The Laird's Captive Wife by Joanna Fulford

work.
    ‘You had the chance to run back there,’ he continued. ‘Why didn’t you?’
    It was a good question, she thought, and hard to answer. Yet in that split second when the choice was offered she could not leave this man to die. ‘Let’s just say I owed you one.’
    ‘Maybe so, but this doesna make us quits.’
    Ashlynn’s hands paused in their task. ‘By that you mean Fitzurse.’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘For what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry he escaped.’
    ‘Ach, well…I’ll meet up with him again.’
    ‘To settle that score you mentioned?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    She hesitated a little. Then, ‘May I ask what manner of score?’
    ‘That need not concern you.’
    The sudden coldness in his tone was jarring. ‘I beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to pry.’
    Iain frowned, annoyed with himself for snapping like that but somehow the words had just come out. A verbal reflex, he thought ruefully. Even to his ears it had sounded boorish. He gritted his teeth. ‘Forget it.’
    It was as close to an apology as she was going to get. Ashlynn kept her face determinedly neutral while her hands spread salve on the wound. ‘I cannot. It was thanks to me he escaped.’
    He sighed and when he spoke this time the sharp edge was gone. ‘It wasna your fault, lass. What happened that day was typical of the man.’
    She laid a clean pad over the cut. ‘I have never met anyone more evil.’
    ‘Pray you never do.’
    He watched as she began to bandage the arm. Once or twice her fingers touched his skin, a pleasing touch that was both gentle and unexpectedly sensual and sent his thoughts in forbidden directions. With an effort he brought them back.
    When she finished tying the bandage he flexed the arm experimentally. ‘You’ve done a good job.’ He glanced down at the pot of salve. ‘Allow me to return the favour.’
    Drawing nearer he reached out and brushed the stray wisps of hair from her face in a gesture that was both casual and oddly intimate, like the warm musky smell of his skin. In an instant it evoked the memory of the hayloft and that sudden startling kiss and her breathing quickened.
    With great care he applied a little of the soothing balm to her bruised cheek, smoothing it lightly across the bone. Thence he moved to the cut on her lip, his touch as delicate as a butterfly wing. Having applied the balm he scrutinised his handiwork.
    ‘That will suffice I think. In a few more days the marks will fade.’
    Before she could reply their host appeared with a tray of food and Iain stepped away from her to greet him. Glad of the distraction she replaced the lid on the salve and tossed away the dirty water. When Iain turned back again she had herself under better control.
    ‘Time to eat, lass.’
    The food was simple fare, bread and vegetable pottage, but it lined the stomach and warmed the body. By the time they had done it was dark and the only thing to do was retire. Iain spread a thick layer of clean straw in the only empty stall and then turned to Ashlynn.
    ‘Again, I regret the basic nature of the arrangements.’
    She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    True enough, she thought, it really didn’t. One place was much like another now. Wrapping herself in her cloak she lay down. Iain retrieved his sword and unsheathed the blade. Then he too stretched out, laying the naked weapon beside him, the hilt by his hand. Having done that, he glanced across the intervening space and bade her goodnight.
    He heard her reply and then the rustling of straw as she turned on her side. He had noticed that she always slept on her side. Drawing his cloak tighter he turned over too, taking care not to jar his injured arm. In truth he hardly felt it now. She had done a good job in tending him. More than that, he thought, but for her timely intervention today he’d likely have been food for the crows. No question but the lass had courage. She could have left him to die and seized the chance of freedom. Why hadn’t she?