“It’ll take as long as it takes,” Rory said dryly. “I’ll no’ ha’e her die from this wound jest because I rushed so she could talk to MacDonnell.”
“What do me husband and I need to talk about?” Saidh asked with concern, wondering if something had happened while she’d been in Lady MacDonnell’s clutches.
“Leave,” Rory said firmly, before Aulay could answer. “I need to tend to her.”
Saidh scowled at him and then said to Aulay, “Stay. Rory has me so wrapped up in linen ’tis as if I’m dressed anyway.”
“Saidh,” Rory snapped. “Take off yer dress or I’ll cut it off.”
“Well, cut it off then,” she snapped back, and then muttered, “It hurts to move much anyway.”
“Oh. O’ course it does,” Rory said, calming somewhat. “I’m sorry. I should ha’e realized.”
Saidh shrugged and glanced to Aulay in question as Rory retrieved a knife and began to cut away the top of her gown. “What did ye want to say?”
“I jest . . .” He hesitated, looking uncomfortable, and then sighed and asked, “What are yer feelings fer MacDonnell?”
Saidh stared at him blankly and then asked, “What? Why? What’re ye—?”
“I think he loves ye, lass,” Aulay interrupted, looking truly uncomfortable now.
“Aye,” Saidh said.
Aulay raised his eyebrows. “Aye? That’s it? Aye?”
“What else should I say?” she asked with a frown. “ ’Tis no’ a surprise. He already told me that.”
“Oh.” He looked surprised and then asked. “And what did ye say?”
“Nothing,” she admitted.
“The man tells ye he loves ye and ye say nothing?” Dougall growled, looking horrified.
“Well, I did no’ get the chance to say anything,” she snapped. “It was while we were talking to Bowie and—”
“All right, all right. Do no’ fash yerself,” Aulay soothed, glancing toward Greer. Following his gaze, Saidh saw that her husband had stopped pacing and was eyeing them suspiciously from across the room.
“ ’Tis no wonder he’s so fashed,” Dougall muttered, once Greer started to pace again. “He’s declared himself and no’ yet received one in return.”
“Do ye love him, Saidh?” Rory asked curiously as he worked. He’d sliced her gown away from the waist up, but had tucked a bit of cloth over the little bit revealed of her uninjured breast she saw. Now he moved around to clean the stab wounds on her back.
“Well, do ye?” Dougall asked when she didn’t answer right away.
Saidh shrugged helplessly. “I do no’ ken. How do ye ken if ye love someone?”
Aulay considered the question and then asked, “Do ye enjoy consummatin’ with him?”
Saidh smiled faintly. “I want to punch him e’erytime he kisses me.”
“What?” Rory barked, straightening and coming around in front of her to see her face.
“Well, that’s how it feels,” she said helplessly. “O’ course, I do no’ do it. ’Tis jest that he fair makes me blood boil with his kisses and I want to . . .” She shook her head. “But I do no’ hit him and then he starts in touching and thrusting and me head fair explodes and I do no’ want to hit him anymore.”
“Ah,” Rory said weakly and moved around back of her again to return to work.
Saidh glanced to Aulay and frowned when she saw the amusement on his face. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his expression.
“So does she like it or nay?” Dougall asked, appearing uncertain.
“Aye,” Aulay assured him dryly.
“Then why does she want to hit him?” Dougall asked. “It seems an odd reaction if she’s liking it. And it can no’ be healthy fer her head to explode.”
Aulay turned to him with disbelief. “Ha’e ye e’er e’en lain with a woman, Dougall?”
“O’ course I ha’e,” he snapped. “But I ha’e ne’er wanted to hit one while doing it, and me head certainly does no’ explode. At least no’ the head on me shoulders,” he added with a grin.
“She does no’ mean she really wants to hit him, or that her head really explodes, Dougall,” Rory said with exasperation behind her.
“Well, then why did she say it?” Dougall asked with a frown.
“She means . . . I’ll explain later,” Aulay said with a grimace, and then turned back to Saidh. “Is there anything else ye like about him?”
“Oh, aye. He’s got a pretty . . . arse,” she finished, saying arse instead of face as her gaze landed on Aulay’s scars and she recalled his self-consciousness about it.
“What does it matter if his arse is pretty?” Dougall asked with disgust as Rory made a sound that might have been a laugh, or just as easily could have been a cough.
Saidh scowled and rushed on, “And I like to talk to him. He’s verra clever. I like the way he thinks. And I like when he fusses o’er me.”
“Ye do?” Rory asked with surprise, beginning to bind her waist to cover the wounds he’d just cleaned. It seemed to have gone quickly, and hadn’t been too painful, but she had been distracted.
“Ye jest get angry when we fuss,” Dougall grumbled.
“Aye, well, he does it different,” she said dryly. “He makes me feel like he cares, no’ like he thinks me weak.”
“If the castle was on fire, who would ye rescue first?” Aulay asked suddenly.
“Alpin,” she said at once. “He’s weakest.”
“No’ MacDonnell?” he asked with a frown.
Saidh snorted. “He’d already be up trying to rescue me.”
Aulay smiled slowly.
“What?” Saidh asked suspiciously.
“Ye trust that ye can rely on him,” he said simply and then turned his back and gestured to Dougall to do so as well to give her privacy as Rory began to cut away the bindings around her chest wound.
“O’ course I trust him,” Saidh said with confusion.
“Saidh,” Aulay said solemnly without turning around. “Ha’e ye e’er before met a man ye thought strong and smart and that ye could depend on?”
“Ye mean besides me husband?” she asked and when he nodded, answered promptly. “Da. You. And Dougall, Rory, Conran, Geordie, Niels—”
“Men who are no’ Buchanans,” Aulay interrupted.
Saidh considered the question. “Mayhap Sinclair. He seems a’right, but most men are puling, lackwitted—Oh,” she said with understanding.