Chapter 6
Patrick
watched the woman before him slip peacefully into oblivion and gave himself over to the contemplation of life’s ironies.
He’d been tracking this wench for the better part of the day yesterday, yet here she was, having deposited herself quite handily on his land without any effort on his part.
He should have repaired homeward after Culloden and left her to her own devices.
It would have saved him a mighty kink in his neck from his nap in the car.
He looked up at Roddy MacLeod’s Whoa Bullet, who was currently and quite contentedly nibbling a few dainties.
So that’s where she was staying. He could only assume ’twas Roddy himself who had lent her the horse.
That man needed to more thoroughly ascertain the riding skills of his guests before loaning them any horseflesh.
Someone was going to wind up in hospital one of these days.
He paused, then swore. He was beginning to sound like his brother. With that terrifying thought to keep him company, he turned his mind to the more practical matter of seeing how seriously the woman was injured.
And then he froze, his hands outstretched.
What, by all the saints, was he thinking?
He sat back on his heels and dragged his hands through his hair.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on stilling his appallingly rapid breathing.
It was a bloody lucky thing Jamie wasn’t nearby; he would have been overjoyed to have seen his younger brother undone—and over something as innocent as thinking to use his hands for something approximating healing.
He stretched out his hand again.
It trembled.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, making his hand into a fist. “Utter rubbish.” He dug deeper for a few fouler things to say, which made him feel slightly more himself, then blew out his breath and set to work.
He ignored his raging thoughts and thoroughly and methodically checked his Yank for any fractures.
Fortunately for the condition of her orange trousers, no bones had broken free of the skin. Patrick gingerly felt her head. There was a nice-sized bump, but he suspected she would survive it. He’d seen, and endured himself, far worse.
He patted her cheeks, but all he got in response was a brief opening of her eyes. She groaned, rolled toward him, then closed her eyes again and began to snore.
Jetlag?
A man could hope ’twas but that and not a reaction to his own sweet self.
He looked at her curled up in front of him, then reached out and smoothed the hair back from her face.
She was not beautiful in the exotic way that the women he was used to dating were beautiful, but he couldn’t deny that there was something about her that was very appealing.
Fresh-faced American wench, he thought with a small grumble.
Either she bathed in milk or she passed far too many of her hours hiding in an office.
Aye, that had to be it. She likely didn’t have much to do with weather and such, what with going from meeting to expensive clothier and back again. He stared down at her current garb. It gave him pause, but perhaps it was high fashion. So high it was beyond him, but there you had it.
Well, whatever the case, she was still sleeping and he had to get her somewhere to either continue her nap or bring her back to her senses.
He looked over his shoulder. His house was a good half hour’s walk, perhaps longer with dead weight to carry.
It looked as though he would have no choice but to impose on one of his brother’s tenants.
He looked at the woman lying before him once again.
No broken bones. No spinal injury or else she wouldn’t have been able to roll.
Anything else that ailed her could be taken care of at home.
Probably just as well. He himself had no use for doctors—
He stopped his mutterings before they turned into a rant. Aye, he still had no use for doctors, but after Lisa’s death, he suspected he didn’t have much use for herbs, either.
He turned away from those troubling thoughts and looked at the horses.
They weren’t going anywhere any time soon.
He slipped his arms under the woman and, with only a minor amount of grunting, heaved her up into his arms. He shifted her so her head rested against his shoulder, then set off for his destination.
Moraig’s house wasn’t easily found, but once found, a body never seemed to have trouble finding it again.
Jamie said she was a witch, but Patrick knew better.
Jamie’s healthy distrust of anything and everything she had cooking on her fire at any given time never stopped him from inviting her to dinner now and then.
Better a witch makin’ stew to sustain you than one brewin’ potions to kill you was what he inevitably said after having gone north to deliver his invitation, which delivery also inevitably included having had a polite bite at her fire.
Patrick had had his own experiences with the woman, and his opinion of her was far different from his brother’s.
He paused at the edge of the forest and looked down at the path he was poised to put his foot to. He shivered in spite of himself as he remembered vividly the first time he’d done the like.
He’d been a score and six at the time and as reckless as Jamie was responsible.
He’d decided to test the rumors about the forest near his home, rumors of magic lurking deep inside where the sun rarely reached.
He’d anticipated returning victorious, full of bold words to tease the old ones with and show them how wrong they were.
Ach, such arrogance.
He’d spent the night in the forest, to fully test his own courage and stamina.
He’d woken, just as he’d known he would, still under the trees, still wrapped in his plaid.
The rain hadn’t troubled him so deep in the forest, but he’d anticipated a good soaking whilst hurrying back to the keep to boast.
He’d left the forest and come to a complete and teetering halt. Aye, his ancestral home had been there, but certainly not in the condition it had been the day before.
It had been in ruins.
His bluster had left him abruptly.
Cold, soaked to the skin, and frankly quite terrified, he’d wandered the high meadow until he’d come to the forest before him.
He’d never been more grateful for anything than he had been for the path before him that promised aid up ahead.
Never mind that it led to a place that even in his day had been rumored to be a haven for all manner of supernatural creatures.
He’d seen smoke from a fire. It had been enough.
Moraig had opened her door, taken one look at him, and welcomed him in with words in his native tongue.
Gladly he’d set his gear aside and sat in front of her fire as his clothing steamed.
He’d accepted food, drink, and an offer of shelter for as long as he’d needed it.
He’d remained with her for a pair of fortnights until he’d been ready to venture further afield.
Of course, he’d worked for his keep. Moraig had gotten a new roof, a winter’s supply of chopped firewood, and enough herbs gathered to make potions far into her old age.
She’d cheerfully invited him to come back often, which he had, even after he’d made his own way in the world and had had no more need of aid.
He supposed she wouldn’t mind yet another refugee in need of her skill with brews.
He shifted his burden and set off down the path.
It took only a few minutes of good walking to come within sight of his destination.
Moraig’s house looked as if it had grown out of the forest itself.
The walls were wood, covered with moss; the roof was thatched, also covered with moss.
Maybe calling it a cottage was conferring upon it too grand a title.
In truth the place looked like a bird’s nest, but it was a comfortable, welcoming nest.
He was five paces from the front door when his Yank apparently decided she’d had enough of a nap. Her eyes flew open, and she flung herself out of his arms. He tried to catch her but was unsuccessful. She landed quite forcefully on her backside.
She blinked furiously and gasped in much the same manner. Patrick knelt down in front of her.
“I think perhaps you should cease with your jumping off things for a bit.”
“Me, too,” she gulped. “I think I broke something this time.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “Well, ’tisn’t as though we can slap a stiff plaster on it, is it? I’m sure Moraig has something lying about at least to ease you until I can get you home.”
He stopped when he realized she wasn’t saying anything. In fact, even her gasping had subsided into the kind of careful breathing a body used when trying to not cause itself any more pain. He took that opportunity to look at her.
Her eyes were dark, but translucent somehow.
Like a deep green pool in a glade with stray bits of sunshine filtering down into it, touching the bottom and revealing the earth beneath.
They suited her excessive fairness perfectly.
Without thinking, he reached behind her head and pulled off the clip that held her hair.
It fell down around her shoulders in a riot of unrestrained curls completely at odds with the otherwise quite constrained air she projected.
Then he made the grave mistake of looking into those eyes of hers.
The jolt that went through him almost made him lose his balance—again.
At least here he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself hopping about in the heather.
He managed to catch himself with his hand before he fell backward upon his arse.
He looked at her. She was apparently just as affected, if the look of surprise that crossed her features was any indication.
“Who are you?” she asked.