The Bard (Highland Heroes #5) - Maeve Greyson Page 0,39
cane. “Ye married this man this verra night? Right before the fire that caused him this injury?”
“Aye.” While Sorcha doubted the fire was the culprit, she wasn’t about to discuss the matter with anyone other than Magnus. Not until they had discovered not only what had started the fire but who had committed the loathsome attack on Sutherland.
With a slow shake of her white head, she pointed at Sutherland. “Ye must not be close to him whilst he is naked nor lie with him until he has healed. If ye get with child whilst he is as injured as he is, yer wee one will be weak in its body wherever yer husband is weak. Heed me, m’lady. For the sake of yer firstborn, take my warning to heart.”
All in Clan Greyloch knew Aderyn possessed the wisdom of the old ways, and the odd little woman rarely erred. She saw things. Knew things. No one questioned Aderyn or her advice. Not ever.
“Aye, I will heed yer warning.” Sorcha ducked her head, wishing she could cool her flaming cheeks. “And I thank ye for giving it.” She hadn’t had time to think of the marriage bed nor the consummation of her vows.
With an approving nod, Aderyn took hold of Sorcha’s arm and turned her toward the door. “’Tis best ye wait in the sitting room. Once the lads and I get him clean and tended, ye can return and watch over him.” When Sorcha didn’t move, Aderyn nudged her harder. “For the sake of the bairn, m’lady. Yer firstborn. I beg ye. Ye’ve not lain with yer husband yet, so it isna proper that ye see him bare in such a humble, weakened state. As a maiden, such a sight could become a blight on yer future children.”
Sorcha went to Sutherland and squeezed his hand, taking care not to shift his arm from over his eyes. “I fear to ignore her words,” she whispered.
“She’s just an old woman, but I’ve not got the will to argue with ye right now.” Sutherland squeezed her fingers and forced a half-hearted smile without uncovering his eyes. “When ye return, promise ye’ll bring more whisky to chase away the aching in my head, will ye?”
“I promise.” Sorcha kissed his knuckles, then hurried out to join Magnus. The least she could do was help stand guard.
Chapter Seven
That vile witch had tortured him for what seemed like forever, but Sutherland had to admit, this was the quickest he had ever recovered from a blow to the head. He forced his eyes open wider. The quiet room was dim, lit by nothing but the fire crackling in the hearth. Outside, the wind howled, occasionally rattling the window as if testing the latch. A softer sound reached him, a delicate sigh and the shifting of cloth rubbing against cloth.
He turned his head on the pillow, wincing as the rough linen scraped across his tightly stitched wound. A sudden sense of being well cared for chased the pain away. Sorcha lay curled on her side in a high-backed chair pulled close to the bed. Firelight flickered across her, setting her peaceful countenance aglow with golden light. Head pillowed in one hand, the other tucked under her chin, she slept with her lips barely parted, a picture of serenity itself.
Sutherland’s heart hitched, forcing a hard swallow.
His wife. He had never thought to take a wife, but this woman had latched hold of him last summer when she had threatened to kill him. Even during their several months apart, he had thought of her often, wondering what would happen if they ever met again. And now he knew. They would surrender themselves to fate, and marry.
She stirred again, obviously at war with the cramped confines of the chair. A grumbling snort escaped her as she repositioned and stretched one long leg over the curved back of the chair and dangled the other over the padded arm. What the hell was the lass wearing?
He risked rolling to his side and plumped the pillow under his head, propping to a better angle to study her. He blinked hard, ensuring his eyes and the low lighting didn’t deceive him. She wore a strange pair of trews that had the bib and straps of an overdress sewn to the top of them. Her odd attire made him smile. Sorcha didn’t give a damn about convention or what others thought, and he admired her for it. What a priceless woman he had found to be his own.