Sleep had eluded Craven more often than not since Aubrey’s death. The only time he had slept soundly through the night had been when he had accidentally fallen asleep in Espy’s bed. He had had no nightmares of Aubrey calling out to him. It had been the first time in a long time that he had felt rested.

Sitting here now in a chair that was far from comfortable, keeping watch over the slumbering Owen, sleep once again eluded him. He was as alert as when he had first sat down and his mind as active as ever. He could not get Espy out of his thoughts, she lingered there tormenting his every waking hour as she had done since he had brought her to his keep, though it was a different torment she brought upon him now. Where before it was revenge that drove thoughts of her, now it was his need that drove thoughts of her, lips that plumped so easily when he kissed her or how her skin was as soft and smooth as fine wool cloth, and her scent was… he shook his head. He was growing aroused just thinking about her.

Go join her in bed.

He shook his head, warning himself against it.

She needs you.

He looked around, the voice so clear he thought someone had entered the room. No one was there and why would there be, the voice had been his own.

He went and stood before the hearth, a sudden chill invading his bones as it was wont to do when he sensed something amiss. He glanced at the open door. Could something be wrong with Espy? Was she suffering from nightmares like he so often did?

A servant entered the room unexpectedly and Craven did not wait, he ordered her to remain with Owen.

She went to speak, but Craven was already out the door.

His steps were anxious as he sped down them to the room below and when he found it empty, fear rather than anger flared in him. Where had she gone? Had someone harmed her? She would have never left the keep without his permission. Or would she? Had she made him believe she was trustworthy while waiting for an opportunity to escape him? Had she played him for a fool all along? Had she lied about everything?

He shook his head. No, that was not Espy. She had told him time and again that she had no place to go and he believed her. So where was she?

He turned and hurried off in search of her. The Great Hall was empty, not a person in sight, only lingering shadows that rushed back into corners and crevices when he strode through the room, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the large fireplace.

His worry mounted, though he tried to ignore it. Someone probably needed the healer, most likely it had been a birth that had her leaving the keep. He was about to open the front door when a terrifying scream rang out from beyond the door and his heart hammered against his chest when he realized it was Espy shouting his name.

* * *

The stench of her attacker had Espy’s stomach roiling and alerted her to his identity. It was Howe.

“I am going to give you a good poke before I take my knife to you.”

His breath was so rancid that Espy gagged against his hand that covered her mouth. His threat fired her anger and instinct had her trying to pull away from him. She stilled instantly when the sharp point of the blade stung her neck and she felt blood trickle down from the wound.

“Good, lass,” he said, with a sneering laugh. “You do not want another ugly scar to match the one you already have.” He laughed again. “Though, it will make no difference by the time I get done with you.”

Espy had to break free of him and seek the safety of the keep. Surely, he would not chance entering after her. First, she had to get him to move the knife away from her neck. She did something she did not want to do, she leaned back against him as if in surrender, and then she did something that disgusted her, she rubbed her backside against him.

“Much better lass,” he said and dropped his hand, holding the knife down to rest against her leg as he pushed her back hard against him.

She grinded her backside harder into him and felt him bulge against her and when he moaned, she wiggled against him as hard as she could.

His moan grew and his hand fell away from her mouth to grip her breast and that’s when she drove her backside into him with force, sending him stumbling, and she ran up the steps to the keep, screaming as loud as she could, though not realizing she was screaming out for Craven.

Craven flung open the door to see Howe, a knife in his hand, about to grab Espy as she clambered up the steps. He launched himself off the top step, flinging his arm out to push Espy out of the way and dove on Howe.

MacCara warriors were suddenly pouring out of the darkness and villagers hurried out of their cottages. They watched in awe as Craven threw Howe around like a powerful prey tormenting his catch before tearing it apart. Several gasps echoed through the crowd when Howe scrambled along the ground frantically searching for his knife that Craven had knocked from his hand, found it, and charged at Craven.

Loud gasps rang out again when Craven, with little effort, got hold of Howe’s wrist and turned the man’s knife on him, jamming it through his throat. Blood spurted on Craven’s neck and shirt and he shoved Howe away from him. The man fell to the ground, gagging on his own blood as his life drained away.

