Unlaced by the Outlaw (Secrets in Silk) by Michelle Willingham

horseback. You were unconscious and in a great deal of pain from the burns. We had to travel for several days before we reached Wickersham.” She turned, adding a brick of peat to the fire, as if it were no matter at all.
    “Did anyone help you?” Somehow, from the look on her face, it didn’t seem so.
    Margaret faced him and shook her head. “It was very hard to lift you and get you out of there. The hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
    Though she spoke the words in a soft tone, he sensed the hardships she’d endured. Most women would have crumbled and wept at such a situation. Instead, she’d saved his life.
    “How long has it been since the accident?” he asked.
    “Nearly a fortnight now.”
    A fortnight? Cain couldn’t believe it could possibly have been that long. And yet, the agony of his burn wounds seemed to have lessened somehow. A thousand questions tangled up inside him, of how he could possibly have remained unconscious for that long. How had she fed him and taken care of him?
    “I gave you laudanum for the pain,” she admitted, answering one of his unspoken questions. “The vicar’s wife had some, and I paid her for it with the last of my coins. You were hurting so badly, I had no choice.”
    It explained why he hardly remembered anything from the past two weeks. But there was more he needed to learn. “What happened to your sister? Was there any sign of her?”
    Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know.” Though she kept her expression neutral, he knew she was disappointed. “I can only hope that my father or Lord Castledon found her in time.” She went to pour water into a basin, as if she needed the distraction. After sitting beside him, she lifted the cool cloth from his shoulders and replaced it with another.
    “You should have returned home and left me, lass,” he said quietly. “You could have used your necklace to pay for the journey.”
    She remained at his side and didn’t answer at first. “I wasn’t going to leave you here to die.”
    Her words held a trace of softness that he’d not heard in a long time. He didn’t know what to say, for he knew too well that she deserved better than a man like him.
    “As soon as you’re strong enough to travel, we’ll go,” she told him. She was about to stand up, but he caught her wrist.
    “How badly was I hurt?” Though it wasn’t nearly the fiery ache he’d remembered, he could feel the weakness lingering.
    She pulled back her wrist, as if he’d tried to accost her. Her voice was cool, but she answered, “It was a wonder you lived, Mr. Sinclair.”
    There was fear within her, and he questioned whether she blamed him for losing Amelia’s trail. Before he could ask, she brought him a bowl of soup. “You must be hungry. It’s only simple fare, made with barley and vegetables. And there’s a bit of bread.”
    “Thank you.” He took the bowl from her, his fingers brushing against hers. “Have you eaten?”
    She nodded, adding, “My cooking is not very good, I’m afraid. It’s the first time I’ve tried to make soup. The porridge and other meals weren’t much better.”
    “You’ve no’ cooked before this? Even at Ballaloch?”
    She sent him a wan smile. “Do you think Mrs. Larson would let any of us set foot in her kitchen?”
    “I suppose she wouldna allow it.” Their housekeeper had the personality of a war general, but he liked Mrs. Larson well enough. She’d always made sure he had a full meal before he’d left the Andrews household.
    He tasted Margaret’s soup and resisted the urge to spit it out again. There were boiled vegetables and barley, but the broth itself was little more than water.
    “It’s terrible, I know.” Margaret sent him a twisted look. “I could hardly tolerate it myself.”
    He forced himself to take another spoonful, pretending that there was flavor there. “It’s no’ so bad.”
    “And you’re lying, Mr. Sinclair.” She grimaced as she put the pot of soup near the hearth once