Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) by Angeline Fortin (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

troubling behavior. Her spells of madness were only getting worse since her son’s death.

His witness had fled at the first sign of violence.

“Anyone else hae anything tae say on the matter?” He turned to his brothers, to Ceana who managed to appear mildly amused by it all considering she’d just had her brother’s death confirmed and watched her sister attempt murder.

Oran and Artair shook their heads. His cousin tossed hers. “I might say that if you’d have provided Miss Maines with gowns more suitable to evening wear, she might have had better armor against the blade. Why, a quality silk properly pleated can—”

“Anything else?” he asked, cutting her off.

“I’ll take Maeve tae Northton, Keir,” Artair offered. “Oran needn’t go. He’s tae return to university soon.”

“Nay, Artair. I need ye tae go on tae Rosebraugh, prepare for Hugh’s funeral once we’ve had Frang’s.”

He nodded. “Will we wait for Father then?”

“Aye, we’ll wait tae hear from Mathilde as well.”

“She’ll want tae hear this news,” he pointed out.

“I will write her. If there’s nothing else?”

It wasn’t so much a question as a toll ringing to bring the discussion to an end. As one, the three of them exited the drawing room, leaving Keir and Al alone.

“You have a hell of a family, my friend,” she said as he dropped down next to her.

“Al. Lass…”

How could he possibly apologize for such an appalling incident? He should have known Maeve was more unstable than he’d thought. They’d seen the signs of her madness growing over the past few months. She’d been volatile toward them all but saved her violence for Al.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“‘Twas nothing.”

Her tiny hand slid into his. “It was my life. And twice in one day, too. One more time and this might become a habit.”

She offered a smile he wasn’t quite yet willing to return.

“I wouldnae hae let her harm ye. On my own life.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say something more but what exactly escaped him. Instead, he raised her hand, pressing it to his lips. Then to his cheek as he bowed his head.

“You’re all worn out, Keir.” Her sweet voice was soft with caring, as if her ordeal were somehow insignificant compared to a long day in the saddle. “Why don’t you go to bed and get some rest?”

She truly didn’t believe herself worth caring and effort. What kind of life was there in the future where one didn’t know their own value?

“Nay, lass,” he said, lifting his head. “I’ll make sure ye’re well abed ‘ere I seek my own.”

“Will you now?” A wicked innuendo laced the words.

Now she flirted with him? He shook his head and drew away. As if he could consider loveplay when she was injured.

“The bandage ye asked for, laddie,” Archie grouched from the door, thrusting out a wad of gauze. After Keir took it from him, the old man shuffled away, grumbling and itching at his thigh.

Returning to the sofa, he folded a bit of the gauze into a square and replaced his bloodied handkerchief with it. Taking another length, he began to wind it around her arm.

Al sighed—in regret? In fatigue? “I don’t suppose you have any bacitracin or an antiseptic laying around anywhere?”

Unfamiliar with the words, he only shook his head. “What do ye need, lass? Something for the pain?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt too bad. I’m mostly worried about it becoming infected. I mean, who knows where that knife has been?”

“Ah.” He retrieved a bottle of his best Scotch from the sideboard. Making another linen square, he doused it thoroughly and pressed it against the wound beneath her bandage.

A shudder ran through her wee body. Though she didn’t make a sound, he felt her pain as if it were his own. Rewinding his work, he tied the outer bandage securely around her arm.

“I could kill her for this.”

“Oh, pooh. You wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she responded with a short laugh.

She didn’t know him at all. The rage that had swept through him would have ended with him snapping Maeve’s neck if Al hadn’t stayed his hand.

“I can’t believe she tried to stab me,” she repeated, softly now. He doubted she even knew she was expressing her disbelief aloud. “What a bitch.”

Feeling the anger boiling up within him anew, he filled a tumbler with Scotch and downed it in one swallow to douse the violent rage. He refilled it then poured another for Al and held it out to her. “Tae heal ye from the inside as well.”

She grimaced at the glass but didn’t take it. “I don’t drink hard liquor, but thanks.”

“Why is that when I ken ye drink wine and plenty of it wi’ dinner?”

“There’s nothing wrong with a glass of wine or two, but that stuff… my stepfather…”

A vague memory nearly whisked away by the high emotion of that day in the dungeon returned to him. “Ah, aye. What did ye call him?”

“A mean drunk,” she said, her voice clipped.

“That’s it. Was he…?”

She snatched the drink from his hand and thanked him briskly. “I’ll take it but only because I’m sure there aren’t many other forms of painkillers handy.”

“There’s some laudanum aboot, if ye’d care for it.”

A shudder ran through her body and she shook her head more vehemently than he thought the offer warranted. Just another question to put to her. Once she was in a better mood. Or if he ever managed to have an inquiry of a personal nature satisfied at all.

She sniffed the whiskey then sipped cautiously, wrinkling her nose so adorably a spark of humor returned to him. “I take it ye’ve ne’er been stabbed before?”

“I stepped on a nail once when I was ten,” she said, taking another sip with only marginally less nose wrinkling. “My grandma had a farm with this creek running through it. She warned me I should have worn my shoes. Personally, I don’t think it would have mattered. It punctured my foot all the way through. Eight stitches. Five on