A Faerie Fated Forever by Mary Anne Graham

Heather piled it with covering.
    “Cobb, I need you to stoke the fire. It must be warm, hot even. We want the fever to break.” Then she sat forcing the covers around the child, drops of perspiration dotting her face.
    A strange warmth tightened his chest as he watched the care she took of the child.
    He wiped the perspiration from her brow. “Let me take over for a spell. You’re exhausted and you should rest a bit. Why don’t you walk outside and cool off.”
    “No, thank you,” she denied gently. “While the wee one needs me I shall be here.”
    He sat down beside her on a small stool and saw her grimace and arch her back. He reached over to rub it. She leaned into his hands as he soothed the strain. He was struck by how natural it seemed to soothe her and again, by the connection he felt when he touched her. He was struck harder by the twitch he should be far too glutted to experience.
    As he leaned close, she sniffed noticeably. He must smell like sex, nasty sex, Sorcha sex. He glanced at Cobb questioningly and the other man shook his head and turned up his nose in disgust. Nial realized that his clansman knew full well that the laird crawled out of someone’s bed to come here. Likely, given the efficiency of the gossip network, Cobb knew exactly whose thighs he'd crawled away from. Embarrassed as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Dawn was breaking when the child began to show signs of improvement.
    “Cobb, Jean, look, he's sweating.” She leaned close to check, “At last, the fever has broken.” Sure enough, little Fergus gradually began to breathe easier and after a while longer, normally. Then he awoke complaining of hunger.
    “It is time to leave,” Nial said, as he took her hand.
    She turned to hug the couple. Her face turned pink at Cobb's praise. “An angel, Miss. That is what ye are.”
    Jean joined her husband the pink on her face flamed red. “If the laird is the man I think he is, this fine lady will soon be our angel. And I’m thinking the Clan Maclee could surely use one of those.”
    The Maclee said not a word to the pointed reminder, but tenderly guided the angel back to the keep, holding her hand the entire time, as they walked in silence. At her door, he turned to her and asked, “Will you do me the honor of walking with me after dinner tonight, Heather?”
    “I would like nothing better,” she smiled her acceptance but it was her eyes that caught his attention by beaming her love at him, as openly as if she'd spoken.
    “Rest until dinner,” he instructed, before surprising himself by pressing a kiss into her palm.
    He went to his room and ordered a bath. Once he cleaned the stench from his body, he fell into an exhausted slumber and slept for several hours. He arose before dinner, and went downstairs. The widow showed up for the meal, although this time she had not been invited. She acted like the lady of the house, which she was not and would never be. Her boldness and presumption chilled his ardor and he occupied himself with business matters until it was time for dinner.
    He continued to look for Heather, but she never appeared. When the dinner gong sounded and she still hadn't arrived, he began to worry that she might have caught a fever from the bairn.
    He stood and put the question to the group. “Has anyone seen Heather?”
    Sorcha snorted, and looked disdainfully at the MacIvers. “I ran into her as I arrived. She was hardly dressed in a manner befitting this dwelling and such fine company. I told her that since she dressed like a servant and bestirred herself to attend to them when they fell ill, that she could very well dine with them. You have no need to trouble yourself. She will not be hanging on your sleeves tonight.”
    Laird MacIver leapt up and roared. “I demand to know just who this wench is and by what right she says such things about my daughter and directs your guests. It was my understanding that we are here to consider a possible match between