Highlander Claimed. Juliette Miller

into the small space.

      “Brother,” said the laird, touching his hand to Wilkie’s forehead. “We’re taking you home.” Rigid concern lent a stern severity to the laird’s bold features as he exchanged looks with Kade. “He’s burning.”

      Kade lifted the blanket I’d placed over Wilkie’s chest, pulling it down to reveal the lightly bandaged wound. He peeled this back, and each of them drew a quick intake of breath.

      “You sewed this, lass?” the laird asked me.

      “Aye.”

      “Not a bad job of it,” Kade commented.

      Wilkie stirred, his head rolling from side to side. “Roses,” he said, quite clearly, though his eyes were still closed.

      “He’s delirious,” said the laird. “Let’s move him to the litter.”

      “Roses,” Wilkie called out, louder this time.

      Kade watched his brother, then his gaze slid to me. “What did you say your name was?”

      “Roses,” I said quietly.

      Kade nodded his head toward Wilkie in a curt, commanding gesture: I was being granted permission—or being ordered, perhaps—to go to him. I crawled over to Wilkie. I whispered in his ear, not caring if I was overheard, “I’m here, warrior.”

      He settled instantly. His eyes opened, and he blinked several times as though struggling to keep them open. He reached up to lace his hand under my hair, around the back of my head. “Ah, lass. Such a beautiful dream, you are. Kiss me again.”

      The laird looked less than pleased by the exchange, but he was studying his brother’s reaction with interest, obviously relieved to find him alive.

      “’Tis time for you to go home,” I said softly. “Your brothers have come for you.”

      “Stay with me, Roses,” he said drowsily, and it wasn’t a question.

      I glanced at the laird, whose attention was directed at me. Would he allow it? His eyes followed Wilkie’s hand as it stroked through my hair, then fell at his side.

      “Aye,” said Laird Mackenzie. “You’ll come. Let’s go.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      I WAS NOT ONLY ALLOWED but also expected to remain at Wilkie’s side, as he was taken to his chambers and treated by the healer.

      His chambers were large and, as expected, luxurious. Heavy furs hung at the windows to protect against the night breeze, which was becoming more biting with each passing day. A fire had been laid in a grand stone fireplace and crackled pleasantly, casting orange light. Wilkie’s bed was supported by four vertical carved wooden beams that reached to the ceiling and were hung with thick embroidered curtains, pulled back now, so the healer could attend to his injury.

      I took my place in a chair by the fire as Wilkie’s attendants inspected and cleaned his wound. I was so exhausted, I could have slept in the hard wooden seat. My eyelids felt heavy, and I struggled to keep myself from drifting.

      Kade and the laird hung back, watching the healer attend to their brother. In a flurry of commotion, two younger women rushed through the door, frantic with the news of Wilkie’s return. His sisters, it was easy to see, with their dark hair and blue eyes.

      “Wilkie,” one of them gasped, pressing her hand to his brow. “He’s fevered,” she said.

      “He’s alive, and home,” said the other sister, “and strong as an ox. He’ll be fine.” She adjusted his furs with extreme care, fussing over him.

      I envied him, his family close around him, wrenching concern etched onto their faces.

      The slightly taller sister, whose hair was as black as Wilkie’s, addressed the healer. “Effie, how severe are his injuries?”

      “Quite severe,” replied Effie. “Who stitched this?” she asked the laird.

      “’Twas the lass here,” the laird said. “Roses.” All eyes moved to me, but I was too tired to take much notice of their scrutiny, which soon shifted back to Wilkie.

      Effie gave a noise that suggested she was mildly impressed. “It can remain in place. The wound itself has begun to heal. In fact, the quick stitching probably saved his life. ’Tis a nasty wound indeed.” She cleaned and bound Wilkie’s torso, then she prescribed a drink of cooled willowbark tea, which she scooped from a pot with a wooden goblet.

      But when the women tried to hold his head to make him drink, he swiped the goblet away, sending it flying across the room where it struck the stone wall.

      “You must take the drink, Wilkie,” Effie instructed him in a loud voice, as though he was deaf rather than fevered. But when they tried again, his reaction was even more violent, and his body began to thrash in agitation as he groaned with the pain of his own unrest.

      “Roses,” the laird said, signaling for me to go to Wilkie. “You try.”

      Uneasy under the room’s collective gaze, I walked to Wilkie’s bed. He lay in the middle of the expanse, so I had to climb up to sit next to him. I put my face close to his. “Warrior, you must drink. Let me hold the cup for you. It will cool your throat.”

      He turned his face toward me but didn’t open his eyes. “Ach,” he barely whispered, a slow smile touching his mouth. “My angel has come to me.”

      Effie handed me the goblet. I held Wilkie’s head, lifting him until his lips touched the rim. “Here it is. Take your drink, warrior,” I crooned. “That’s it, and a little more.”

      He drank until the cup was empty.

      “Stay with me,” he said drowsily. “Right here, where I can feel you.”

      “Aye, warrior.”

      I laid his head back on his pillow, more peaceful now. I made a move to slide off the bed, but Wilkie looped a large, muscular arm around my waist, pulling me against him. I tried to pry his fingers gently loose, attempting to unwrap his arm from around my hips where I lay practically on top of him. But Wilkie immediately began to protest, pulling me back to him and securing his hold around me, even more tightly. Through the haze of his fever, he murmured my name and other words of endearment that brought heat to my face, and elsewhere. The laird and Kade noticed my blush, which only worsened its effect.

      I leaned up to Wilkie, whispering assurances close to his ear that I was still here, that I wouldn’t leave him. He quieted and loosened his hold, allowing me to sit. But I was still locked decisively in his ironclad grip.

      “He requires rest,” announced Effie. She contemplated my placement next to Wilkie and the entwined clasp of our fingers. “The lassie looks dead on her feet. Would you like me to find a bed for her, Laird Mackenzie?”

      Wilkie’s words were slurred but quite emphatic for a man infirmed. “She’ll sleep here. With me.”

      At this, Kade chuckled quietly.

      But the laird did not appear to be quite as amused. “She can sleep in the women’s chambers, and be brought to you on the morrow.”

      This information appeared disagreeable enough to rouse Wilkie momentarily from his fugue. His eyes barely opened, and his voice was husked with illness, but he spoke clearly enough to be understood. “I need her. She keeps the darkness at bay.”

      “Wilkie,” said the laird, and his voice was firm, as though he was confident he could talk some sense into his delusional brother. “Be reasonable. The lass is neither a figment of your imagination nor is she a captive. In fact we know next to nothing about who, indeed, the lass is—a mystery I aim to get to the bottom of as soon as she is rested. She’ll sleep in the extra bed in Christie’s chambers and we can all meet and discuss what’s to be done in the morning. Now—”

      “Nay!” Wilkie’s