Free Highland Surrender by Dawn Halliday Page B

where I had access to certain resources.”
    “How?”
    “I was employed as a maid at King’s College. Everything I required was available to me there.” She remembered those quiet nights, fervently reading “borrowed” works of Galen, Aristotle, Hippocrates, and many others by the light of tallow candles. Those days hovering in the background and pretending not to listen to the professors reading their lectures.
    “What did you find?”
    “Learned men who’d traveled to Arabia and India and beyond. I read books by esteemed scholars that taught me, among other important facts, that spirits aren’t wise for the sick to ingest.”
    “Ah, well, I’m not sick,” he said in triumph.
    “You must remain strong, my lord. Spirits weaken the body, render it unable to fend off the ill humors.”
    Cam’s lips twisted. “Well, then, what would be wise for me to ingest?”
    “Heavy cream. Boiled cow’s blood. Sowans—whisky free, of course.”
    He made a disgusted face, and she laughed. “Don’t fret—I’ll not force you to drink anything you find offensive. The force of the vomiting would be more costly than the benefits supplied.”
    “Good.”
    She gazed down at him. “We must get you onto the bed. Now, why didn’t you allow the men to help you move?”
    “Because I can do it myself.”
    She placed fisted hands over her hips and cocked her head at him. “Is that so? Show me, then.”
    With tight lips, he awkwardly shimmied onto the other side of the bed. Resisting the urge to help, she stood still and watched him as he painfully made his way off the stretcher. He finally sank onto the pillows.
    “There.”
    “You’re sweating.”
    “Am I?”
    “Aye. Was it difficult?”
    “Not at all.”
    She grinned. “Good. Because this will be.” She held up the small pot she’d kept hidden in her hand.
    “What’s that?”
    “A healing medicine for open wounds. But unlike the Saint-John’s-wort salve I used this morning, this one contains spirits and stings like the very devil.”
    He closed his eyes. “So you do intend to inflict torture on me. I knew it was so the moment you cracked your knuckles.”
    “Aye. Until you are healed.”
    “Ah, well.” He released a sigh. “Better you than the surgeon.”
    “Well, I’d prefer to cure you of a wee hole in your shoulder rather than a deadly fever.”
    “I agree.” With his eyes still closed, he gave her a ghost of a smile and slumped against the cushions, apparently exhausted. “Do your worst.”
    She walked around the monstrous bed and sat on its edge, pushing away the green-and-black-striped bed curtain. It fell back down on her shoulder and she frowned up at it.
    “Tie it back,” Cam said. “There.” He gestured with his chin at the elaborately carved post at the corner. Halfway up the post and dangling from a hook was a golden rope.
    Ceana shook her head. “Decadence.”
    Cam chuckled.
    She slid her gaze to him as she wrapped the silky rope around the heavy curtain. “What’s so funny?”
    “Only you have the ballocks to say such a thing about my bed. No one else would dare.”
    She smirked. “I haven’t any ballocks.”
    “I’ve yet to see the proof of that.”
    “Aye, well. It’d be best if you never did see proof of it.” Finished tying the cord, she perched on the edge of the bed and pulled the stopper on the medicine jar.
    “Would it?” he asked quietly.
    She glanced at him. His eyes were closed. Two spots of color flared high on his cheekbones. His muscles tensed, and he lay very still, as if he waged some inner battle.
    “Aye,” she said after a pause. “It’d be better if you didn’t see me at all.”
    It was true. They both knew it. An inexplicable, impossible pull had developed between them in the hours they’d spent together since she’d found him in the forest. The harder she tried to sever it, the stronger it seemed to grow. The best solution would be to keep far away from him.
    She must cure him and return to her