Highlander's Touch (5 page)

Careful of her surroundings, and listening for any sounds out of the ordinary, she led her two charges back to the road. The dirt-packed path had dozens of divots left by horses for as far as she could see in either direction. Because she wasn’t sure how new or old the prints were, or in which direction they’d gone, Shona decided it would be best to keep off the road, even if it meant that it would take longer to get to her cottage.

“Stay strong, lad.” She smiled at her boyish reference to the warrior. He was no lad. The strength and imposing bulk of his body made it obvious he was a grown man.

He grunted in reply, shifting enough that she stopped the horse quickly to lay her hand on his arm.

“Dinna move unless ye want to fall and break a leg or arm, ye fool. Stay still and I’ll have ye off the horse soon enough.”

Shona rolled her eyes. The man’s actions were not unlike Rory’s would have been. Warriors were used to making decisions in battle, and with the extent of his injuries she was certain he would think he was
still
in battle, rather than atop his horse. He’d be fighting to get away from whoever was taking him, probably not recognizing that he was on his own horse, only that he’d not been the one to make the decision to be there. He might think her an enemy, too. She had to reassure him, else he endanger himself—and her—in the process of trying to escape.

“Ye’re safe. I’m a healer,” she said. “Now, be still.”

Seeming to understand her—or possibly because his injuries had brought sleep to him once more—he stilled.

Her heart pounded as she peered up and down the road. Nothing stood out—other than the hoof prints.

Shona moved across the road and into the woods on the other side. As they navigated quietly through the forest, the sun overhead slowly sank to the horizon so that by the time her small cottage came into view, the sky was grayish pink.

Circling around the woods that surrounded her home, she checked to make sure that no one sat in wait to ambush them. She checked her traps for signs of tampering, and when all looked clear, she led the horse and his master to the front door.

She walked them straight into the main room, praying the horse did not soil her clean floor. Letting the reins drop, she shut and barred the door. Darkness enveloped her. There were two small windows high off the ground, but no light came through the closed shutters.

The horse snorted.

“Just a minute, horse,” she said, shuffling toward her small hearth. She found her flint and lit a candle, illuminating her tiny but cozy cottage in golden light.

Her small bed was pushed into the left corner, a chest at the foot of it, and a small wooden table beside it. Adjacent to the door was the empty hearth, and before it sat a table and two chairs. Alongside the hearth, shelves were filled with her medicinal herbs, tinctures and powders. On her right was a modest cupboard, a high table for food preparation, and a wardrobe filled with miscellaneous supplies. Her home was simple and comfortable.

Grabbing the reins once more, she led the animal toward her bed, hoping it would be easier to roll the warrior off the steed onto her mattress than to drag him across the floor. “There now, let him down.”

When the horse simply stared at her, she tried another command and nudged him on his withers. “Let him off?”

Again the animal simply stared at her.

Shona let out a frustrated groan. “I need him on the bed, horse, else I canna help him.

The warrior shifted, tapping the horse with his foot. “
Sios
…” His whispered Gaelic—
down
—had been barely audible.

She watched in amazement as the horse once again lowered himself enough that she could roll the warrior onto her bed. He landed with a loud, awkward thump.

“Oh, saints,” she hissed with fright.

With quick movements, Shona arranged his legs, frowning at his feet hanging off the edge, but what was she to do? He was enormous. Gently, she put his head on her pillow, and used the linens beneath him to help tug him into the center of the bed. The man managed to move enough to help her, though the painful grunts made her heart skip a beat. By the time she had him situated in the center of her small bed, her hands and sleeves were covered in streaks of his blood.

A shiver of fear filled her and she sent up a prayer that none of his enemies—nor his people—came to find him. Her life depended on it.

How could men do this to one another? She stared hard at her hands, flashes of the fight that had brought about all that blood running rampant in her mind. But she could not dwell on the whys and why nots. She had to take care of this man before he succumbed to his injuries.

His gasps grew short and rattled. Not a good sign.

“Stay with me a little while longer,” she whispered.

RETURNING her attention to her charge, she studied him with an expert eye. He took up nearly the whole of her bed, feet dangling over the edge. As of that moment, he appeared to be sleeping peacefully—despite his labored breathing.

“I pray ye do not wake up,” she whispered.

Cleaning and sewing his wounds would be much easier if he lay there unmoving. Without anyone to assist her, if he woke and thrashed about he could hurt himself—and possibly her, as well.

Where to start? She tugged her knife from her belt and slid the blade from the bottom of his tattered shirt to the top. Tossing the bloodied mess beside her hearth, she then set about examining his wounds. There was a massive knot on his head where the horse’s hoof had clobbered him, and a cut about two inches long, though it did not appear very deep. The wound would give him a wicked headache. He’d need a stitch or two there. She moved her gaze to his sculpted torso, which beneath the current wounds and blood, was riddled with scars. What had happened to this man? If she’d not seen him fight, she might have thought him without skill, but that was far from the truth. He was definitely proficient in the art of combat. She’d seen those talents with her very own eyes. But someone had truly gotten the better of him.

A nudge at her elbow had her jerking until she recalled his warhorse. Shona needed to get the animal out of her cottage before he made a mess, but that would have to wait.

