Page 45 of A Temptress in Tartan

She had brought salve, fresh linens, and a tincture for pain that Quinn’s wife, Vivian, had sent to Haddington with her husband. As a healer who had suffered herself under King James’s quest to rid all Scotland of evil, Vivian would know what to send to help Lachlan heal from his wounds.

Elizabeth moved to the bed and sank to her knees beside Lachlan. “My God, what have they done to you?”

Pain reflected in the depths of Lachlan’s blue eyes. “Nothing that I will not survive.” Bright red splashes of blood seeped through the back of his muslin shirt.

Trying to be brave for him, Elizabeth forced her own emotions aside as she helped him into a sitting position. He winced with pain and his breathing was ragged, as she propped him up with pillows against his back and with his head resting on the headboard of the bed. She opened the satchel she carried, removing the contents and laying them next to the bed: a pile of fresh linen, a jar of salve, a bottle of tincture, a needle and thread, as well as a large portion of salted meat, bread, and cheese. “Vivian created a tincture to help with the pain,” she said as she opened the bottle then held it to his lips, tipping it up and allowing the liquid to run into his throat.

When she had given him a dose, she sank back on her knees and waited. After only a few labored breaths, his shoulders relaxed and he settled into the pillows more deeply. Elizabeth breathed a thankful sigh.

“I’m so glad to see you—” He stopped abruptly as the door opened. The guard entered, carrying a basin of steaming water, which he set by Elizabeth’s side.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded. “I sent a man to the inn. He should be back soon with the clothing you asked for.”

Again, she offered her thanks before the guard left. When he was gone, she rose up on her knees once more and took Lachlan’s hand in hers. He squeezed her fingers so gently at first that it took a moment to realize that he’d done it. He was so weak. “Vivian also sent a healing salve. But first I must wash your wounds.”

“Do what you must.”

Elizabeth stood, then bent to remove his shirt, easing him slightly away from the pillows to pull it up and over his head. At the sight of his back, she gasped. A multitude of red welts crisscrossed his flesh—two of the stripes were open and bleeding. “I will need to sew a few of these wounds together if they are to heal properly.”

“A warrior’s life is harsh.” Lachlan’s voice brought her gaze to his face. He assessed her. For what? Revulsion? Fear?

She straightened her shoulders. He would see no weakness in her. “You need not apologize. We all have scars, Lachlan. Some of us wear them on the outside, others on the inside.”

“And your scars? Are they inside or out?”

“We aren’t discussing my scars. Yours are the only ones of interest at this moment.”

Lachlan’s eyes pinned her in place. She had a sudden terrifying feeling that he could see inside her, see the very scars she talked about—those left by the death of her mother. She swallowed hard then lifted her chin. “Elizabeth,” he said softly. “It’s not weakness to be afraid, or to be vulnerable in front of others.” His words were slightly slurred as the effects of the tincture set in.

“I’m not afraid,” she assured him, but she did fear being vulnerable. She pushed the thought away, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. “Come, let’s turn you onto your stomach. The worst of the wounds are on your back. I need to tend those first.” He settled his head on the pillow, facing her. As he relaxed, Elizabeth picked up the needle. She ran the metal through a hot flame before she threaded it and set to work, sewing the edges of the first wound closed.

The room suddenly seemed too warm, the air too thick, as she started work on the second open wound. She bent so close to him, she could perceive the tightening of his muscles, the increased rhythm of his breathing. Her stitches were even and steady as she tied the thread off. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle duet of their breathing.

She glanced at his face, and her breath caught. In that moment she saw past the blood and grime still covering his face to the true handsomeness there. Golden hair framed his face, a face that held not brutality and menace, but determination and kindness.

It was the kind of face a woman couldn’t help but stare at in awe and with desire. With gentleness, she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. Her hand strayed to the strong, straight line of his cheekbone, and down to his chin. “I’m so sorry to bring you pain,” she whispered.

A faint smile came to his lips and a curious light filled his eyes. “I hardly felt a thing.”

Elizabeth curled her fingers against the light flutter that took flight in her stomach, before she returned to her sewing. When she was done, she thoroughly cleansed his back, and applied the salve before winding fresh linen over his wounds, and praying they would heal well.

When she was done, she turned him over. “Are the pillows soft enough? I can try to find something softer.”

He grimaced as he leaned back into the pillows. “These are an absolute blessing compared to what I had before.”

Elizabeth noted the lines of tension around Lachlan’s mouth and eyes. When had she become so familiar with the expressions on his face? Needing a distraction, she spread salve on the prick marks over his chest and arms.

“Elizabeth.” When she wouldn’t meet his gaze, he stopped her hand from spreading more salve. “You are not responsible for my injuries or my pain.”

“So much has happened since our wedding,” she admitted, meeting his gaze.

“Aye.” He laced his fingers through hers, his grip strong and excruciatingly intimate. Then he tensed and pulled his hand from hers, staring down at her right hand. “Where is your mother’s ring?”

“I traded it for entrance into your cell, and for fresh straw, clean water, and linens to help you heal.”

He frowned. “You should not have done that.”