Craven turned and faced the gathered crowd. He looked a sight, more beast than man, his eyes still raging with fury and his voice so strong it carried throughout the village. “Hear me! No one. No one is to touch my healer… or they will die.” He gave a nod to his warriors and they got busy dispersing the crowd and disposing of the body.

Espy was shocked not only at what had happened, but what he had announced. She was under his protection and woe to anyone who dare hurt her. The thought that she was not alone, that there was a man who cared enough, even if it was because she was his healer, to protect her brought a tear to her eye.

She wiped it away and was struggling to get to her feet when Craven reached her and took hold of her arm to gently ease her to her feet. She stumbled and let out a small wince when he loosened his hold on her.

Craven’s arm went around her. “You are hurt?” He swore and not low. “I pushed you too hard down the stairs.”

“For my own safety,” she reminded, not wanting him to blame himself for something that could not be avoided. “It was not a bad tumble, but my ankle suffered in the fall. No more than a sprain from what I can surmise, but enough to make it a bit painful to walk.”

She could try to make light of it all if she wanted to, but it was still his fault. He nodded, as if agreeing, and scooped her up so fast in his arms that her breath caught and he carried her into the keep. He yelled to a lone servant to bring a bucket of water and towels and took the stairs easily, as if she was no added burden to him.

After entering the bedchamber that had been prepared for her, he placed her gently on her feet, slipped her cloak off to toss aside, then lifted her once again in his arms to carry her to the chair by the bed. He astonished her once more when he lifted the chair with her in it, without any difficulty, and carried it over to rest near the warmth of the hearth.

He hunched down in front of her, the muscles in his legs thickening as he did and his hands slipped beneath the hem of her skirt to run them tenderly along her legs and over her ankles.

He nodded when he found the one he was looking for and lifted the leg and, as careful as possible, worked her boot off her foot, trying not to disturb her slightly swollen ankle.

To look at the size of him, one would never expect him to have a gentle touch. He appeared more a fierce warrior who could easily take a life with his bare hands and yet at the moment his hands were anything but deadly.

Once her boot was off, he ran his hand faintly over the swollen area. “It swells only slightly and has not discolored.”

“A small twist of my ankle that is all. It will improve in no time,” she assured him, the tenderness of his touch doing more to ease the constant throb in her ankle, than anything could.

“You will stay off it until the swelling goes down,” he ordered.

That was exactly what she would advise, but then he was a warrior and would have some knowledge of injuries.

“You disobeyed me,” he said, raising his head and settling his dark eyes on hers. “You left the keep without permission.” How could he keep her safe if he did not know what she was about?

“I was needed to deliver a bairn and I instructed the servant to tell you my whereabouts.”

“I received no such message.”

“It was my fault, Lord Craven.”

He and Espy turned to see a young servant lass, standing in the open doorway.

“Espy asked me to tell you where she had gone and when I returned to the keep, I was called to the kitchen and forgot. When I remembered, I came directly to you, but before I could tell you, you ordered me to watch over Owen and fled the room. It is my fault, not Espy’s.”

Craven stood and summoned the lass in with a sharp snap of his hand, and she hurried to obey. “It is both your faults. Espy for not coming directly to me and yours for forgetting.”

Espy’s heart went out to the lass. That she was frightened was obvious, her body visibly trembling. It was difficult not to when standing in front of Craven, his size alone intimidating.

“Put the bucket and towels on the table and go,” Craven ordered and the lass hurried to obey. “Do not let it happen again.”

His sharp command had the lass nodding vigorously as she backed out of the room.

Craven went to the door and shut it. He slipped the swath of plaid that crossed his chest over his head to hang at his side and yanked his shirt off to toss on the chest next to the door. He dunked a cloth in the bucket and rinsed it.

“May I have a wet cloth?” Espy asked. In all that had happened, she had forgotten about the wound at her neck and while she felt no recent bleeding or pain, she needed to cleanse the wound. She also needed to concentrate on anything but his naked back and chest, broad and thick with muscles that tempted her senses.

Craven stepped over to her and held out the wet cloth. “Why do you have need of it?”

Espy pushed back the strands of hair that had fallen loose and turned her head to show him her neck as her hand reached for the cloth.

An angry scowl sprang to his face and he yanked the cloth away from her. “What did he do?”

