poor husband’s back when they’d kissed on this bed. The other part though was noting that Evina’s husband had obviously been well-loved by his father-in-law, and he suspected that meant probably by Evina too. Was she still in mourning? How long ago had the husband died?
“He drowned some years back,” Fearghas added sadly as if he’d asked the question aloud. “Long enough ago I forget some days that she was ever married. And then other days I can think of little else but what happened that day. ’Twas a terrible tragedy.”
Conran returned to packing the man’s wound, but his mind was filled with Evina. She wasn’t married. She was widowed. Dear God, this changed everything. Being widowed was much better than just being unwed. It meant she was no innocent. She was a woman experienced in the bedchamber, and free to indulge in affairs if she wished. So long as they didn’t flaunt the affair too much, no one would think twice about their having one. He could stop avoiding her and start wooing her instead.
A heavy sigh drew his attention back to his patient and Conran considered him briefly. The Maclean had obviously been brought low by thinking about Evina’s husband’s death. Which made him feel like a bit of an ass for being so grateful that she was widowed. Hoping to distract him, he asked, “Are ye going to tell me how ye came by yer wound?”
“What wound?” The Maclean glanced over his shoulder with befuddlement.
“The one I am presently tending to, m’laird. On yer left arse cheek,” he said dryly as he packed the last bit of bandage into the large hole in the man’s derriere.
Snorting, the Maclean turned his head away. “’Twas no wound. The only thing on me arse was a boil that’s come and gone as it pleased for years.”
“For years?” Conran asked with disbelief. “Why did ye ne’er tend to it?”
“Well, I could no’ even see it being on me arse as it was, could I? How could I tend it?”
“Ye could have had Tildy lance it or—”
“Oh, hell, no!” Fearghas Maclean roared, interrupting him. “That lass has been trying to get a look at me arse for better than a decade. Since before me dear wife passed even. The hell if I was giving her an excuse to see and fondle me jiggly parts,” he said with affront, and then added, “Besides, ’twas a bit o’ bother when ’twas tender, but otherwise no’ a problem.”
“No’ a problem,” Conran muttered to himself with disgust, and then snapped, “It damned near killed ye, m’laird.”
“What?” The Maclean glanced around with amazement and then shook his head. “Leave off. The fevers are what near killed me, no’ a bloody boil.”
“The boil was the reason fer the fevers,” Conran growled impatiently. “Yer left butt cheek was so full o’ infection and rot when I got here I had to cut half of it away. That infection is what caused the fevers. Ye’re lucky it did no’ kill ye.”
“Ye jest!” he said, raising himself up to peer around with dismay. “All o’ this from a blasted boil?”
“Aye,” Conran said shortly.
“Well, hell,” Fearghas Maclean muttered, and flopped back on the bed again. Heaving a sigh, he said, “’Tis good ye cut it out, then.”
Shaking his head with exasperation, Conran continued his work, but then said, “I’m thinking I should send a message to Buchanan to let them ken where I am and that I’m well. They’ll be worrying about me.”
“Aye.” A frown sounded in the Maclean’s voice. “Well, we can no’ have yer family fretting. Ye write a message and I’ll have one o’ the men carry it to Buchanan fer ye right quick.”
Conran relaxed a little. He hadn’t been treated like a prisoner, but the way he’d arrived had made him wonder if they would refuse to allow him to send a message to Buchanan. He hadn’t really thought they would, but there had always been the chance. However, the Maclean was willing to send a messenger for him, so all was well.
He really should have thought to do so sooner than this though, Conran acknowledged. His brothers must be worried sick about him, he thought with a frown, and wondered if now was not the time that he should admit to the Maclean that he was actually Conran Buchanan, the fourth son, and not the sixth son and healer, Rory.
Considering how to broach the subject, he finished with the wound and then stood and moved to his