RECOVERY
Hannah woke at dawn and went immediately to the cottage, delighted to find Morgan sitting up, bolstered by pillows. He looked pale, but that wasn’t surprising. She stifled a smile. It was a wonder the crofters’ wee bed hadn’t collapsed under his giant frame.
The farmwife was spooning porridge into his mouth. An unreasonable pang of jealousy tightened her throat. “I can do that, Sheelagh,” she declared, taking the bowl from the woman’s hands. “Ye’ve bairns to tend to.”
She sat down on the edge of the mattress and stole a glance at Morgan’s bandaged hand, relieved to see no sign of bloodstains.
He forced a smile and gingerly moved his remaining fingers. “I’ve still got most of them, thanks to you,” he said hoarsely. “However, I’ll never touch a drop of strong liquor again.”
She grinned and offered another spoonful of oatmeal, but he shook his head. “A kiss will make me feel better.”
She put the bowl on the floor and leaned forward to nibble his lower lip, tasting whisky. “I’m glad to see ye looking hale this morn,” she whispered.
His tongue traced her upper lip, sending tendrils of peaceful longing trickling through her body. “Hale is mayhap not quite the right word, but I think I’ll live.”
She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “No fever. ’Tis a good sign.”
“Aye,” Sheelagh called from the other end of the cottage. “He’s a strong mon.”
Hannah resented the appreciative glint in the farmwife’s eyes as she raked her gaze over Morgan.
He chuckled, seemingly sensing her irritation. “What is it you Scots say?” he asked as he took her hand. “Dinna fash? Don’t worry. You’re the only woman for me.”
Appeased, she lay her head on his thighs. “Did ye sleep at all?”
He sifted the fingers of his uninjured hand through her tangled hair. “Not at first, but then I had a dream.”
“A good dream?” she asked, content to feel his warmth through the linens.
He made a growling sound deep in his throat and stretched. His manhood stirred beneath her cheek. “Did ye dream o’ me?” she teased, nuzzling her nose against the bulge at his groin after a cautionary glance at the busy farmwife.
“Of course. I foresaw the future,” he replied sleepily. “Too bad this bed is so small.”
She laughed. “No smaller than the one at the inn.”
His thighs flexed again. “True.” Then he gently coaxed her head up so she was looking into his eyes. “I hope you have no regrets.”
“None,” she replied without hesitation. “Though I’m nay so hopeful as ye seem to be about the future.”
“Everything will fall into place,” he answered. “Your uncle will surrender.”
“I’m surprised ye even remember the conversation. He’s still in his tent arguing with the others about what ye said. How can ye be so sure?”
He cupped her chin in his warm hand and smoothed a thumb across her lips. “The goddess Arianrhod told me.”
His eyelids drooped and he drifted off. Sleep was what he needed to aid his recovery, but she worried the whisky had addled his brain.
~~~
Morgan hadn’t intended to sleep for long, but dusk was stealing into the cottage when he woke. The pain in his hand had lessened, and his headache was gone. Mayhap the vile tonic the farmwife had forced down his throat earlier had done the trick after all. The aroma of simple, home-cooked food filled his nostrils, reminding him of his childhood in Wales—before he was shipped off to Shrewsbury. He considered his hunger a good omen.
His backside was numb, but he didn’t want to move. Hannah slept with her head nestled at his groin. His body didn’t react in the usual way. Instead, contentment filled him. For too long he’d allowed no one to penetrate the wall carefully constructed around his heart. Caring for others led inevitably to the grief of loss.
Hannah had not only breached his defenses, she’d torn them down completely—without even trying. As a result he found himself minus a finger, and possibly facing charges of desertion and horse theft, and he regretted none of it.
The tutors at Shrewsbury had never succeeded in destroying his firm Celtic belief in the power of dreams. He had to cling to Arianrhod’s promise.
Hannah stirred and smiled when she looked up at him. “I must have fallen asleep,” she murmured, sitting up to stretch her arms above her head. The swell of her perfect breasts as she arched her back was all it took to remind his cock of its duty to salute.
The farmwife approached and handed a bowl and spoon to Hannah. “Broth,” she muttered. “I expect ye want to feed him, and I’ve me hands full wi’ yon Highlanders camped outside.”
He smiled as she scurried off. “You’ve succeeded in marking your territory,” he told Hannah.
“And dinna forget it, Morgan Pendray. Ye’re mine.”
“Always,” he promised, savoring the first spoonful of broth. “It’s a good sign your uncle is still here. If they were going to flee they’d be gone by now.”
She frowned. “Mayhap they intend to fight.”
“They’d have ridden to Bouchmorale in that case. From my vague recollection of this area, it isn’t a good location for a last stand.”
~~~
Morgan’s words rattled around in Hannah’s head as she fed him. The uncertainty was tying her belly in knots. Insinuating herself into her uncle’s inner circle and expecting to be included in the discussions was a foolish notion. Despite all she’d sacrificed for the cause, the chieftains would consider it unwelcome female interference.
She fretted that the English army hadn’t yet arrived. “Ye spoke of some delay in Beannchar,” she ventured.
He hesitated, chewing a piece of mutton from the broth, and she got the feeling he was avoiding telling her what had happened. But then he looked her in the eye. “Don’t get alarmed. There was an explosion. A stupid, unnecessary accident, but it demolished a cottage and damaged others.”
A lead weight settled in the pit of her stomach. She remembered little Duncan’s red curls. “Whose cottage?” she murmured.
“A man named Angus.”
She let out a soft cry as the wooden spoon clattered to the floor. She’d cursed Angus for leaving her and now…
“They’re all safe,” Morgan reassured her. “Duncan wasn’t injured and Feena seemed to be recovering when I left.”
She dared not ask about Esther. “And yer men? The lads?”
“They weren’t near the explosion. And she’s fine,” he said. “Esther.”
“Ye figured it all out,” she conceded. “I’m nay a very good spy, am I?”
His lecherous smile banished the cold chill that had settled on her nape. “But you’re my spy,” he whispered.
She looked into his eyes, comforted by the sincerity she saw in the blue depths.
“By the by,” he added, “Pritchard disappeared.”
She tensed, suspecting what he would say next.
“I’ve an inkling Solomon dealt with him.”
It was sinful to feel relief at the death of another person, but she couldn’t help it.
“He’s no loss,” Morgan went on, as if sensing she didn’t wish to speak further about the Jacobs. “I estimate the army will arrive on the morrow. Hopefully, the doctor will permit me to get out of bed.”
She swallowed hard, then gaped at him. He truly had no idea…
And he might never have known if Murtagh hadn’t chosen that moment to fill the doorway with his brawny presence, looking as if he’d just come from shoeing a temperamental horse. “How fares ma patient?” he shouted.