He shushed her, running his hands along whatever skin he could reach, trying to give her all of his warmth. “Yer horse was frightened but made it across. With all its bundles, as near as we can tell. I’ll check on them for ye.”
“Thank—“ A yawn interrupted her. “Thank ye. I dinnae ken why I’m so—“ Another yawn.
He tucked her head under his chin and stretched one heavy thigh over her legs, ignoring how perfect she felt in his arms.
“Ye’ve had a battle, lass, and ‘tis nae wonder ye’re tired. That blow to yer head alone was scary—“
“I’m fine, Kester. The branch didnae hit me, just pulled me under. I likely swallowed half the river.”
Saints above, the reminder was as chilling as her hands. Unable to help himself, he examined her head with his fingers until he was satisfied in her claim; there was no lump, no blood.
Still, a near-drowning and catatonic shock from the cold was nothing to sneeze at.
As if on cue, Robena let out a mighty sneeze then sniffled and apologized.
Smiling, he kissed the top of her head. “Rest, love. I’ll be here.”
Forever.
After a while, her breathing evened in sleep and Kester decided she was sufficiently warm. And because she was sufficiently warm, his body was having a hard time remembering she’d had a near-death experience today.
Hypothermia apparently meant little to his cock, which kept insistently trying to poke her thigh.
Cursing himself, he slid from the bed then gently draped another blanket atop her mound of blankets, hoping ‘twould be enough to replace his body heat.
He took his time hanging her clothes to dry and pulling his boots back on, and finally decided he’d dallied long enough. Best get on with seeing how his future looked.
Downstairs, he found his men sitting solemnly around a table, enjoying actual stew. The innkeeper bustled up with a bowl for him, which Kester sniffed suspiciously before deciding it smelled a little like soap, and hazarded a bite.
He couldn’t taste it, nor the ale the proprietor served them all. Kester ate, but the food was heavy in his stomach.
All he could think of was the woman upstairs, and how close he’d come to losing her.
Weesil assured him Robena’s pipes were unharmed—they were barely wet—and he’d taken the liberty of arranging everything in her bundles to dry. Including, he admitted without meeting Kester’s eyes, a fine yellow silk gown and chemise.
“So, she is a lass?” Mook muttered in confusion to Giric.
The handsome man was flushing in embarrassment, which Kester might’ve found amusing had he been in a different state of mind.
“Aye, Mook,” mumbled Giric. “And we’ve spent the journey talking of our penises.”
“She sang a song about pissing on Auld Gommy! Lasses dinnae stand against bushes when they piss!”
Giric sighed and patted the big man’s arm. “Aye. ‘Tis disconcerting.”
That wasn’t the word for it.
After a subdued meal, Kester stood once more. Let his men drink themselves to sleep tonight if they’d be sleeping in the stables. He planned to spend the evening holding Robena and trying to feed her warm food.
Pudge stopped him before he could climb the stairs, holding out a packet Kester recognized.
“Gordon’s missive?” Kester opened the oiled leather envelope. “It appears dry.”
The older warrior nodded. “I thought it didnae need to spend the night in yer saddlebags, where any thief might wander by.”
Kester mutely nodded—in agreement, or thanks, he wasn’t certain—and swallowed the lump in his throat. This bloody missive wasn’t the cause of his current predicament, but ‘twas the excuse the King had needed to get him to the Games and married to Murray’s daughter.
“Will…she be aright?” Pudge hazarded.