A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book) (12 page)

He set the trencher on the table. “Just a bit stiff from riding in the back of the wagon.” A sallow sheen covered his face, even paler than before.

He didn’t fool Meg. He was too tall for her to reach his forehead, so she placed the back of her hand to his cheek. Just as she thought; he was burning up. “You’re fevered.”

Duncan gestured to the chair then pulled a flagon and a loaf of bread from beneath his cloak. “Sit and eat. ’Tis nothing a good meal and a few tots of whisky will not cure.”

“Aye, food and drink will help, but you need rest and more of the Gypsy salve.” She grimaced, wishing she knew for certain what herbal remedies it contained. Breaking the loaf of bread, she watched Duncan take a healthy swig from the flagon. “You’d best put some food in your belly before you drink too much of that.”

He removed his cloak then took another swig. “Not hungry.”

“Must you be pigheaded?” She crossed her arms. “You could try to listen to reason for once on this misbegotten adventure. Besides, not wanting to eat is another sign the wound’s turning bad.”

His eyes darkened with his angry glare, but he reached for the eating knife and cut himself a piece of meat. Shoving the bite in his mouth, his color turned paler.

Meg averted her eyes and concentrated on her meal. Duncan washed his food down with another tot of whisky. At this rate, he’d be in his cups before she finished eating. She glanced toward the bed. Yes, she’d been alone with Duncan the night before, but would he respect her virtue when intoxicated? Her flesh tingled and she rubbed her hands over her arms.

“Are you feeling chilled?” he asked.

“Mayhap a bit.” She wasn’t cold in the slightest. Her gaze drifted from his shoulders down his well-muscled frame, all the way to his toes. Heaven help her, she admired his form.

Duncan’s breathing stuttered, and he also rubbed his arms. “I’ll stoke the fire.” He stood and took one step before he clattered to the floor.

Meg leapt to her feet. “Duncan!”

Grunting, he tried to push up. “Boar’s ballocks, blast my human weakness.”

Meg grasped his shoulders, leveraging all her strength to pull him to a sitting position. “We’re getting you to the bed.”

“Nay,” he slurred. “The bed’s for your ladyship.”

“Enough! You shall not argue with me any longer.” She braced her hands under his armpits and planted her feet square. “Now help me lift you to your feet.”

He sat like a burlap sack of oats. “Damn it all, for the love of Christ, I cannot believe I’m allowing a tiny wisp of a lass to order me about. Jesus spare me.”

Meg giggled.

His face fell. “God’s teeth, what are you on about, woman? Laughing at a man when he’s injured?”

She tugged up without a modicum of success. “I’m chuckling at your string of blasphemous curses, and I’ll be saying Hail Marys all night, begging a pardon for your soul.”

He glanced up with a sober expression. “You’d pray for me?”

Her shoulder ticked up. “Why should I not? You’ve done a great service, rescuing me from the Earl of Northumberland. Though your tactics of keeping me safe are a wee bit untoward, I owe you a debt of gratitude.” She tugged again. “Now help me tug you to your feet so I can tend your wound.”

It was Duncan’s turn for a chuckle. Shaking his head, he leaned into her pull. After a great deal of straining, she somehow managed to lever him up. She scooted her body alongside him and draped his arm over her shoulder. “Now walk with me. ’Tis only a few paces.”

Grimacing, he nodded. Together they shuffled across the floor, Duncan’s face ever so white. He grunted, though the sound was barely audible. Meg guessed all this time he had been in more pain that he’d let on.
Silly man
. If she were planning to join a nunnery, she’d surely be required to tend the sick. With no better time to start than now, she moved her grasp to his arm and pulled him to the mattress. “Lie here and I’ll fetch the salve.”

Duncan grumbled something that sounded like “thank you.” She couldn’t be sure, but chose to believe he’d thanked her. Sliding the pillow under his head, he moaned. The poor Highlander needed a soft bed and a good sleep.

She retrieved the satchel with the salve and bandages. Fortunately, the inn supplied a bowl and ewer of water. After arranging these items on the bedside table, Meg stood back and observed Duncan. She clasped her hands together and rubbed them. He lay on his side with his back to her. From the slow cadence of his breathing, Meg thought he might have fallen asleep.
I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.