“He held a knife to my neck and when I tried to free myself, he nicked me with it. At least I assume it was a nick, since the blood felt as if it only trickled from the wound.”

Craven mumbled beneath his breath as he leaned over her and carefully pushed her hair off her neck to gently wipe at the solid stream of dried blood that had run down her neck and crusted. He admonished himself for only providing protection to Cyra and Bonnie and not realizing that Espy needed it as well, and he wished he could kill Howe all over again.

Espy closed her eyes as he tended her, his face much too close to hers for her not to. His fine features always seemed to send her stomach fluttering and with how near he was to her, his male scent seemed to intoxicate. She fought to retain her senses, but they had other ideas. His gentle touch, his warm breath fanning her face, his fine features, the scent that was his alone when combined made her want to… do more than kiss him.

She fought the foolish urge and squeezed her eyes closed even tighter and her lips as well.

“Am I hurting you?”

His sincere concern caressed her as gently as his hand. She shook her head, fearing if she opened her eyes he would see her desire burning brightly in them. If she released her lips, she feared she would surrender to her foolish desire and kiss him.

Craven did not believe her. He feared he was causing her pain since he hurried his touch, her neck, faintly pink from his scrubbing, far too tempting for his lips to ignore. He did not know what it was about this woman that tempted him so. How was it his hatred for her was fading, replaced by… desire? That could not be possible. It made no sense, but nothing had made sense once he had brought Espy to the keep.

He stepped away from her as soon as he finished and returned to the table. “It is as you thought, a minor wound and should not even leave a scar.”

“That is good,” she said softly, staring at the flames, not trusting herself to look his way. How was it that he tempted her with a simple glance or touch? It was complete madness and she could not succumb to it. She fought the growing urge to glance at him. He would be done soon and leave and she would seek the comfort of the bed and sleep, and pray that no nightmares would torment her.

She yawned, her hand going to her mouth.

“You need sleep,” Craven said.

She unwisely looked his way and thousands of flutters let loose in her stomach. Whatever was the matter with her? She was not a young lass besotted with a handsome lad. She was a woman full grown who had learned more about men than she cared to know. Yet all she had learned had not prepared her for how she felt when she looked upon this man.

Craven walked over to her, intending to lift her in his arms and carry her to the bed for her to rest, but something stopped him. He stared down at her and she stared up at him. No words were exchanged and yet somehow he knew how she felt… she wanted him to kiss her. And he wanted to kiss her.

It was not right. He should not feel this way. His heart had died with Aubrey. He had no feelings to share, to give to another. Nothing. He was empty.

He scooped her up fast, her arms going around his neck to stop herself from tumbling out of them, though with the strength he held her that was not likely.

He carried her to the bed and she kept her head turned away from his. A few steps and he would put her down and it would be over.

“Espy.”

He whispered her name, his breath warm against her cheek, and she unwisely turned and looked at him. Their eyes locked and she foolishly murmured his name. “Craven.”

He captured her lips in a kiss before his name completely slipped from her mouth. It was a hungry kiss, one he had ached for, one that would give him the sustenance he needed, if only briefly, for he could not trust himself to take more. She returned it in kind, her need as great as his and her passion fueled his.

He went down with her on the bed, stretching out partially over her and his hand ran down the side of her, enjoying how his hand drifted along her valleys and curves and wishing it was flesh he was touching rather than her garments.

All thought and sound reason fled Espy as his powerful kiss took command, his tongue slipping into her mouth, urging her, teasing her to respond. When his hand drifted to cup her breast, his thumb grazing her nipple, she responded instinctively, pressing her body against his.

Her eyes flew open when he broke the kiss so suddenly that a chill sent her body quivering. He stared at her and she was not quite sure what she saw in his eyes… regret, hate? No, there was no mistaking it. That was passion that flared so brightly.

He shook his head, almost as if he was trying to shake his feelings away and failing to do so. His whisper seemed to direct his words more at himself than her. “This cannot be.”

He turned and fled the room, his words making Espy see reason. He was right. This could not be. He did not love her or even care for her. She was no more than his healer and she would be a fool to believe there could be any more than that between them.

The problem was that his kisses, his touch, had stirred something inside her that she feared would not settle so easily. It would demand more and she worried she would surrender to it. More than that, she worried that her heart, she had guarded so closely, had opened to this man she had once feared.