Page 92 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

“Ye shouldnae be here.”

Roy closed the door behind him.

“I am fine,” she added.

Her voice broke upon the final word. Roy did not contradict her. He did not ask what she needed, nor offer the useless assurance that she was safe. Instead, he crossed the room and sat upon the floor beside her bed, placing his back against its carved frame.

Donaldina stared at him. “What are ye doing?”

“Sitting.”

“I can see that.”

“Then we have solved one difficulty.”

Even now, he found a way to be intolerable. It almost helped.

“Ye should leave.”

“Nae.”

“Roy.”

He rested his forearms upon his bent knees. His sword was gone, though he still wore the dark shirt and trousers from the ride. Smoke marked one sleeve. Dried blood darkened the leather at his shoulder, and a shallow cut crossed his temple where Cormac’s blade or a piece of the burning lodge had reached him. Donaldina looked at it too long.

“Ye are hurt.”

“So are ye.”

“I am nae.”

Roy’s eyes lifted to hers. She felt the lie collapse between them. Another tremor moved through her. Donaldina turned away sharply, ashamed that he witnessed it. Her body failed to feel fear when it might have been useful. She fought Cormac upon the horse. She counted his guards. She marked the path and stood before him in the lodge without allowing her voice to shake. Now, when there was nothing left to fight, she could not command her own hands.

“Stop,” she whispered to herself.

Roy’s voice remained quiet. “Ye need tae stop fighting yer body.”

“I am doing nae such thing.”

“Ye are attempting tae stand while yer knees can scarcely hold ye.”

“I’ve been standing successfully for many years.”

“Then one poor evening willnae destroy yer reputation.”

Donaldina glared at him. Roy did not smile. His expression held no mockery, only the grave patience which had always made her feel more exposed than cruelty might have done.

“Sit down,” he urged.

Her legs shook again. Donaldina sat upon the edge of the bed because she chose to do so, and not because Roy MacIver had suggested it. The distinction mattered.

Roy remained upon the floor beside her. He was near enough that she could touch him by lowering one hand, yet he did not reach for her.

“Breathe,” he said.

“I am breathing.”

“Poorly.”