She eyed his belt.
A pious sister wouldn’t pay a mind to his physique
. Duncan needed her help and that was the end of it. She gently placed her hand on his hip and leaned over so she could see his face. “Duncan?”

“Mm.”

“Are you awake?”

“Aye,” he said without moving, keeping his eyes closed.

“I need to lower your chausses.” Her hands trembled.

One eye opened. “’Tis music to a knight’s ears.”

“I cannot believe you’re jesting—fevered and all.” She drew in a steadying breath, reached in and unclasped his belt. The moan that escaped his throat made her insides erupt with uncontrollable butterflies. She pressed a hand against her chest to calm her heartbeat.
Bring yourself under control, Meg. It isn’t as if you have not seen him before.

She loosened the ties on his waistband and tugged. Duncan had the wherewithal to raise his hips slightly. Not wanting this process to take an eternity, Meg clenched her teeth and bore down with all her strength. In one motion, she had him completely bare all the way to his knees. Scooting back, she clapped her hands over her mouth.
Heaven help me, his braies must have been untied.
“Forgive me.”

Duncan peered over his shoulder. “Do not worry, lass,” he said in a slow, lilting burr. “Apply the salve and I’ll be fit as a wee bairn come morn.”

She couldn’t help her cursory glance over the masculine flesh presented to her. He had a long, puckered white scar on his hip, as if he’d been cut open. Curious, she examined the old wound closer, gently stroking her finger along the length of it. “Were you in a battle?”

“Mm. More than one.”

By the dreamy tenor of his voice, he must be close to sleep. Meg leaned over to look at his face. Yes, his eyes were still closed. She sighed while her bosom filled with yearning.

He moved his hips. Glancing down, she gasped. Oh heaven help her, she shouldn’t have looked. Extending from a patch of tight black curls, his manhood was far more sizeable than Meg imagined a man’s member would be. Her tongue snuck out and tapped her top lip. Her palms perspired. What if she had touched him there?

Her knees buckled. She almost reached out and ran her fingers along his length before her sensibilities reminded that she was to become a nun, and in no way should she ever allow her gaze to so much as flicker to any man’s . . . 

Forcing her mouth closed, Meg stood upright and clapped her hands over her eyes. Had she honestly just ogled Duncan’s unmentionables? Who knew how many sins she’d committed in that single moment? Fanning her face, she vowed not to bend over him again and turned toward the bowl. She doused a cloth and wrung it. “I’ll cleanse the wound first.”

“Mm.”

Perhaps the whisky did him some good. Meg examined the gash in his backside and hissed. White pus congealed in the center, with angry red flesh surrounding it. It had definitely turned putrid. She sniffed. The smell wasn’t sour yet. She grimaced, ever so mindful of causing more pain. Carefully, she touched the cloth to it.

Duncan jolted with a grunt. Meg pulled her hands away. She’d tried so hard not to hurt him. “Are you all right?”

“Aye.” He must have lied, because the word was clipped and strained.

“I’ll try to hold the compress to it rather than rub.”

He nodded slightly, but she dared not lean over him again to see if his eyes were open. No, she wouldn’t make that mistake again. What did it matter if they were opened or closed, anyway? She doused the cloth again and gingerly held it against his backside. A shiver coursed through him, and while she held her hands in place, the compress warmed. Three times Meg rinsed the cloth and reapplied it.

“I shall rub in the salve now.”

“Aye.” The word now rolled across his tongue like honey.

Meg would have preferred it if Duncan had uttered more than one word at a time, but then, he was fevered.

She picked up the pot and froze. What if he lost consciousness altogether? What would she do if discovered sharing a chamber with a man in Glasgow? In no way could she send word to Arthur.

Oh, heaven help. I had enough difficulty helping Duncan to the bed. If his fever doesn’t improve, we will not make it to the pier on the morrow.

What more can I do?

She pulled the cork stopper and dipped her fingers into the goo. “You must have plenty of rest this night. I’ll pray your strength returns by dawn.”

“Strength. Must.” He jerked and grunted when the ointment touched his wound. “Return,” he growled.

Meg continued to dab, trying to smooth in the liniment. “Pray the Gypsies know a thing or two about healing, else this salve will be for naught.”

“Mm.”

