"Dinnae fret, lass," Fraser said as she and Gay paused on the other side of the bed. "He will heal."
"Aye, I think he will." Ilsa smiled a little. "I just hope that, when he wakes, he hasnae forgotten me again."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Diarmot slowly opened his eyes. He felt as if he had been trampled by a warhorse. In fact, he felt very much as he had when he had finally regained his senses after the near-fatal beating of a year ago. There was one immediately evident difference this time, however. He remembered everything.
Cautiously, he turned his head to look at the woman sleeping at his side. She was fully dressed and sprawled on top of the blankets. A few scratches and a bruise marred her fair skin and the shadows of exhaustion tinged the skin beneath her eyes. He looked down at the delicate hand resting upon his arm and saw a few more scratches and cuts, remnants of her valiant struggle to help save him. The sight of her upon the ledge with him had not been a dream, he thought.
She must have found him and run for help. All too aware of how he had treated her since her abrupt arrival at Clachthrom, he had to wonder why she had bothered.
His wife, he thought as he looked at her face again, admiring the thick curl of her dark lashes.
Passionate little Ilsa Cameron, now MacEnroy. Diarmot could now recall most all that had passed between them before hard fists had pounded those memories into some dark hole in his mind. He had tried to resist her allure because of her passionate nature, only to revel in that same nature once he had lost the battle to hold her at a distance. Their farewell was clear in his mind, their lovemaking as well as his promises to be with her again.
How it must have hurt her when he did not return, did not even send word. He winced to think of all the ways he had hurt her since she had appeared in the church. Diarmot thought it was just his luck that, when he would like to suffer a loss of memory, he could not. It was no wonder she had spoken no words of love since their marriage. He would not be surprised to find he had succeeded in killing all the love in her heart.
Tentatively, he moved his other arm so that he could place his hand over hers. Despite the aches and pains he felt, he could still move and that was a relief. He was battered but not broken. That meant he would not be helpless for long. Soon he could renew his search for this shadowy enemy who had tried so hard to kill him and Ilsa.
But, what to do about Ilsa, he wondered as he watched her begin to awaken.
Diarmot now understood why she stirred his blood, why he had often needed to remind himself not to trust her, and why, despite all his efforts to keep her tucked away in some remote corner of his life, he had become more and more entangled with her. His mind may have forgotten her, but not his heart. It was no wonder he had spent so much time confused and frustrated. When she finally opened her eyes, he smiled at her and tried not to be hurt by the wariness that darkened her expression.
"How do ye feel?" Ilsa asked, not sure what she should read into his almost tender expression.
"As if someone staked me to the ground and a score of heavy lads danced a reel on top of me," he replied.
Ilsa smiled briefly. "We didnae think anything was broken."
"Nay, I am fair sure I am still in one piece. Tis just a verra battered piece. How do ye feel?"
Before Ilsa could reply, there was a rap at the door. She quickly went to open it, both relieved and slightly disappointed when Geordie entered. Diarmot would no doubt welcome the man's assistance. Although a part of her wanted to stay and explore this apparent change in Diarmot's demeanor, another part wanted to flee from the chance that she would see more than there was and make a fool of herself. She decided to listen to her cowardly side and, murmuring a few vague remarks about needing a bath and a meal, she fled the room. The soft look in Diarmot's eyes had given her hope, but she had felt hope before only to have Diarmot crush it. It was far past time that she gained some sense of caution.
"Astonishing what a clean body, clean clothes, and a full belly can do for a mon," said Diarmot, leaning back against his plumped-up pillows while Geordie tidied the room.
Geordie nodded, paused to look at Diarmot, and scratched at the black-and-gray beard stubble upon his somewhat prominent chin. "What is a wonder is how a knock upon the head can bring back the memories stolen by a knock on the head."
"Aye." Diarmot grimaced. "Some, but nay all, nay yet. Still, I have some apologies to make, especially to my wife."