Page 34 of In the Highlander's Bed

The tent’s low ceiling brushed the top of Gordon’s head. Without ceremony, he set Constancedown on her feet. She wavered a moment, regaining her balance, then raised her tied hands and attempted to strike him with all she was worth against the side of his head.

Gordon easily ducked her swing. The dog rose, barking, but not leaving his post.

“Quiet, Tad,” Gordon said, catching Constance by the waist before she fell and dumping her into a rickety chair by the tent’s center pole. The only other furnishings were a small table and a tack chest.

“Stay,” he ordered, as if she was his dog.

Constance wanted to defy him. She wanted to rise to her feet and stomp him.

However, sitting felt good, and the pain in her hands was almost unbearable. But she would not ask for quarter. No, her limbs could fall off before she begged.

Gordon’s rude voice said, “You shouldn’t have let that damn rope become so tight.” He knelt in front of her, to look at her wounds.

Constance frowned at him. “Ishouldn’t? How odd. I thought you were the one who tied me up, who wanted to humiliate me, who was on the other end of the lead rope,yankingon it.”

The set of his mouth tightened. “You’d bewise to learn when to keep quiet,” he answered through clenched teeth.

He loosened the knot he’d tied. Blood flowed through her hands, making her gasp in pain. He turned to the tack chest a few feet away, but couldn’t go that far from her without stretching the rope between them.

Constance drew in a sharp breath as her binds began to tighten.

Gordon paused, saw what was happening, and swearing under his breath, came back. He unbound her hands completely. “You won’t be going anywhere. Not with Tad and me as guards.” He went to the tack chest and pulled out bandages and a salve for her wrists. Returning, he dressed her wounds with efficient movements.

He then pulled out a bottle of amber liquid and poured some into a pewter tankard. “Here, drink this.”

“What is it?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Whiskey.”

“Are you attempting to subdue me with spirits?” After witnessing her father’s weakness for drink, she usually avoided strong spirits of any sort.

“Would it work?”

She shook her head.

He sighed. “I didn’t think so. But it will ease the pain.”

Constance drank.

The whiskey didn’t taste as she imagined it would—but then it hit her stomach. Her whole being revolted, throwing her in to a coughing fit.

Gordon was completely unsympathetic. Still kneeling in front of her, he rested an arm on the table. “Next time, sip it.”

She nodded. She couldn’t speak. She pushed the tankard toward him.

He smiled, his expression grim. “Finally. You have nothing to say. ’Tis a blessed moment.”

If looks were daggers, she would have cut the smile from his face.

This time he laughed with true amusement. Then he used the salve and bandages to doctor her wrists. The salve burned slightly, and as her eyes watered from the pain, she was glad that she’d had that bit of whiskey. As if to cool the salve’s sting, Gordon blew softly on her wrist.

For a second her heart seemed to stop. She looked down at his blond head bent over her hands. His touch was gentle, caring…kind. These were not words she would haveapplied to a man before, especially a warrior. Then again, he was a warrior who noticed even trapped doves.

He glanced up as if noticing her shock. “I could say it is your own fault,” he said. He made a rueful gesture as he reached for the bandages and began to carefully wrap her wrists, his gaze returning to his work. “The truth is, I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”

If the earth had suddenly opened beneath her into a huge gaping hole, Constance could not have been more surprised.

Men didn’t apologize.