“No.”
“And you hadn’t just fallen down the day I found you.”
“No.”
“How did you get hurt?”
He stared at her, his sunken, bloodshot eyes unreadable, then slowly shook his head. “I’
d rather not say.” He canted his head. “How are ya at telling fibs, Catherine?”
“Fibs? What sort of fibs? And to whom?”
“Everyone. My father and Libby. The boys. And whoever else asks.” He gave her a weak smile. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m banged up. Especially my father and Libby.”
“You’re more than banged up,” she said, stepping forward and taking hold of one of his boots. “You look like hell.”
“Thank ya. But I’m more exhausted than hurt,” he said with a sigh, leaning back in the chair as she unlaced and pulled off his boot. “A shower, aspirin, and twenty-four hours of sleep, and I’ll be back in fighting form.”
“So you can go out and get in another fight?” she asked, pulling off his other boot.
“Ah, Cat,” he groaned, scratching his naked chest. “I had them outnumbered.”
“Them? You hadthem outnumbered?”
He reached out and lightly tapped the tip of her nose. “I’ll be fine, Catherine,” he said, slowly standing up.
She scrambled out of his way, scrubbing her nose with the palm of her hand.
“I’ll use the shower downstairs, if that’s okay with you,” he said, limping into the bathroom before she could answer.
Catherine was left standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the scattered clothes and drops of blood on her clean floor.
What had happened to him last night? And why didn’t he want his family to know? And them? Who in heck wasthem?
Her boss expected her to sew him up again and tell fibs. But what could he possibly be doing on that mountain at night, dressed the way he had been the first time she’d found him, and carrying a sword?
The only answer Catherine could come up with that made even a little bit of sense was that he was crazy. Either that or she was, because she was going to sew him up and then fib to everyone, because… because… darn it, because he had asked her to.
He trusted her. Yeah, Catherine decided, squaring her shoulders and absently rubbing her nose again. Robbie trusted her to keep his crazy secret.
She let out a sigh, picked up his jacket and boots and set them by the door, gathered up his shirts and socks and tossed them into the laundry room, then headed upstairs to find him some clean clothes.
When was the last time anyone, other than her children, had trusted her? Not since her parents had been alive.
She had forgotten how empowering it felt. And besides, this was her chance to show Robbie MacBain that even self-appointed guardian angels needed help once in a while.
Catherine came back downstairs carrying a clean change of clothes, wondering how tough her boss really was. The last time she’d put a needle to him, he’d been unconscious, but that wasn’t going to be the case this time. She snatched up her sewing kit as she passed through the living room and continued into the kitchen, dropping the kit on the table and going to the bathroom.
“I have clean clothes for you,” she called over the sound of the shower.
“Set them on the hamper.”
Catherine stood at the door, her hand on the knob, and tried to remember if the shower curtain was opaque or transparent.
Darn. It was both. Mostly opaque, but with clear plastic fish swimming through it. Well, shoot. She had seen every imposing inch of the man’s body six days ago. Surely she could handle another peek, couldn’t she?
Catherine slowly opened the door and, keeping her eyes glued to the floor, walked in and dropped the clothes on the hamper, then spun around to leave just as the shower shut off.
“Could you hand me a towel?”
She stopped in mid-stride, slowly turned back, and looked at the large hand reaching out past the curtain.
Breathe,she reminded herself, pulling the towel from the rack by the vanity. She stepped closer, the curtain moved, she looked up, and Robbie’s head emerged through the steam, along with one broad shoulder and half of his now clean, naked chest.
“Are there any leftovers from last night?” he asked, taking the towel and swiping it over his face and then down his chest, using both hands—which caused the curtain to fall away just enough to reveal his right hip and long, muscled right leg.
Catherine turned away. “Y—Yes. I threw together a barley soup with the leftover roast.”
He made a sound that was half groan and half anticipation. “Can you heat me up some?” he asked.
She could probably do that by holding it on her cheeks. Catherine headed out of the bathroom, but he stopped her again.
“Cat.”
“Yes?”
“Was Daniels your first?”
“M-my first husband?” she whispered.
She heard the shower curtain slide all the way open. “Your first man,” he softly clarified, standing directly behind her.
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Mr. MacBain.”
“Aye, but I do,” he said, touching her shoulder with just enough pressure to turn her around to face him. “It’s important for two people entering a conspiracy to know a bit about each other. Have you ever been in a relationship that was good, Catherine?”
“It was good with Ron. At first,” she amended, keeping her eyes focused on his so she wouldn’t look down. “Things didn’t start going bad until after we moved to Arkansas.”
She suddenly frowned. “What do you mean, a conspiracy?”
“My nighttime adventures on the mountain and your helping me keep them a secret.”
He slowly reached out and touched her hair, lifting it off her shoulder, and held it between two fingers. “Was Daniels your first?” he repeated.
It was all she could do not to back away, though Catherine didn’t know if she stood her ground because she was determined to be brave or if her knees were just too weak to move.
“I-I had boyfriends in high school.”
“I think the operative word here isman, Catherine. Was Daniels your first lover?”
What in hell did he want from her? He was dripping water and blood all over the bathroom and… and making a pass!
“Yes,” she snapped, pulling away and grabbing up his clothes. She shoved them at his chest, which caused him to lift both hands to catch them—which caused the towel he’d been holding around his waist to drop to the floor.
Catherine spun around and ran out of the bathroom.
“Cat,” he growled, stopping her just outside the door.
“What?” she growled back, still facing away.
“Just so ya know, it’s my intention to see that he isn’t your last,” he whispered, softly closing the door behind her.
Catherine stood rooted in place.
His intention?Had he just made her a promise or a threat?
Robbie stared up at the ceiling, watching the shifting shadows mark the rise of the sun, and listened to the quiet stirring below as his household prepared itself for another day.
He’d slept nearly twenty-one hours straight.
Every muscle in his body urged him to just lie still, to not demand anything of them quite yet. He ached in places he’d forgotten he had. The small, neatly sutured cut on his right hand throbbed with the rhythm of his pulse, his mouth was dry, and his eyelids felt as if they passed through sand every time he blinked.
Aye. A complaining body and a growing sense of unease was all he had to show for his second attempt to find Cùram’s tree. He didn’t even have Mary. He’d caught sight of the snowy several times, but his independent-minded pet had remained well out of reach and stubbornly silent.
He’d stayed there seven full days this time, searching both the MacKeage and the MacBain villages for Cùram de Gairn, but he might as well have been hunting a ghost.