Free Highland Storm by Ranae Rose Page A

Stitching? She shuddered. Her hand had stopped bleeding back in the forest. Surely it didn’t need to be sewn shut. Her stomach threatened to empty itself of the cake and tea she’d downed just at the thought.
    Mrs Mary took Isla’s hand and examined it with as much care as she’d shown her foot. “I dinnae think it needs stitchin’,” she finally said.
    Isla breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs Mary gently washed the dirt from her hand with the warm cloth. “What about your hand, Alexander?” she asked. “And…and your chest wound.”
    She hadn’t forgotten the sight of blood dripping from his wrist and fingers as he handed her his dirk, nor what she’d done to him with her own knife. Her heart ached at the thought, as much for his selflessness as her own horror at his willingness to let her slaughter him.
    “Och, it isnae anythin’ serious,” he said, much more flippant about his own wound than he had been about Isla’s. She was touched by his concern, but also worried by his nonchalance. Though his hand hadn’t bled for long, she could still see crimson streaking his fingers in her mind’s eye. The spring water had clouded with red when he’d dipped his hand in it, leaving a visceral token of his presence as he washed himself.
    Fortunately, Mrs Mary would not be dissuaded from looking. “T’would be hard to keep the stiches from poppin’ out,” she said thoughtfully, examining the long, neat cut that crossed his palm, deeper than the cut across the side of Isla’s hand. “But I dinnae think ye truly need ‘em anyway. Just mind ye use the hand carefully, so it doesnae start bleedin’ again.” She pulled a spare length of bandage from her apron pocket and began to wind it around his hand.

    Alexander nodded wordlessly and picked one of the last cakes from the tray as Mrs Mary bound his hand. When he popped the morsel into his mouth, he started an awkward silence as he chewed.
    It was Mrs Mary who broke the quiet several moments later. “I dinnae think it will go over well,” she said earnestly, her face lined with worry. “Your marriage, that is. They’ve gone fair mad with the news downstairs, and the Lady has sent young John to tell your father.”
    Alexander frowned. “Well, tell them I’ll speak with them in the morn.”
    Mrs Mary drew breath as if to speak, but Alexander cut her off. “They mustnae disturb us tonight.” His face was stern and his eyes were as piercing as ever. Isla pitied Mrs Mary, the sole subject of his gaze.
    “Well I dinnae think that will satisfy them…” Mrs Mary began, and trailed off, appearing mildly flustered. “Och, verra well—I will tell them what you hae said.” She stood, smoothing her skirts.
    “Leave the tray, if ye dinnae mind,” Alexander said as she started from the room. Mrs Mary nodded, cast one last look over her shoulder at him and left the room.
    Alexander frowned at the door after she’d left.
    “Is something wrong?” Isla asked. She felt foolish as soon as the words left her mouth. Of course something was wrong—at least as far as the rest of the Gordons were concerned. Alexander, heir of Benstrath, had come home with a strange, temporarily crippled Forbes and declared her his wife.
    Alexander’s mind still seemed to be on Mrs Mary, and he answered Isla’s question after a brief pause. “I amnae proud of leaving her to fend them off by herself. Mrs Mary has worked here since I was a bairn, and I amnae as fond of most of my own blood relatives as I am of her. But I’ll be damned if I cannae have a night alone with my wife.”
    He turned to Isla and pulled her against his chest. She shivered as his damp clothing pressed against her skin and shift.
    “Sorry,” he said, releasing her and standing to remove his clothing.
    She watched as he stripped off his shirt, revealing arms and shoulders that still glistened faintly with dampness. Dried blood matted his dark hair where she’d cut him below his breastbone, and she cringed at the