She traced over the slices and jabs on the warrior’s chest, ribs and belly, her fingers trembling, and her teeth firmly planted in her lower lip. She was surprised to find they were not as extensive as she first imagined. No obvious signs of broken bones, though his ribs would likely be bruised. Even with his significant blood loss, his wounds did not appear to be near any vital organs. And the few direct stab wounds did not appear overly deep. He was lucky. If she could get him cleaned up, stitched and keep any fever at bay, then he’d likely come through this very easily.

After lighting her hearth, she put a kettle of water on to boil, and then began smashing her herbs with oil to make a paste to rub into the wounds. Once the water had boiled, she dipped a cloth into it and wiped away the blood and dirt on the man’s torso. She rolled him onto his back and cleaned there, too, trying not to stare too hard at the coiled muscles—or the crisscrossing scars that covered his body.

The scars, while fully healed, were still pink in places. He’d not had them long. He certainly had the worst kind of luck. Nearly butchered, perhaps six months before if she had to wager a guess, and then trampled by a horse today.

Nevertheless, she supposed it was a warrior’s life. Rory had scars on his body, too, though not as extensive as these. She vaguely recalled the castle’s healer coming to her some months past begging for a salve and tincture to save a man who was near death because of a vengeful wench. Was it possible that the salves and tinctures had been for her golden warrior? If so, he was lucky the castle healer had sought her out. He should be dead.

Shona removed his kilt to be sure there were no injuries elsewhere. She was very good about not looking
there
—even as she washed him. She glided the soap and linen from his toes to the top of his head, trembling fingers smoothing over corded muscle and strength. Nettles, but he was built like a tower—strong, sturdy and full of tight ridges.

The man was causing her to have odd reactions she’d do best not to have—especially considering he was out cold and injured.

Once he was clean, and his middle covered with a blanket, she went about rubbing his wounds with her medicinal salve. She sterilized her needle, looped it with the horsehair thread and then went to work. First, she sewed the cut on his head, sucking in a breath when he shifted and she nearly caused him a new slice.

“Be still,” she crooned.

He barely made a sound while she worked, only the occasional grunt. Time passed, she wasn’t certain how long, but her fingers were stiff and sore when she was done. She spread bog moss over the wounds and wrapped him in linen bandages.

Finally finished caring for his wounds, Shona cleaned up the extra linens and medicinal salves. She glanced at her patient and was startled to find that his heavily-lidded blue gaze was fixed upon her.

“Ye’re beautiful.” A genuine smile curled his lips.

“Thank ye,” Shona murmured, heat filling her face.

Goodness, but was the warrior going to flirt with her while he lay injured upon her bed?

“Where am I?”

She flicked her gaze back to him again, noting that he was attempting to sit up, his brow wrinkled and lips turned down. Hands outstretched, she rushed forward and gently pressed him back onto the bed, trying to ignore the strength in his shoulders, despite his current condition.

“Do not move. Ye are safe here,” she soothed.

“Is this your home?” He coughed then grimaced, the movement obviously causing him pain.

“Aye.” She brushed his hair from his forehead. “Ye should lay still else your bandages come unraveled.”

“What is your name?” He touched the bandage wrapped around his forehead and then the ones on his chest.

She watched him, prepared to swipe his hands away if he tried to undo the bindings. “Shona. Yours?”

“Ewan.” His voice was stronger when he said his name.

Confident he’d not try to sit up again. Shona fixed him a soothing tea that would help ease his pain, keep fever at bay and make him sleep. She carried the cup forward and spooned drops into his mouth slowly so that he didn’t choke. He parted his full lips, taking in the drink she offered.

“I’m not a bairn, I can drink on my own,” he grumbled after the fact.

“Aye, I know ye can, Ewan,” she said in a mollifying tone, then guided his hands to grip the cup, though she stayed close in case he needed her help.

As she’d noticed with some of her past charges, they didn’t like to feel as though they’d completely lost all their faculties. What harm would it do allowing him to feel he had some strength left?

She studied him while he drank. His skin was pale, his lips white. He’d lost a lot of blood and the only thing that would bring it back was sleep, her herbal tisanes, and, when he was strong enough, some food.

“Rest well, warrior,” she whispered, taking the cup from him.

But as she backed away from him, he gripped her arm and tugged her forward, his fingers sending a sizzle of something exciting rippling through her.

The cup fell from her hands hitting the floor and she gasped as he pulled harder, making her sprawl over his chest. Lucky for him, at the last minute, she was able to brace herself on either side of his arms so she wouldn’t injure him further.
Daft man!

Intent darkening his roving stare, a wicked tendril of heat shot through her, hitting every part of her body that she yearned for him to touch: lips, neck, breasts, thighs… slick sex.

“I’ll rest better once ye kiss me,” he rasped.

Her gaze met his cloudy one. The man was feverish. Mad from his wounds.

“We canna. Ye’re hurt,” she tried to argue, even as she leaned closer.

“What will a kiss do?” he asked.

But Shona wasn’t sure if he, or even
she
, really understood the depth and breadth of that question. What
would
a kiss do? So very much.

Shona pressed her lips together, prepared to tell him nay, that they would never kiss, but he didn’t wait for her to respond.