her, and seeing all was well, left as soon as he arrived. Through the open doors, Kenzie could hear the men talking outside, a whisper of words all about the man lying unresponsive before her.
“Do not worry, sir, I’m sure you’ll be feeling a lot better soon enough.” Kenzie wiped his brow, bringing the cloth down his cheek and wiping away what was left of his vomit. “And with Gwen looking after you, a wonderful healer, I might add, you’ll be up and walking before you know it.”
He rasped something, and Kenzie leaned close to hear what he was saying. A putrid odor, more awful than she’d ever smelled before, wafted from his skin, and she pulled back, gasping for air. It was rude of her, but thankfully, the man was so out of his mind that he did not notice her reaction to his stench.
For that was exactly what it was, a smell that reminded her of sweat that was weeks old, along with teeth that were not much better. It was no wonder the man had caught some disease. If not from someone else, the air that hung about his head was enough to make anyone ill.
Kenzie wiped his chiseled cheek. Under all his filth, the laird was attractive, and should he eat a few meals, would probably look even more so, but now he looked like nothing but a drunk who’d made himself sick by lack of respect for himself. What had made him do this? He certainly didn’t resemble the man she’d seen in paintings—a tall, athletic, virile laird of his time.
“Did you wish for a drink, sir?” she asked, noting for the first time his eyes were open a little, showing off orbs that were nearly as dark as his hair.
“Aye. Whisky.”
She snorted, and he frowned a little. No way in hell was she going to give in to his request and supply him with more alcohol.
“Drink,” he repeated, and she poured a cup of ale from the pitcher on the table. Holding the cup to his lips, she helped him sit up a little as he had a small sip.
He swore, sputtered out the ale, and knocked the cup out of her hand. Kenzie stood as the man sat up, no longer so faint, but fully awake.
“What are ye trying to do, woman? Kill me? What was that vile concoction ye thought to give me?”
Kenzie picked up the cup, meeting his glare with one of her own. “Well, it’s the funniest thing, but I do believe it’s called beer. And even more fascinating, you should drink it, instead of the muck you’ve obviously been imbibing the past few days. Water would be better, but there doesn’t seem to be any on hand here.”
One brow rose before his eyes narrowed, pinning her to her spot. Kenzie swallowed, reminded herself that Gwen cared for this man in some small way, and surely, since she was a friend of the family, he’d not hurt her. She had nothing to fear. Nothing at all, and yet, her nerves kept jumping each time he moved or spoke. She had no idea why.
He sank back down on the settee, his burst of energy seemingly short-lived. “Who are ye? I’ve never see ye afore.”
Kenzie sat down on the chair once again, and rinsing the cloth, placed it on the Scotsman’s forehead. “I’m a distant relative of Gwen and Braxton’s.”
His contemplative gaze raked over her form, and she shivered. What was it about this man that made her react in such a way? For a start, he stank, seemed to be an alcoholic, and was nosy, to boot.
Dismissing her stupid reaction, Kenzie concentrated on rubbing the cloth over his temples and working her way down his neck. The scattering of hair peeking through the top of his shirt gave her pause, and she wondered if he was overly hairy or just a little as she preferred. No one wanted to sleep with a bear, after all.
“A relative of both of theirs, eh?” He groaned and rolled to his side, forcing her off the chair. “A bucket. Quickly, lass.”
“Oh my God, seriously?” Kenzie looked about the room, and spying a peat bucket beside the fire, she tipped the little bricks of peat onto the ground and raced back to his side.
Great heaving and the sound of a lot of whisky coming up filled the room for the next few minutes, along with a smell that Kenzie never wanted to experience again. Rinsing the