The Highlander's Forbidden Bride(40)

The answer was relatively simple though she didn’t care to think of it. Ronan’s hatred for Carissa ran deeper than his love for Hope. Otherwise, he just might be able to see the truth.

She glanced over at him, sleeping soundly and safely. It was strange that he didn’t realize that there was a part of him that trusted Carissa, or else he wouldn’t have been able to sleep so peacefully in her presence just as she did in his.

She believed that somewhere deep inside of him, his love for Hope survived. Given time, would he realize it, or was she once again clinging to an impossible hope?

She silently chastised herself for her foolishness and settled her attention on the flames. The stew would be finished soon, Ronan would wake, and they would eat supper. She should rest instead of dwelling on her troubles.

She rubbed at the ache in her head and thought her brow too warm, but then she sat close to the flames. What did she expect?

She was soon asleep.





Chapter 17




Ronan woke with a slow stretch and was relieved that no pain throbbed in his head. He assumed that the stitches would be removed soon enough. The sleep had served him well, and he was starving. And recalling his conversation with Carissa, there now was a good chance they’d be leaving the cottage soon. He’d finally be going home, and this matter would be brought to justice.

He didn’t need to look far to find her. She was asleep in the rocking chair, her head lolled to the side, her feet tucked under her and her hands limp in her lap. Her cheeks were flushed, and she appeared fast asleep.

He stared at her, unable to stop himself from wondering. Could Hope possibly reside within her? Was there a chance that the woman he loved actually lived? The idea sent a spark of yearning shooting through him. Then, as if emerging from a dream, he realized the foolishness of his thought. Carissa was who she was. There never had been a Hope, there never would be.

He sat up, swinging his long legs off the bed and accidentally hit the rung of her chair, sending it rocking.

She jumped, startled, and glared at him, her eyes like wide, round saucers. “Are you all right?”

“Better than I was,” he admitted, “and hungry.”

She rubbed the back of her neck as she slowly stood and found her footing. “The stew should be ready.”

Ronan watched her as she moved across the room, her hand reaching out as if she required support. Then she stopped, turned to face him, and he watched as all color drained from her face.

Her hand went out to him, and she barely got his name out before her body slowly slumped.

He shot off the bed and caught her in his arms before she hit the floor. He lifted her. She weighed hardly anything, less than a sack of grain. He sat on the edge of the bed cradling her. Her face was as white as the freshly fallen snow, and he could feel the heat drifting off her body. He hesitated to touch her brow, fearful of what he would find.

Sure enough, her body was raging with fever.

She struggled to say his name. “Ronan.”

“You’re burning with fever,” he said, unable to ignore how very much she sounded like Hope, but he reminded himself yet again that there was no Hope.

“You must”—she paused for a breath—“cool me down”—Another pause.

“How?” he asked anxiously.

“The snow.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You must,” she said, her voice growing weaker. “Or would you prefer I die?”

“No,” he said stubbornly. He would not allow that to happen and realized he didn’t want her to die. The thought startled him, and he grumbled.

“Just get me outside, I’ll do–”

“Quiet,” he said, annoyed that she assumed he wouldn’t take care of her. She had rescued him, which made him beholden to her. Even if he weren’t, he couldn’t just sit by and not help her.

He stood and again was amazed by how small and vulnerable she felt in his arms, how he felt the overwhelming need to protect her. He almost laughed. Carissa needing protection? That made no sense. But then nothing of late made sense to him. All that he had believed had disappeared in an instant, and he wasn’t sure now what to believe or whom to trust.

She snuggled her face against his chest, and, feeling as if he had been branded by a hot iron, he feared her fever had worsened in the brief time since they had been talking.

He didn’t bother to retrieve his cloak, but simply yanked opened the door, walked out, and deposited her in a bank of snow that almost covered her.

She shivered. “My face.”

He scooped up a handful and gently rubbed the icy snow over her feverish brow and cheeks. He grew concerned when her lips began to tremble.

“Enough,” he said, and was ready to scoop her up.