Warrior's Last Gift(8)

            But this was different. Eymer was gone and she had no need to impress him any longer and yet, here she was, risking her life to fulfill his final wish. That spoke of real love to him, epitomized by the little herb-filled pillow she’d so carefully stitched.

            Eric rolled to his side, gazing across the fire’s embers to where Jeanne lay, an unmoving bundle of woolens and fur.

            No, there would be little in the way of sleep for him this night. The strange pressure in his chest and throat would see to that.





Chapter Four



Work through it, Jeanne’s mother had always told her. And so she would, even if it meant rising after only a few hours.

            Not that she had slept well. Not with him lying only a few feet away from her.

            She hoisted the heavy kettle of water over the fire and straightened, one hand to her aching back. Her legs trembled with the exertion but she was determined to keep moving. Work would keep her mind busy, and a busy mind was the only way to keep him out of her thoughts.

            As if it were beyond her ability to control, she glanced to where Eric slept. Apparently he’d tired himself out in yesterday’s arduous trek, which, she had no doubt, he’d hoped would convince her to turn back.

            She smiled to herself and dumped oats into the bubbling water, letting the aroma bathe her face with its steamy goodness.

            Eric had seriously underestimated her. Nothing would prevent her setting that little boat out to sea. After all she’d been through in the past year and a half, she’d grown strong enough to face any hardship.

            She dropped a handful of dried herbs and berries into the pot and stirred, her gaze drawn once again to the other side of the fire. Even still, the sight of Eric lying there tugged at her heart and stoked a fire low in her belly.

            It was more than just how strong and handsome he was. It was the memory of his former kindness, his tenderness, the feel of his hands on her bare skin . . .

            “Oh, pardie!” she whispered, turning her full attention back to the bubbling pot.

            She could not do this to herself.

            Eric was also stubborn to a fault, and so dedicated to his work that nothing and no one—certainly not she!—could ever compete with his service to his laird.

            Again she dipped her head over the pot, breathing in the aromatic steam, forcing away the tormenting thoughts of what might have been.

            • • •

The savory aroma of porridge awoke him. Eric stretched under the weight of the woolens and furs that covered him and turned on his side to watch Jeanne bustling around the fire pit.

            That she’d managed to get the fire going and cooking started without waking him was proof of his inability to get a decent rest last night, in spite of his exhaustion. He could thank her for that.

            She leaned over the pot she stirred, inhaling the steam as it wafted up to bathe her face, heating her cheeks with a rosy glow.

            He remembered another time he’d watched her do the same thing. His memory transported him from a cold winter’s morn to a warm summer’s eve. He had been responsible for the glow in her cheeks that evening. She’d cooked for him, wearing nothing but a flimsy shift that had later fallen from her shoulders at the urging of his eager fingers.

            Those fingers trembled now as he scrubbed them over his face. He would not go there again. He couldn’t allow his mind to wander down such a painful path.

            “You should have wakened me,” he growled, throwing back his covers.

            Jeanne gasped and dropped her spurtle into the pot, as if she’d completely forgotten she wasn’t alone.

            “Oh, bother,” she muttered, plunging her fingers into the pot to retrieve the utensil and hissing as the hot porridge enveloped her skin.