With a deep sigh, Duncan appeared to relax. Evidently, the ointment soothed after its initial application. Meg pushed in the cork and studied Duncan’s bare-bottomed form. Heaven strike her dead, this view ignited a spark deep inside she’d never before experienced. She yearned to cup his buttocks and dig her fingers into the chiseled flesh. She clapped a palm to her head as if she were daft. From where on earth had her entirely disgraceful thoughts come? Meg was a well-bred, pious woman who wanted nothing to do with men. Even her sisters had supported this certainty. Who could fall in love with the claw?

Deciding it best to leave Duncan’s wound to air, she pulled a plaid from the end of the bed and draped it over him. After stoking the fire, Meg took the candle and crossed to the other side of the bed where she’d be able to see his face without jostling him. As she thought, his eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady. The candlelight flickered amber shadows across his face. He had not a blemish, though he hadn’t shaved since her rescue. His short beard gave him the look of a pirate. If she didn’t already know his kindhearted nature, she might fear a man as large as he, dark features and all. His lips parted and he sighed with a deep rumble.

In that moment, Meg wanted to climb onto the bed and kiss him. He’d let his guard down and kissed her once. She’d never forget how his lips felt when they touched hers—soft, gentle, spicy. Yes, she would kiss him again if she believed he’d want her to. But a man like Sir Duncan Campbell would never desire a cripple like Meg Douglas. Aye, such a brawny knight could most likely win any fair lassie to whom he took a fancy.

Something heavy draped across her waist. From the warmth radiating along her back, Meg needed no coverlet. A balmy puff of air caressed her neck. She sighed, not wanting to move. Cradled in the folds of a feather bed, she snuggled into the warmth, and her mind hovered in that dreamy place on the precipice of sleep.

Behind her, a deep voice moaned. “
Mo leannan
.”

Meg’s eyes flew open. Adjusting to the dim light, her breathing sped. She remembered climbing into the far side of the bed late last eve. The bed was large enough for three or four people, and with Duncan fast asleep, she’d seen no harm in it if she kept to her side.

She ran her fingers over the mattress and met the edge. Thank heavens she hadn’t scooted all the way across in her sleep. But Duncan must have.

He’d uttered a Gaelic endearment. Was he delirious? Praying he was not, she took a chance and rose slightly on her elbow. She looked over her shoulder; his eyes were closed and the slow cadence of his breathing indicated he was deep in slumber. Beyond him, the coals in the hearth smoldered with their last embers.

His arm tugged Meg to his chest, and he pressed his hips against her buttocks. Closing her eyes, her hips moved in concert with his. Never in her life had a hot, fire-like yearning inflamed her insides. She arched into him. The driving desire to touch her flesh to his made her wish her skirts and the bedclothes weren’t obstructing her so much, on the one hand—on the other, she was grateful they were. An image of Duncan’s manhood appeared in her mind. Oh dear—would she now be plagued with the constant memory of his sex? Inhaling, she conjured another image, not so erotic, but ever so moving. Picturing his beautiful backside made her breasts grow heavy, and the stirring between her hips swirled into a maelstrom of desire.

I cannot allow these thoughts to consume me
.

Abruptly, Meg sat up. A hint of light peeked beneath the window coverings.
Is it past dawn?
Beside her, Duncan stirred.

She quickly jumped off the bed. What on earth would he think if he roused with her lying in his arms? She smoothed her hands over her hair and cleared her throat. “Duncan. You must wake. The captain told us to be on the pier at dawn.”

He didn’t stir. Meg skipped around the bed and shook his shoulder. “Duncan?”

He rolled to his backside and groaned, his entire body stiffening. “Jesus strike me dead, that hurts.”

“We must make haste if we’re to meet the ship.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. When he cast his gaze to the streaming light, he bolted upright. “Bloody hell, how could you have let me sleep until daybreak?”

She wrung her hands. “I only just awoke myself. Surely ’tis not too late to meet the sea galley.”

Stiffly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The plaid shifted, exposing his hip. Quick as lightning, his hand swooped down and caught it before it dropped. He glanced down, eyebrows arching. “Ah.” He cleared his throat.

Meg turned away and shielded her eyes. “Forgive me. After I applied the salve, I thought it best to let your bot—ah . . . your injury air.”

He mumbled something that sounded like, “Bleating bloody hell, I had my bare arse hanging out of me braies all night.”

Meg most definitely would not ask him to repeat it.