Black Richard's Heart (The MacCulloughs #1) - Suzan Tisdale Page 0,105

though doing so made her feel rather dizzy and woozy. Slowly, she felt around until she found the bottom step, crawled up and sat on it, afraid to move again. Using the hem of her gown, she held the fabric against her chin to try to stop the flow of blood.

Colyne and Raibeart appeared not long after and Marisse was right behind them. As soon as they saw the blood, they began shouting at once, poking and prodding, wanting to make certain she was fine.

Batting their hands away as if they were flies, she assure them she was fine. But when Marisse pulled the fabric to get a better look, the blood started flowing again. Poor Colyne was beside himself. “Is she goin’ to die?” he asked in a frightened whisper.

“Of course not!” Aeschene told him, forcing a smile to her face. “’Tis naught but a scratch.”

In as much pain as she was, she was the only one who had the sense to remain calm. She had the boys fetch the healer and had sent Marisse to the kitchen for a bowl of water and linens.

Marisse was cleaning the wound when Donald arrived. Once again, they all began talking at once.

Donald finally shooed them away with a gruff voice. “Ye will not do her any good standin’ around wringin’ yer fingers. Be gone, the lot of ye.”

Marisse refused to leave her lady’s side. “Boys, go sit by the fire and wait. Aeschene will be right as rain in no time.”

“Mayhap ye want to go above stairs,” Donald asked her as he assessed her wound. “I can give ye a sleeping draught. Ye won’t feel a thing.”

Aeschene dismissed the idea immediately. “I dunnae need a sleeping draught, Donald. Just stitch me up and let me move on with my day.”

They argued back and forth for a time before Donald realized he wasn’t going to win. He pulled up a stool and sat down to examine the wound more closely.

He was stitching up her tender skin when Aeschene felt her husband’s presence.

“Donald,” she said in a calm voice. “I do believe my husband has just walked in.”

Donald didn’t look away from his task, but he could see Richard out of the corner of his eye.

“How angry does he look right now?” she asked with a smile.

One quick glance was all he needed. “Mad enough to break his sword in half, I’d say,” he said before turning his attention back to her chin. “He has paled considerably as well.”

For inexplicable reasons, she took a good deal of satisfaction in that. Mayhap he did care for her after all.

“What in the bloody hell happened?” Richard roared as he crossed the room.

Aeschene did not so much as flinch. “’Tis naught but a scratch.”

Richard fumed. “A scratch does not require stitches,” he said, his hands fisted at his sides.

“Och!” Aeschene said dismissively. “Just one or two.”

“Six is more like it, lass,” Donald told her as he tied off the thread.

“Six?” she asked, looking quite pleased. “Will it leave a ghastly scar?”

Donald, believing she was tender hearted and like most women, worried over her appearance lied. “Nay!” he exclaimed. “’Twill be barely noticeable.”

She looked positively deflated. “Well, can ye make it look ghastly?”

Both men blinked, stunned with her request.

“Lass?” Donald asked, swallowing hard. “Ye want a ghastly scar?”

Aeschene giggled lightly. “A scar tells a story,” she told him. “Or several if ye were me grandsire.”

Shaking his head to make some sense of what she was saying, Donald asked for clarification.

“My grandsire, my mother’s father, was a warrior and a storyteller. Whenever we would ask about how he came by one of his scars, his answer would always change. I think that is where I got my storytellin’ abilities.”

Richard’s head was pounding - more with fury now that from his hangover.

“What in the bloody hell happened?” Thus far, no one had explained to him why his wife was bleeding and why Donald was stitching up her chin.

Aeschene rolled her eyes and turned to look his way. “I tripped.”

Standing in wide eyed astonishment, he waited for her to explain further. She couldn’t, of course, see his fierce glower. “Ye tripped.”

“Aye, comin’ down the stairs.”

’Twas like pulling teeth. “Were ye alone?” He asked, trying hard to mask his anger.

“I was,” she told him. “I truly thought I had the stairs memorized enough to come below stairs on my own. Unfortunately, I was wrong.”

Unfortunately, I was wrong. Her words bounced around in his head for a short moment. “Where in the