Beyond the Ballroom by Marie Patrick

Author:Marie Patrick [Crimson Romance]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: F+W Media
Published: 2015-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Colin plucked at the coverlet impatiently. He’d been abed for two days with nary a sign of fever or infection. He’d nae suffered more than a mild headache for a short time. The healer had declared him blessed with God’s own luck then insisted he remain abed until the arrow wound began to scab over.

To enforce the healer’s edict, Sorcha had taken away all his clothing, save for the one nightshirt he wore. But she didna deny him visitors, and he’d nae been forced to eat the pap that had been served to him in his first days as Brice.

He’d been glad enough to rest and think that first day. His body ached as if he’d been three days in battle. And he was now certain of one thing. He could trust Sorcha with his life. She could have killed him or left him for dead. As it was, because of her, he suffered but a few aches and pains. Worse than those was determining who was in the greatest danger: himself, Sorcha, or both, and where that danger came from.

The thought of Sorcha dead chilled him. He’d nae recognized her importance to him because he’d been dithering over her possible guilt as a traitor when he should have believed in her. ʼTwas wildly unlikely that she arranged to be shot at or threatened with being trampled to death just to throw off suspicion. No, he was as certain as he could be of her innocence and had much to apologize for. ʼTwould be good to speak frankly and be able to talk over events with her.

As if he’d called her, Sorcha walked into the room at that moment. She carried a stack of folded clothing, which she set on the corner of the bed.

His brows lifted. “Are those for me?” He felt like a child receiving a boon for good behavior.

“Aye.” She smiled at him. “Your wound is healing rapidly, and the healer says you are better about your business than abed.”

“I’m glad she’s finally being practical.” He spoke from inside the tunic he’d pulled over his head.

Sorcha ignored the remark and took up her perpetual stitchery.

“I must apologize for doubting you.” He sat and pulled on his hose.

Cloth, thread, and needle slipped from her grasp as her head jerked upward. “What did you say?”

“I said I apologize for doubting you.” Breeches followed hose.

She gave her head a shake. “I can scarce believe you admit to being wrong.”

He ground his teeth. She had every right to exact penance, but he did nae have to like it. “’Tis nae something I am proud of; please say you forgive me.” He wrapped his belt around his waist.

She bent, picking up her sewing. “I forgive you for not trusting me.”

He narrowed his gaze at her as he cinched his belt. “Your tone implies you believe I have other apologies to make.”

“I do,” she said calmly. She kept her gaze on her stitches. “But I am happy with one miracle in a day.

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