hand and peered at the small prickly branch he’d pulled from his hair.
“Please?”
Conran shifted his gaze to Lady Evina. Her eyes were shiny now, though whether with tears or anger, he couldn’t tell. He was leaning toward tears though, and supposed the least he could do was look at the man. He could decide what to do from there.
“Fine,” he muttered now. “Take me to him.”
“Perhaps ye could dress first,” the old woman suggested in arid tones.
Eyebrows rising, Conran followed her glance down to see that his plaid and a fur were lying on the floor on top of and in front of his feet, but otherwise he was completely naked.
“They fell off when ye woke and leapt up,” Evina said, her gaze never dropping below his face. The way she said it suggested that he’d been wearing the plaid at least, but he recalled being naked on the horse. The damn thing must have been draped over him and slid off when he stood.
Shaking his head, Conran bent to snatch up the plaid and moved to the other side of the bed where there was room to kneel and pleat the item of clothing on the floor. His movements were economical, but not rushed. Conran was not embarrassed by nudity, his or anyone else’s. He’d skinny-dipped with his brothers two or three times a week for the first twenty-odd years of his life and still did on occasion. Between that and helping Rory with his work with the ill and injured, which necessitated dealing with people in all states of dress and undress, he saw no shame in the human body.
Conran did find it interesting that Lady Evina hadn’t seemed embarrassed by his nudity either though. Most ladies would have blushed and stammered and probably even turned their back while they spoke to him, if not leave the room altogether until he’d clothed himself. But she’d stood there, just inches away, as if he were fully garbed. Her gaze had never dropped below his face though, Conran thought, running the past few minutes through his mind as he worked. Interesting. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t figure the woman out. Just when he thought he knew what to expect, she surprised him . . . which fascinated him.
Conran was just finishing the last pleat when a white shirt appeared before his face. Pausing, he sat back on his heels and glanced to the man holding it out to him. It was the one who had attacked him under the falls, the smaller of the two soldiers. Although that description was misleading. The man wasn’t small by any means. In fact, he was about his size, but next to the mountain of a man that was the other soldier, this one looked wee.
“Yer shirt,” the soldier said quietly. “I tucked it in me saddlebag and brought it back fer ye.”
“Thank ye,” Conran said grudgingly as he took the shirt. He tugged it on quickly, and then donned the plaid, and turned to the people waiting patiently on the other side of the bed. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “So . . . if ye’ll take me to yer father, I’ll see if there is aught I can do.”
He expected Evina to lead him out of the room. Instead, she walked to the bed, and peered down at the top of the pile of furs stacked there. “Da? Rory Buchanan is here. If anyone can save ye, ’tis him. Are ye awake, Da?”
Conran moved closer to the bed, his eyes widening when he spotted the shriveled old face just visible above the mountain of furs. Taking in the flushed cheeks and glazed eyes when the man opened them, he began to frown and leaned down to press the back of his hand to Fearghas Maclean’s forehead.
“Dear God, he’s burning up,” he said with dismay, and tugged his hand away. The man was hot enough to cook a meal on without need of a fire.
Frowning, Conran straightened, thinking the fellow did need his brother’s skills, and immediately. But if he was now at Maclean, it would take at least two days, more likely three, to ride to Buchanan and bring him back. If his brother would even come, Conran thought. Rory was very worried about the innkeeper’s daughter. The lass was a wee thing, and her husband was a big bull of a man. Rory was afraid the birth of their bairn could kill the lass. He wasn’t likely to be willing