“You don’t have to be heroic all the time, you know. You’ve already been quite heroic enough for one day. Dr. Gillies left a sleeping draft, if you’re in pain.”
“Nae more potions, by heaven.” With an unsteady hand, Diarmid set the empty glass of water on the nightstand. He felt ridiculously tired. And downhearted, which was mad when they’d succeeded. He’d returned the child to her mother, he’d beaten Allan Grant, he’d even emerged unscathed. Mostly.
What did Fergus call him? The white knight? If so, he’d done his duty most satisfactorily.
But the stories never said what the wandering knight did after he won through. Did he ride off with the damsel and set up a home and family, or did he go away lonely and return to his endless questing?
“Do you remember talking to Dr. Gillies about your injury?”
“Aye.” Diarmid paused. “But I was in nae state to take in what he said.”
“He believes that as long as there’s no infection, you should r
ecover full use of your arm.”
At last, Fiona reached across to take his hand. Och, that was better. The roiling discontent in his heart settled. Her touch had such power over him.
“You’re lucky,” she said.
He laced his fingers through hers. “A mere flesh wound?”
“A little more than that, but it could have been worse.” She leaned in closer, and her eyes darkened as she stared at him. “I warned you to expect trouble when you met Allan. How on earth did you let him shoot you?”
“An oversupply of confidence, damn it. I thought the danger was past. Allan had got his money, and Hamish was there to see everything stayed honest. It was madness to try and kill me at that stage. A sane man would have gathered up the cash and headed for the hills.”
“Allan wasn’t sane.” Her free hand made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I don’t mean he was a raving lunatic, but he couldn’t bear for anyone to best him. He never could.”
Diarmid forced his mind back to those chaotic seconds before the bullet hit him. Everything had a strangely unreal edge, as though he’d heard about the events, instead of lived through them. “I heard ye cry out.”
She’d called Christina’s name in a tone that would ring in his mind forever. Love and fear and longing. The sound had startled him, and he’d looked up to see his wife darting down the brae like an arrow shot from a bow.
“I couldn’t bear waiting any longer.” Her voice roughened with emotion, and he realized she wasn’t nearly as calm as she seemed on the surface.
“I ken that. When I saw you running away from the trees, I remember cursing the way ye put yourself in danger.”
“Hamish says that turning to look at me must have saved your life. That’s why the bullet entered your shoulder and not your heart.”
He found it in him to smile. “Och, lassie, and now I suppose ye want credit for the fact that treacherous bastard didnae kill me.”
Characteristic dry humor flattened her mouth. “Well, you should give praise where it’s due.”
“When I should be furious with ye for disobeying me. I was furious with ye for disobeying me.”
The amusement faded from her eyes. “Speaking of furious, how dare you give Allan ten thousand pounds for Christina?”
This was one argument he knew he’d win. “Wasnae she worth it?”
It was Fiona’s turn to look embattled. “How can I say she wasn’t? You can’t imagine how it felt to take her in my arms after a year apart and know we were free of Allan at last.”
“I can guess.”
She studied him with a serious expression, before her rare, unfettered smile lightened her features. He hoped to see that smile more often, now that she’d escaped her vile kinsman’s power.
“Yes, you probably can. But that doesn’t mean you had a right to keep secrets from me.”
He shrugged. Very briefly. He kept forgetting that he'd just had a bullet cut out of his shoulder. A flash of agony radiated through him and had him seeing stars. As he fought the encroaching darkness, he inhaled on an audible hiss.
“Diarmid, I hope you haven’t opened your wound again.” Fiona sounded cross. He didn’t mind, because at last she perched on the edge of the bed and slid her arms around his waist. “For heaven’s sake, be careful.”