“Oh.” She looked into his eyes. “That is good news.” She blinked and gave him a half-smile. “That you do not kill women and children—not that you are a killer.”
He had the urge to smile at her. Hell.
“I like how you speak,” she said with a sudden smile before Tristan could tear his gaze away. She closed her eyes. “Aboot.”
He blinked at her. “I dinna sound like that.”
She didn’t open her eyes but laughed and nodded her head. “Aye, you dooo.”
He gave her a short laugh and then thought about what she must be going through and she could still find it in herself to be lighthearted.
He took another sip of his tea, and then cursed himself silently and went to her in the grass.
Crouching behind her, he lifted her hooded head into his lap. “Here now, drink some of this,” he said in a low voice.
She opened her eyes and drank. “Mmm, lemony.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see him behind her. “Drink.”
He tried to remember what his cousin Elias’ wife, Lily, had told him about the illness when it had attacked her village of Sevenoaks last summer. Most often, people who died, died quickly, sometimes even overnight. On the other hand, some, like Elias, recovered just as quickly. How long had this lass been sick before he found her?
“What…” She sipped. “What are you called?”
No. He didn’t want to tell her his name. He already regretted telling her that he was a killer.
“Lass, d’ye feel better than ye did yesterday, or worse?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, then replied, “I felt worse earlier, but a bit better now.”
Good. Good. He was glad. She would likely live then. How did that change his plans? He could leave her in the night. Hopefully, she’d be better in the morning.
He let her finish the tea and then moved away from her. He thought about why he so foolishly went so close to her without his mask. It wasn’t simply because her gaunt, ashen face was bonny. He was no stranger to beautiful women. He simply thought that if God saw fit to take him when he doing something good for a change then who was he to argue?
Being so close to her, he hadn’t been able to help but notice the slight curve of her nose and the fullness of her dry peach lips.
She closed her eyes and he closed his. No sense in thinking the sight and the sound of her was pleasing to him. He wasn’t sticking around.
“You will not leave me, will you?” she asked over the crackling flames. “My uncle left me and I…I do not know my way.”
Tristan opened his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Who is yer uncle? He deserves my sword.”
“I just want to go home.”
This just kept getting worse.
“Verra well,” he promised with a curse under his breath. “If ye make it, I will take ye home. Where d’ye live.”
“Dumfries,” she told him softly.
“Ye are fortunate,” he said, turning over. “I am headin’ there.”
Chapter Three
Rose dreamed of flames. They were everywhere. They covered her, licking and searing her flesh. She screamed and screamed but no help came. She smacked the flames on her skirts, trying to put out the fire.
And then he was there, pulling her away, speaking to her.
“Lass, ye’re dreamin’. Wake up.” He gave her a little shake.
She opened her eyes and sat up. Her arms were free from the Highland plaid and she stopped slapping at her legs and turned to cling to him just before dawn began to break. Her heart raced. Would she ever breathe normally again? She never thought she would be as afraid as she had been when she was eight. But yesterday, or the day before that—she wasn’t sure how many days had passed, she was. This time, she was older and she knew what to expect. She hadn’t had enough strength to move to save herself.
She had never felt so hopeless.
Oh, but then his voice rang out. Cease!
He’d saved her life, her sanity. He’d tossed her over his shoulder, snatching her from the jaws of torture and death. He wasn’t afraid of the Black Death. He was mad in his gloriously handsome head.
“Yer fever has broken, lass. ’Tis good news.”
His voice was like heavy silk across the back of her head. Her hood had come down when she sat up. He spoke into her hair.
“Does that mean I’m not going to die?”
“Aye, I believe so.”
She looked up at him but she couldn’t see too much in the dim light. No matter, his face was emblazoned on her soul. His eyes most especially, not because of their vivid green color, but mostly because of the shadows the flare of his dark brows cast over them. His hair was black with thick, glossy curls he tried to keep out of his eyes by raking his fingers through it. When he’d held the apple slices to her mouth, she’d found her gaze constantly on his lips. They were full and pouty and surrounded by a dark shadow of facial hair.
He was a scowler. Emma told her about scowlers. They enjoyed being angry. Usually, they weren’t pleasant to be around.
But he was.
She realized he hadn’t told her his name before. Was it because he killed men for coin? She didn’t care what he did for coin. She owed him her life. “What are you called?”
“Ye look better,” he said as soft as the breeze.
“You cannot see me,” she teased with a smile.
“I’m lookin’ straight at ye,” he insisted and as if to prove it, brushed away the lock of hair that had fallen over her eye.
As he did, the sun began to make its lazy ascent. It cast him in soft, golden light and made her
