In Love and War

Meaghann awoke to pale morning light. A breath stirred her hair. Turning her head, she focused on Quinn’s extraordinarily long eyelashes and the almost boyish expression captured in sleep. Up close, and with the pillow hiding the scar, his youthful good looks couldn’t be denied. Quinn Lawlor was a remarkable man. One whose arm now draped possessively over her body, his hand on her breast! For a moment she allowed herself the luxury of contentment his nearness generated. The heat from his fingers burned a path through her shirt, and she felt her nipples tingle. Jerking herself away, she rose.

Quinn’s eyes snapped open. “You!” His gaze registered surprise at her disheveled appearance. “What’re you doing here?”

Meaghann silenced him with a look, then bent to tie her shoes. “You were ill, Mr. Lawlor.”

Quinn started to rise, and groaned. “Ill?”

“You had an abscess.”

“My leg hurts like hell. You’ve been here all night?”

She nodded.

“God, can’t even get sick without help!”

“I stayed to make sure you were all right.” She evaded his speculative gaze and went on. “As it seems you are, I’ll go now and make you some breakfast.”

Grunting, Quinn propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at the pajamas. “Did you get me into these?”

“I did—and it’s quite a time I had getting them on a big hulk like yourself.” She turned away lest he see the blush she knew stained her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.” His gaze captured hers, questioning. “Where did you sleep?”

Meaghann colored. “I shared a portion of the bed. Before your fever broke, you had chills.”

“I see. You provided the warmth.” Quinn’s confusion dissolved in a knowing smile. “You’re more generous than I had imagined.”

Meaghann stiffened. She had never enjoyed humor at her expense, and her pounding pulse echoed her discomfort. “You were quaking like a leaf. I did it out of necessity.”

Quinn gave an uncomfortable cough. “Er— Did I do or say anything?”

Meaghann fiddled with her braid, then flung it back over her shoulder. “You called out something in the night.” And just for a moment, you made me want you.

His brow furrowed. “Must have thought you were someone else.”

“I expect you did.”

Meaghann leaned against the door jamb and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s lucky I came along yesterday. You were...not yourself.”

“I must not have been. Don’t even remember seeing a doctor.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then, who—” His gaze dropped to his bandaged leg.

“I lanced it for you, Mr. Lawlor. Took a couple of stitches, too.” She saw his disbelief and went on. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before—never had a patient complain, either.” She thought of the liquid brown eyes and contented lowing of Rosie, Bea, and Pegeen, and gave him a mischievous look. “I keep supplies on hand for the cows. They occasionally get abscesses and such.”

Quinn stilled, eyes riveted on her. “You used a cow scalpel on my leg?”

“Don’t look so horrified. I sterilized it.”

“A cow scalpel! My God.”

“I did what was needed. Now, stay put while I see to your breakfast.” Meaghann left the room and slipped out the front door.

After the morning milking and feeding the chickens, Meaghann stepped inside her cottage to freshen up and take him some breakfast. She sighed and hung her sweater on the back of a chair. Somehow, she had acquired another chore.

She took a hasty shower and threw on a clean turtleneck shirt in a pale yellow and a pair of faded blue jeans. Then she brushed and plaited her hair.

She took fresh eggs, marmalade, bread and butter from her fridge, tea from a canister on her counter and, placing everything in a willow basket, trekked across the field to the keep kitchen where she prepared breakfast. Then she carried a tray into the bedroom.

Quinn sat propped up in the bed, pillows at his back, Finnbar curled into a ball at his side. “We’re hungry,” he told her, grinning.

“You’ve found yourself a comrade.”

“God alone knows why. Nothing I did. I don’t even like cats.”

She set the tray on Quinn’s lap. “Finnbar doesn’t know that. But he knows what he needs. Kindness, warmth, good food. Like you.”

Quinn scraped the last of the egg onto his spoon. “The voice of authority.”

“The voice of experience. Animals and young children. I raised my brother.”

“You’ve never married?”

Meaghann took the empty tray from him. “My father died three years ago, but I’ve run the farm for as long as I can remember. My father was not...well.” She clamped her lips shut, wishing she had not said those last betraying words.