Highland Barbarian Part 23

His voice was suddenly gruff. He recognized the shock and fatigue that was beginning to overcome her.

"You are indeed a fine woman. But you are far from recovered. You will sleep now."

He pulled the bed linens over her and added a fur on top of them, smoothing it until she was warm and snug.

Meredith caught his hand.

"You will stay with me? You will not send someone else to guard me?"

"If you wish."

"Aye." She clung to his hand.

"I wish."

He stared down at the small hand upon his. At this moment he would move heaven and earth if she but asked it.

"I will be right beside you."

"All night?"

"And late into the morning if you desire."

He pulled a chair beside the bed and dropped a fur across his knees.

While the fire burned to embers he watched her as she slept.

Thin morning sunlight filtered through the windows, sweeping away the night shadows. Beneath the covers Meredith lay very still, replaying in her mind the events of the previous night.

She recalled clearly the attack by Holden and the tender way Brice had carried her to his bed. Less clear in her mind were the dreams that plagued her as she slept. Several times she had cried out.

And each time Brice had been there beside her, soothing, holding. The last time she had sobbed as though her heart would break and it had been Brice who held her in his arms, rocking her as tenderly as if she were a wee bairn.

Brice. She opened her eyes and stared at the chaise drawn up beside the bed. It was empty. She felt a swift stab of disappointment. He had broken his word and left her.

A movement beside her in the bed startled her. Turning she found herself face-to-face with Brice.

Without a word he touched a hand to her cheek. The sweetness of the gesture brought a lump to her throat.

She studied the stubble of beard that darkened his chin, and had to clench her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to him. The nearness of the man did strange things to her. Her throat was dry.

Her heartbeat was wildly erratic. And she was suddenly far too warm.

As she sat up and swung her feet to the floor he closed a hand around her wrist.

"You should stay abed, my lady."

"Nay. I have a need to be up and about."

He watched as she crossed the room toward the basin and pitcher.

Pouring a little water she began to wash her face and arms.

He sat up. From this vantage point he could admire her Creator's handiwork. How truly lovely she was. The sheer chemise clearly emphasized every line and curve of her body. As she bent to splash water on her face, he studied the dark cleft between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and felt a rush of heat. His gaze traced the waist so narrow he was certain his big hands could easily span it, then moved lower to her flare of hips. Her legs were long and shapely, her bare feet as dainty as a child's.

She dried her face and began to run his brush through the tangles of her hair. Tossing her head, she brought the hair forward over one breast and continued brus.h.i.+ng until it was sleek and s.h.i.+ning. Then she tossed it back and allowed it to cascade down her back like a s.h.i.+mmering veil.

She crossed the room to a stool and picked up the crumpled white gown.

He watched her with a smile of appreciation. It was then that he spied the bruises on her throat.

He was across the room in quick strides. Without a word he caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face.

Meredith was about to protest his rough actions until she saw the pained look in his eyes.

"What is it, my lord?"

"I should never have allowed him to walk away." Brice's nostrils flared as he gently examined each bruise. "I should have killed Holden Mackay for what he did to you."

"I will heal." Embarra.s.sed at his scrutiny she brought a hand to her throat.

"If I but had it in my power," he said, bending his lips to the bruises on her throat,

"I would willingly take each of your hurts upon myself."

She stood very still, absorbing the waves that shuddered through her at his touch. Never before had a man dared to press his lips to her throat. And yet the touch was so tender, so loving, she was helpless to step away.

He glanced down at the soiled gown in her hands.

"Do not put that on," he said in a low tone of command.

"But it is all I have." As she made a move to pull away he yanked the gown from her hands and tossed it in a heap on the floor.

"I will send Cara up with something more appropriate."

He turned away and pulled on a tunic before leaving the room. It would never occur to him to admit, even to himself, that the gown offended him because it reminded him of the marriage she had almost been allowed to consummate, and the husband who would have bedded her.

* * * Cara helped Meredith into the gown provided by the young widow, Mistress Snow. Though not a perfect fit, it was far more comfortable than the white gown that she had discarded.

The fabric was the color of heather, with deeper purple ribbons banding the bodice and hem. The sleeves were full, then gathered at elbow and wrist with s.h.i.+rring. The color was a lovely counterpoint to Meredith's green eyes and brought a bloom to her cheeks. Best of all, the high ruffled collar hid the bruises that marred her throat.

"Oh, you look lovely, my lady," Cara said as she finished dressing Meredith's hair with matching ribbons.

"Thank you. And thank Mistress Snow for me."

"I will, my lady." Cara crossed the room and held the door.

"If you are ready, the others are waiting to break their fast."