lord.” A relieved smile made her even more beautiful as she fussed over him. “Would ye fancy a sip of water?”

  “Nay, mo ghràdh.” He reached up and gently touched her face. “I would have my wife join me in our bed.”

  Her eyes flared wide, and her lips parted. She stole a glance at the empty spot on the other side of him. “Uhm…I dinna wish to jostle ye.” She straightened and backed into her chair, scooping up the blanket that had fallen to the floor. “I shall be right here should ye need me.” As soon as she said the words, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and stared at him like a child caught saying something naughty. “I mean…if ye should have need of anything.” She nodded toward the bed. “Get some sleep now, aye? ’Tis quite a way before dawn, and rest will heal ye faster than anything.”

  So, the crone’s foolish prediction still worried her. Sutherland couldn’t help but chuckle, immediately regretting it when it increased the lingering throb banging inside his head. While he appreciated Sorcha thinking he meant to seduce her and even hardened at the thought of it, he wasn’t foolish enough to try—well, maybe he wouldn’t try. He preferred the first time he pleasured his wife to not be a weakened effort. Nay, he’d attempt to wait until he could love her properly. Attempt to wait. Therein lay the true test of a willpower he had never tested before.

  “Go to sleep,” she ordered again as she tucked her legs beneath her and brought the blanket up over one shoulder.

  “Ye canna rest in that chair, and I canna rest watching ye suffer because of me.” He thumped the bed beside him. “Come, mo ghràdh, come lie beside me and let me hold ye.” He held out a hand and wiggled his fingers. “My woman in my arms will heal me faster than anything.” Pulling the covers a bit higher on his chest, he fluttered his fingers at her again. “I promise I willna attempt a claim on yer virtue tonight. Ye can even lie atop the covers if it will make ye feel safer.”

  She stared at him, not blinking and, from the looks of it, not even breathing. He held fast and kept quiet as though hunting skittish prey.

  “Atop the covers?” she finally repeated with a tip of her head toward the spot beside him.

  “Aye. Atop the covers.” Anticipation surged hot and fast enough to send a roaring through his ears.

  “I shall be wearing my clothes, too,” she vowed as she eased to the edge of her seat and let the blanket fall away. “Except for my boots, of course.”

  “Of course.” He adjusted his pillow and waited, taking care to bend a knee to hide his hard rising that had begun to throb in tandem with the pain in his head. Maybe this wasn’t as wise an idea as he had first thought. Self-control had never been one of his strengths. Shifting enough to refresh the pain in his tender scalp, he scolded himself.

  After kicking off her boots, Sorcha rounded the bed, never once breaking the connection of their gazes. On hands and knees, she crawled into the pile of pillows, lowered herself to her back, and stared upward, remaining rigid as a felled tree.

  “Do ye not trust me, lass?” Sutherland hooked a finger under hers and pulled her hand closer. He damn sure wanted the feel of her against him.

  “I trust ye,” she squeaked, then flinched. “Aye, I most certainly trust ye,” she repeated in a more controlled tone.

  “Then is it yerself ye dinna trust?” he teased. “Are ye afraid ye’ll lose control and take the consummation of our vows into yer own hands?”

  Sorcha sat bolt upright and shook a finger at him. “Dinna be laughing at me, Sutherland MacCoinnich, or I’ll pop ye on yer sore head.”

  “Forgive me, m’love.” While holding in laughter made his head hurt worse, he would attempt it for her sake. He caught hold of her hand before she could jerk it away and kissed it. Sorcha was his beloved wife and deserved a hundred times better than ruthless teasing. He would not make the same mistake again. He brushed another gentle kiss across her knuckles. “I merely thought to make ye laugh, so ye wouldna be so afraid.”

  “I am not afraid!”

  Damnation, everything he said made things worse. He let her go and folded his hands across his stomach. “Again, forgive me, mo chridhe. I am most ashamed of my thoughtlessness.” With a heavy sigh, he stared up at the ceiling. He could be such a fool at times. “My infernal mouth is my own worst enemy a good deal of the time. I’m sure ye’ve noticed that about me.”

  A heavy silence grew between them. Only the popping of the logs in the fire and the crying of the wind filled the night. With a frustrated growl, Sorcha pulled his arm away from his side, clambered over against him, and thumped her head down on the dip of his shoulder. “Dinna ever think me afraid of ye, d’ye hear me?”

