Free Highland Storm by Tanya Anne Crosby Page A

cloth, though if he asked her nicely enough, she would make him another.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Making a pair of slippers.”
    She sounded stunned. “Why?”
    Keane cast her a pointed glance, arching a brow. “To warm your feet perchance?”
    “But why would ye do such a thing?”
    “Because ye’re cauld and mayhap I dinna wish to see you lose your toes. Now give me your foot,” he demanded, as he moved to stoop before her, holding out his hand.
    He could clearly see her pride warring with her discomfort. No doubt, it suited her not at all to be told what to do—even when it was for her own good. But at last, she relented. “Which one?”
    “The right one.”
    Untucking the left foot from beneath her gown, she gave it to him, and he nearly laughed at the contrary response. He didn’t fool himself into thinking it was for any other reason than because she meant to prove a point—that she was still in charge.
    But Keane’s smile faded the instant he inspected the soles of her feet. They were filthy to be sure, but even with so much dirt and undercover of night, he could see the open sores that had formed along her heels and along the pads of her toes. It wasn’t yet clear how far she’d come, but if he would believe her feet, they said it was far.
    Swearing beneath his breath, Keane gently brushed the pads of his fingers along the soles of her feet, trying to remove what dirt he could. Tomorrow, he would see her wash them in the burn. At the moment, it was far more important to see them warmed. He pushed up her skirt to begin binding the wool and froze at the sight of yet another bruise.
    Angry and black, it encircled her ankle like a woad bracelet. He studied the mark for an awkward moment, realizing that there was only one way she could have gotten such a bruise. But it was no way for a husband to take his wife—no wonder she’d fled.
    Liquid anger shot through his veins, though he said not a word. She was tense, waiting for Keane to remark, but he merely wrapped the wool about her foot and ankle, weaving the wool up, and folding the end above the bruise, taking care not to injure her any further.
    And then, once again, he asked for her right foot. This time, she gave it to him without any challenge and he wasted little time in wrapping that foot as well, noting an even darker bruise in nearly the same spot.
    Son of a whore.
    Keane wanted to ask how she’d received them, but he didn’t truly need answers. He knew enough to know that whatever the cause for those bruises, it had everything to do with that dress she was wearing and the bruise on her cheek. If she’d purloined the stones in her flight, well, good for her. By the gods, he would help her find the rest of her stones, and heaven help the fiend who would put a hand to a woman. Keane would break him in two.
    “Thank you,” she said, once Keane was finished with the task.
    Here, in the strange light surrounding them, her face appeared bloodless, making the bruise stand out all the more distinctly. Unable to keep himself from it, Keane reached out to touch the dark spot on her face, but she caught his hand. Their gazes met and locked.
    “How di’ ye get it?” he asked, tempering his rage.
    “More than likely from the fall I took because of you.” She shoved his hand away.
    There was no way Keane had given her that bruise. But he didn’t argue with her. She might, in fact, have a few more come morning, but the one on her cheek was already deep blue against her pallid skin. It was at least a day old. Whatever the reason for her lie, she clearly didn’t wish to share her troubles with him.
    Ye dinna expect a lass to confess herself to a man she does not know.
    It was reasonable enough, although Keane couldn’t help her much if she would not speak about it. Simply because he didn’t know her well enough did not mean he wouldn’t kill the bastard who’d dared lay a hand on her—husband or nay. A fierce sense of protectiveness surged