The old woman glared at her mistress briefly, then sighed with resignation and set the powder aside. “Are you thirsty?”

“Aye.”

Nodding, the woman seated herself carefully on the opposite side of the bed and helped Lady Wildwood to drink some of the liquid, her mouth tightening at the other woman’s pained grimace as the liquid irritated her cut and bruised lips. “You should rest.”

“If I did that, I should not be able to eat. And should I not eat, I shall not heal.”

“You are hungry?” Iliana smiled as she asked that, somewhat relieved. If she was hungry, her mother felt better than she looked. That was a good sign.

“Aye.”

“Then I shall have the cook make you something.” Rising, she hurried toward the door. “I shall return directly.”

Duncan paused in his work to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his gaze moving automatically toward the door that was now off limits to him. His own bloody room. But now it was inhabited by Iliana’s mother. Not that he begrudged her the bed. The woman was in a bad way and needed its comfort more than he. Nay, what he begrudged was his wife’s absence. Damn, but he had just managed to gain her attentions. He much resented having them withheld so again.

Duncan had not seen his wife since the day he had made love to her in the woods. He had sought her out repeatedly since then, knocking on the chamber door in an effort to lure his bride away for a bit of houghmagandie. Both times the door had been opened by that English hag servant of the mother’s, and he had been told that Iliana was resting after spending the night watching over her mother. He was feeling sore neglected and was also growing worried. It seemed obvious to him that his wee wife was avoiding him, but he could not understand why. He had thought that their time in the woods would have set a new tone to their relationship. It had been an incredibly enjoyable interlude for him, and he was positive she had enjoyed it as much, if not more.

As unfair as it was, Duncan had discovered long ago that women could find their satisfaction time and again, while a man was held back by the need for rest between the times when passion overcame him. And so it had been that day. His wife had stiffened and twisted and cried out at least half a dozen times in the woods, while he himself had been restricted by his own body to finding satisfaction only three times. Not that he was complaining. Those three times had been more than enough to leave him weak in the knees and standing on shaking legs afterward.

He wanted those weak knees again. Howbeit, his wife was not being the least cooperative.