  “So ye forgive me then?” He dared to curl his arm around her, praying she’d relax and melt closer against him. Saints save him. She smelled of smoke, cow shite, and the tempting warmth of a lush, passionate woman in dire need of loving. What he wouldn’t give to roll her to her back and introduce her to the pleasures they could both enjoy. He pulled in another deep breath of her intoxicating scent, then realized she hadn’t answered. “Mo ghràdh? Ye forgive me, aye?” he asked again.

  Much to his pleasure, she relaxed against him with a nod. “Aye, I forgive ye.” She shifted with a heavy sigh. “My gracious won’t this be a fine wedding night tale to tell our children—once they’re fully grown, of course.”

  He hugged her tighter and kissed her forehead. “We have many more nights in our future that’ll more than make up for this one.” He kissed her again. “Besides—this isna such a bad night. Here we lie in each other’s arms in a toasty warm bed while the Highlands rage with winter’s last clutches.”

  “Aye. It could most certainly be worse.”

  A long heavy pause followed, but he could tell Sorcha hadn’t finished speaking her mind. “What is it, m’love?”

  “I canna imagine who would do this to ye.”

  “I have made many enemies in my lifetime.” He trailed a fingertip up and down her arm, wishing the tight-sleeved lèine she wore was somewhere else rather than on her body. A snorting laugh escaped him, stirring the aching in his head. “But I thought the only enemy I had here at Castle Greyloch was yerself.”

  “Garthin and Lady Culane were with us in the great hall when it all started.” Sorcha ignored his jest, speaking as though deep in thought.

  “I dinna remember seeing Garthin fighting the flames.” Sutherland sorted through the muddled memories of the night’s events. A few were still a mite foggy, but most were clear. He couldn’t remember encountering anyone.

  “Thank heavens Magnus found ye.” She snuggled closer, even going so far as to rest a hand in the center of his chest and tickle her fingers through the tight curls of hair. “What made him think to look for ye, I wonder?”

  Her innocent touch inflamed him, tortured him worse than any blow to the head. He grabbed hold of her fingers and stilled them. “Magnus and I always watch out for one another whenever we travel together. He’s not my blood, but he is most certainly my brother. We’ve survived much together, he and I.”

  “I thank the Almighty for him,” she whispered.

  “As do I.” Sutherland returned once again to the memories of battling the fire in a feeble attempt to survive sharing a bed with this woman and not relinquishing to his cock’s wishes.

  Silence fell between them again, but it was different this time. More like they were of one mind rather than a pair of battering rams.

  Sorcha wiggled again, draped a leg across his, then hurried to draw it back. “Forgive me. I dinna think this was wise. I think I’d be better off in the sitting room on the couch—or on the bed in the adjoining lesser room. I could hear ye from there should ye have need of me.
Ye could call out, and I’d be here quicker than a minute.”

  So she suffered as much as he? Good. He had sensed she’d be a woman capable of great passion and desire. His cock hardened even more, reaching an almost pained state that tightened clear to his bollocks. Perhaps, a wee bit of gentle loving wouldn’t hurt his aching head so badly, and he could make up for the muted way of it later on once he had healed. His manparts heartily agreed, throbbing to a dangerous level. “I’m sure ye’d be more comfortable if ye removed yer clothes,” he innocently suggested. “They’re all twisted and tangled about ye. Why dinna ye slip them off?”

  She lifted her head and glared at him. “It isna my clothes making me uncomfortable.” Her eyes narrowed. “I ken what ye’re up to, sir.” With a soft thump on his chest, she repeated her earlier order, “Go to sleep.” She plopped her head back down on his shoulder, but her fist on his chest told him all he needed to know. The poor miserable lass just needed a wee bit of encouragement to grant them both the relief they so badly needed.

  “Would ye not be willing to give yer poor husband a kiss to hasten our sleep?”

  “I doubt a kiss would hasten anything but what we’re not supposed to do. I may be an inexperienced virgin, my wily man, but I am not a fool.”

  “I need ye, Sorcha. Need ye something fierce.” To hell with dancing about with words. Time to battle this head-on. He turned toward her, cradling her in the crook of his arm as he tilted her face up to his. “Tonight might be a bit subtle and overly gentle, but I mean to make ye truly my wife. I canna help myself.”

  “We canna do so,” she whispered with a gentle shove against his bare chest that was more invitation than warning to stay away. “Remember what Aderyn said—we canna curse our firstborn to a weakness just because of our own selfish wants…” She wet her lips, and her gaze fell. “And needs,” she added.