“Mothers cry, warriors don’t,” Lachlan whispered to Samuel, who then sniffled his tears away.
Zia nodded to Addie, who had returned with a caldron of water. She instinctively understood, and after depositing the small caldron by the hearth, wrapped a consoling arm around the woman and led her to a table where she could comfort her and keep her from upsetting the lad.
Honora joined her in consoling the woman, while Cavan stood by, watching Zia.
Artair returned with everything she needed, and with Lachlan’s help—the lad refusing to let go of him—she got the blood cleaned off while brewing leaves in hot water. The drink would put Samuel to sleep, sparing him the pain while she stitched his head.
She worked diligently, keeping in mind all that her grandmother had taught her and what she had learned herself through trial and error. She had to cut hair away from the wound so she could see it more clearly. Her grandmother had taught her that the wound was less likely to become poisonous that way.
It took about an hour to finish, and that included washing the lad clean of all the blood and giving instructions to the mother, though Zia would see to the bandage herself, making sure it was kept clean.
Lachlan carried the child back to the woman’s cottage. The father was out on sentinel duty and would not return until morning, when the next shift took over.
Cavan approached Zia as she began to clean up. “You are no witch,” he said, his tone heartfelt. “You are a learned healer, and I am proud to have you as part of our clan.”
“Thank you,” Zia acknowledged with a nod, and wished she could tell him she was also proud to be part of Clan Sinclare. Unfortunately, since her marriage to Artair was a fiction, she knew she wasn’t truly part of the clan, and felt it wouldn’t be right to say anything to imply otherwise.
Cavan reached out for his wife’s hand when she approached and their fingers locked. Zia could see how much in love they were. There was no denying it—it sparkled in both their eyes—and she envied the loving couple. She wished it could be that easy for Artair and her.
“You are far better with stitches than I,” Honora said. “You keep them so uniform. Your embroidery work must be beautiful.”
Zia shook her head. “I don’t do embroidery. I haven’t the time.”
“Then I will do a piece for you,” Honora said, and Zia smiled her appreciation.
This was a wonderful and loving family, and she wouldn’t mind being part of it. She chased the thought. She was tired and didn’t need her mind forever churning with wishes and hopes and dreams that might never see fruition. And it bothered her that she had not shared all she knew about Ronan with Artair.
She got busy cleaning, wanting to chase away her haunting thoughts, but Addie ordered her to stop.
Zia attempted to protest, but Artair prevented it.
“A servant will do that,” he said, “and I will have your healing basket returned to your cottage. You’ve done enough for tonight.”
He slipped his arm around her waist and walked her to the staircase, and she went along willingly, bidding Addie a hasty good-night.
Once in their bedchamber she fell on the bed, not even having the strength to undress. She wanted nothing more than to climb beneath the covers and sleep.
Artair loomed over her. “This time I’m not asking. I intend to undress you and tuck you beneath the covers.”
Chapter 21
Artair expected Zia to protest—she disputed just about everything—but tonight he could see she was bone-tired and needed to sleep.
She stretched a hand out to him from where she lay prone on the bed. “Hurry, or I will fall asleep while you undress me.”
He reached for her hand and gently pulled her to sit up. “Sleep. I will see you tucked safely in bed.”
“A husband I can count on,” she said, and yawned.
“Another reason to marry me.” He untied her blouse and ordered, “Arms up.”
She obeyed, though shivered when her breasts fell exposed.
Artair quickly retrieved her nightdress from the chest. He not only wanted to keep her from further chill, but wanted her full breasts and hard nipples out of sight as fast as possible, and her nightdress in place. So that when he took off her skirt, the nightdress would discreetly follow, hiding her alluring body not only from his sight, but from his mind, which was already conjuring too many lascivious thoughts.
What he didn’t count on was the softness of her skin and how once he touched her flesh he didn’t want to stop. She was soft, her skin smooth and creamy and feeling so very delicious to his touch.
His fingers grazed her breasts and the tips of her stiff nipples, and he felt as if he were struck by lightning, a sizzle racing through him, steaming his blood and tightening his loins. With a silent reproach he warned himself to behave. She was tired. Now was not the time to make love to her.