She looked at him with her eyes still watering and her face still carrying the heat of the smoke, and she said, very quietly, “You came.”
He looked at her for a moment.
“Aye,” he said. “I came.”
Alasdair pulled Isobel to his chest and pressed her there. He stroked her hair and whispered silent prayers. He thanked Heaven for preserving Isobel and rejoiced at seeing her whole and unscathed. As she pulled in one shuddering breath after the other, Alasdair rocked her back and forth and promised himself that he would never allow anything or anyone to threaten her so ferociously ever again. But Alasdair was a realistic man. He comprehended that there were things in life which lay out of his control; however, when it came to Isobel…his bride-to-be…Alasdair swore on his title, his dirk, and his very own life that he would move mountains to keep his lady safe. He would not let fire, wind, water, or foes in any form to tear her from him.
Chapter Seventeen
She came back to herself slowly. A sense of warmth greeted her first, then the smell of woodsmoke. That was followed by the awareness of a body that ached in places she had not expected. The blanket over her was heavier than her own. The pillow carried a scent she did not recognize, cold air and leather. The crackle of a fire reached her from somewhere nearby, low and steady and contained.
She opened her eyes.
Stone walls older than her chamber. A tapestry she had never seen, dark figures in a hunt. A fire burning in the grate, and beside the bed, close enough that she felt the air shift when he moved, Alasdair.
He was kneeling on the floor beside her, a damp cloth in his hands and a basin near his boot, gazing at her face. He had looked at her many times over the past weeks, but not like this—not without the council chamber, the clan, and the weight of his authority behind it. He went still when her eyes opened.
“Rest yerself, Isobel,” he said softly.
She tried to speak, and her throat caught on the rawness of it. Somehow, the smoke was still trapped deep in her lungs, and the sound that came out was not a word. He shook his head once.
“If it hurts, daenae try to speak.”
He pressed the cloth to the side of her neck, and she felt the coolness move through the heat still resting in her skin. His hand was large and gentle, and she looked at his face while he worked. The crease between his brows. The set of his jaw. He was looking at her throat, her collarbone, and the places the smoke had touched, checking each spot carefully before moving onto the next.
He pressed the cloth to her jaw and rested his fingers there, and she felt the warm weight of them. In response, her pulse jump against them.
He is taking care of you,she told herself.That is what this is.
“The library,” she managed.
“The far wall.” He kept his eyes on what his hands were doing. “The shelves. Most of it is gone.”
She thought of the worn spines, the verse collection with the faded inscription inside the front cover, and the distinct smell of that room on a rainy afternoon. She felt the loss quietly and from a distance because the more immediate thing was his fingers still at her jaw and the fact that she had not taken a full breath in several minutes.
“Ye said it was the candle,” he said.
“It must have been.” She swallowed against the rawness. “I don’t remember it clearly. The ceiling buckled, and then I couldn’t stand, and then…” She stopped. “And then you were there.”
He was quiet. His hand had not moved from her jaw.
“Aye,” he said at last.
He sank back into his chair and looked at her, and she looked back at him, neither of them speaking. The fire settled with a small, gentle sound. Outside, the castle was quiet in that late-night hush which indicated that the halls were empty, and the servants were long ago tucked in bed. She suddenly realized how far she was from her own chamber and how little she minded that fact.
“The weddin’,” he said, drawing her attention back to him. “I’m goin’ to postpone it. Until ye’re well.”
“No,” she rushed to interpose. “Everything is planned. All is ready. We must have the ceremony.”
“Ye nearly died in me library.”
“I didn’t.”
“Isobel.” The way he said her name had weight to it; she felt it from her collarbone down through her chest.
“My father’s name rests on this arrangement,” she said. “His standing. His debts. I am not going to undo all of that because I inhaled too much smoke.” She pushed herself upright against the headboard and felt the room tilt and then settle. “I am perfectly capable of taking my vows.”
He was on his feet before she had finished, hands at her shoulders. “Careful.”