Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) by Lily Baldwin

bandage.
    ***
    What was she thinking taking up the plow? He clenched his fists as the answer readily presented itself. He had given her no other choice. Either she surrender to his demands or make the impossible happen. Hell, he practically dared her to do it. Any other woman would have been terrified living in complete isolation and would shun such back-breaking work, but not Brenna. Everything he had said or done to convince her to move to the village only served to strengthen her resolve to stay.
    In another day, he would have seen to the plow himself. Jamie and Cormac agreed to help turn the land in the morning. He was just hoping she would surrender before then. He was wrong to underestimate her. He could see that now. His poor judgment was to blame for the current condition of her hands, and he could only imagine how the rest of her body felt. He doubted she would be able to rise from her pallet in the morning. He promised to protect her and provide for her, but his own stubborn insistence blinded him to her real need. She was no maid whose mind was easily steered in the direction another chose. She was a woman—a capable, smart, stubborn woman with her own mind and a vision for her life.
    His thoughts returned to the puss-letting sores on her hands. She flinched when he removed the wrapping, but that was her only acknowledgment of pain—a testament to her strength. Brenna did not need a protector or provider. With an astonishing demonstration of perseverance, she hand-plowed her own field. Regardless of his aid or the aid of anyone else, she would eat. She would survive. Hell, she would thrive. And this is why he loved her.
    Still, despite her courage and resilience, her hands must throb with pain. In this, at least, he could provide relief.
    Riding hard toward the coast, he arrived at a small inlet not far from Brenna’s land where salt and fresh water merged. Crouching by the shore, he emptied the ale from his flask and shoved it into the inlet. Bubbles rushed to the surface. He stared into the gleaming shallows. The smooth stones caught the sun’s brightness, reflecting points of light that danced in the water like spirits. She was like those lights—ever moving, doing, thinking, and hoping. She radiated a power as deep and strong as the waves rolling toward shore, but she wore it like a fine cloak or a light breeze. He, who had watched her, studied her for seven years, should know better than most that she would never surrender, nor would she throw her head back and scream. She just did what needed to be done despite any personal cost.
    He knew from the moment he met her that she was a quiet force to be reckoned with. Ever composed, her strength could be likened to the very earth they built their homes upon—unyielding, unshakable, and capable of pushing beyond the bleakest of winters to deliver summer’s abundance. He smiled thinking of her recent uncharacteristic losses of temper, doubtless his fault. He truly was a scoundrel, undeserving of her.
    When he returned to her hut and ducked his head under the door, her head whipped around, and she eyed him cautiously. He froze. God’s mercy, but she was lovely. Some of her silken hair had escaped its bindings, framing golden skin. Wide, blue eyes, as dark as the sea, met his own and he lost himself.
    He did not know how long he stood there staring at her like a fool, but at length, she cleared her throat. His purpose returned. He rushed forward, intent on relieving her pain. He emptied his flask into a wide, shallow bowl. He searched her cupboards for fresh linen strips not trusting himself to speak lest a confession of his true regard were to slip from his lips. Then he found a salve he recognized as one of Bridget’s, grateful once again for the lady’s healing talents. With hands full, he turned back to Brenna and took a deep breath; he could not do this without touching her. With a silent prayer that he did not humiliate himself or shame her, he sat down