morning.”
Craig grunted. “A little cold never hurt a man.”
“Suit yourself.”
He would suit himself, thank ye verra much, and he felt more than a wee bit petulant about it—a sentiment he only found to be more irritating than anything else. He lifted his foot to slip it into the first boot, gritting his teeth at the pain in his belly that came from the sheer effort and agony of the simple move. The wound on his belly wasn’t deadly, but damn did it hurt. He lifted his left foot, shoving it into the other boot, feeling his world tilt as he did so. For the love of…
He wasn’t bending down to lace his boots. Forget it.
Craig grabbed one of the clean, folded shirts and gingerly tossed it over his head, the length of it coming down to his knees. If he wanted, he could drop the plaid wrapped around his hips and walk outside in just the shirt without fear of showing too much. But just the slightest breeze might lift the hem of his shirt, and then, well—anything he might have wanted to remain a mystery would be revealed.
What he wouldn’t give for a pair of breeches at that moment. Where were his breeches? Squinting toward the pile of folded garments, he thought he could make out several pairs, but the effort of going through them all to find his own seemed like too much.
He was taking too long. The more time he spent searching for his things, the more likely it became that she would return and force him back to bed. And to hell with that. Well, to hell with it while she wasn’t here anyway.
Craig shuffled toward the door, feeling as though he’d aged thirty years since he’d been charging redcoats on the battlefield. A week before? The sheer effort it took to reach for the handle, all these small movements he’d taken for granted, was annoying the hell out of him. Why wouldn’t his body work the way he needed it to?
His head hurt, he was slightly dizzy, his mouth was dry, and he felt like his guts were about to bust out of his abdomen. He probably was stupid for trying to do so much all at once, but there was no use lying in bed. A man didn’t get better by lazing about. That was perhaps an exaggeration, but he didn’t care. He was determined to walk out that door and piss on the first tree he saw, no matter who chanced to witness it happening.
The door creaked open, letting in dull dawn light and a blast of chill spring wind. Craig closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, relishing the smell of fresh air and grass.
A hound looked up from where he lay outside the door, patiently guarding the cottage. Craig bent down despite the pain to pat the animal on the head.
“Good lad,” he murmured and then stood up again, grinding his teeth at the tug on his belly.
He looked around the yard. Not a soul in sight. And there was a tree not ten feet away. That was a good goal, and so he focused his gaze on that and shuffled forward, the tips of his boots growing wet and dark with dew from the grass. The hound followed behind, cautious.
“Did she tell ye to watch me?” he asked, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer.
At last he reached the tree, tugged the plaid out of place to allow himself a moment of victory at a goal met, and relieved himself.
Not ten seconds in, a deep sigh sounded from behind him that was decidedly more female than it was hound. Craig looked up at the sky, certain he could also hear her toe tapping on the ground.
“Look away, lass,” Craig said. “I’ve no intention of stopping.”
“Ye’ve made it this far. I’d no’ take the pleasure of marking your territory away from ye.”
He snickered and then watched the hound trot around to the other side of the tree, lift his leg, and participate eagerly.
When he was finished, he let the plaid fall back into place and turned around to face his nursemaid—or captor, whichever suited him better.
But Annie didn’t look angry; nay, she looked ready to engage him in a challenge. Her arms were crossed over her chest, brows raised, and there was a slight lift to the side of her lip as though she found him amusing—and likely childish. He found himself studying her hand to see if there was