To Weave A Highland Tapestry (A Tale from the Order of the Dragon Knights) by Mary Morgan

Author:Mary Morgan [Morgan, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Time-Travel, Scottish, paranormal romance, Medieval, Winter Solstice
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press, Inc
Published: 2019-12-08T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

“Never weave your thread under tears of pain.” ~Wisdom of the Elder Weaver

Each day bled into the next as Patrick fought the tide of fever and pain. A fog of nightmares visited him during his slumber, and his waking moments were spent battling the burning within his body. How he yearned to have the cooling touch of the woman with eyes that shimmered like the grasses in early spring around his home.

On several occasions, he thought he heard her offering words of comfort, but nae, it was another and Patrick slipped back into the abyss of darkness.

“Wake, MacFhearguis, and drink.”

The order came from far away, and Patrick struggled to fight the temptation to ignore the man’s accursed talking.

“Ye cannot fall back into a slumber. ’Tis time ye rose from this bed and take sustenance.”

With great effort, Patrick fought the heaviness in his limbs and attempted to open his eyes. The room blurred, and he shut his eyes again.

“Nae! Stay with me, Patrick!”

He cracked open one eye. “Ye…ye must be worried to be calling me thus,” he stated in a strangled voice.

Angus lowered himself on the bed next to him. “Aye. I have nae wish to ride out to Leòmhann and tell your laird his brother died on my lands.”

“And in your castle,” he uttered softly, smiling.

“Drink,” urged Angus, tilting a mug toward his parched lips.

After taking a few sips of water, Patrick leaned back against the pillows. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days.”

“What?” Patrick struggled to sit and was rewarded with pain in his left shoulder. He grimaced and slumped back against the pillows.

Angus lifted the mug once again toward his mouth. “Ye should have listened to Aileen and stayed in your bed. She deems the arrow barb might have caused ye more harm. Your fever finally broke during the night.”

“I have taken worse,” grumbled Patrick.

Shrugging, Angus stood and placed the mug on the table. “Many have surrendered to a simple cut. Ye were fortunate we have able healers in Aileen and Gwen.”

Patrick rubbed a hand over his brow. Images of their heated kiss seared into his thoughts. Why did he take advantage of Gwen? Alluring, aye. But did he not promise to protect her? Even in his fevered condition, he ached to bring her onto the furs and ravish her with more kisses. He lifted his head. “The lass tended to me?”

“Day and night.”

Patrick swallowed. “Has she spoken with anyone?”

“About?”

“Where she’s from? Anything?”

Shifting his stance, Angus narrowed his eyes. “The lass has kept to herself. She took her meals in her chamber or in the kitchens. The women have tried to speak with her, but she flees the moment they talk to her about her kin or where she is from. ’Tis a secret she has nae desire to share with anyone, save one. Ye.”

Patrick glared at the man. “Alastair told ye what happened? How she was troubled when she asked the year? Can he not have kept silent?”

“We harbor nae secrets within these walls,” confessed Angus. His tone held a bitter edge of scorn.

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