Chapter 31
Madelyn
stood on what served as the bank of a small stream and looked doubtfully at the water that swirled over and around the rocks. The water looked clean. It was a sure bet it was cleaner than she was. She lifted her skirts and hitched her way down a manageable bit of bank and put her feet in the water.
And she almost passed out from the chill.
She swayed, but found herself immediately supported by a pair of strong hands.
“Enough?” Patrick asked.
She shook her head. “I want to at least wash my hands and feet. Maybe my face if I can get down that far.”
“I can do that—”
“I can, too,” she said. She held up her skirts, reached down, and tried to wash off her legs.
She was washing off all the herbs Patrick had slathered on her the night before, but he’d said he could make more.
She’d taken him at his word, wanting nothing more than to actually have a part of her feel clean.
Once she could at least see a little of her skin, she decided that perhaps too much cleanliness was a bad thing.
It made her realize just how awful the rest of her was.
She reached down and brought water to her face and tried to do something with the grime there.
It made her cheeks ache, but she continued, at least until she could touch her face and feel clean skin there.
She straightened, accepted Patrick’s help to get herself over to a flat rock, then sat and looked up at him.
“What do you think?” she asked. “Do I dare attempt a whole bath, or would it be just too disgusting to bathe and then put on these clothes again?”
He held up his hands. “I wouldn’t presume to offer an opinion on that.”
“If I washed my dress, how long do you think it would take for it to dry without a fire?”
“Days.”
“Days of stink, days of pneumonia. What a choice.”
He scratched his stubbled cheek. “Aye, but ’tis the latter that gives me pause. We cannot stay here much longer. Winter is almost upon us. We will freeze without a fire.”
“Do you hear me arguing? I’m all for a good fire.
” She knew he was purposely not talking about the possibility of them being discovered.
She didn’t want to talk about it, either.
It would be a long time before she managed to sleep without wondering if she would wake up to see someone coming in her room with her death on his mind.
She looked down and flicked at a patch of dirt on her dress.
“Do you think . . .” she began, “do you think we’ll ever . . .”
“Get home? Aye,” he said. “I do. We will.”
“Should we try now?”
He squatted down in front of her. “Truthfully? It would be difficult unless we both were able to ride.”
“And I would be a”—she looked for the word, then gave up and resorted to English—“a liability.”
He smiled briefly. “Nay, not that. But you need to be able to sit a horse, and ride hard. Wield a blade, if possible.”
“Oh, that’s me,” she said dryly. “Madelyn the shield-maiden, at your disposal.”
“We have a Fergusson sword and no one to wield it,” he pointed out. “You could learn.”
“I couldn’t lift it.”
“You’d be surprised what you could do if you had to.”
She nodded and tried to smile, but it came out a very queasy one, of that she was certain. She looked down at her hands. They were clean, but they didn’t feel clean. She had defended herself, true, but it hadn’t come without a price.
Then again, what was she to have done? Allowed that man to rape her, then kill her?
She hadn’t had the strength to fight back.
She’d barely managed to get Patrick’s knife in an upright position in time for the man to fall on it while he was trying to fall on top of her.
It was just plain dumb luck he’d done himself in.
But that didn’t make watching a man die not five inches from her face any easier.
She shivered. The realities of medieval life were hard, hard and unyielding. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised that such a life yielded Patrick’s ability to make difficult decisions and not look back.
Like ditching her.
Though he didn’t look like he planned to ditch her again any time soon.
She looked out into the forest to take her mind off that tiresome bit of speculation. Patrick had risked his life to come get her. That had to say something for him.
She put the endless speculation out of her mind and looked down at her finger. It was slathered in herbs, splinted, and wrapped with a part of his plaid. She’d tried to protest his using his plaid.
It’s an antique
, she’d said.
What does that make me?
he’d asked.
Impossibly beautiful, she’d wanted to say, but she hadn’t.
Impossibly, terribly beautiful. Every time she looked at him, every time he smiled at her as if he had warm feelings for her inside his heart, every time he touched her, it was as if the whole world held its breath in appreciation of the miracle of it.
She thought she just might be losing her mind.
Or at least her heart.
“I think,” he said, “that we should go.”
She pulled herself away from her speculations. “Should we?”
“Would you rather stay?”
“Depends. Is this part of the Patrick MacLeod Scottish tour package, or is this a special thing just for me?”
“The saints forbid.” He shook his head. “Nay, this was hardly part of what I wanted to show you. It is a very dangerous tourist attraction.”
“A theme park gone horribly wrong.”
“Aye.”
“I think they’ve already made a movie out of that. Lots of people got eaten.”
“And they don’t here?” He winked at her. “One never knows what resides in the Fergusson’s cooking pot—”
“Patrick, that’s disgusting.”
“Aye, so is everything his cook produces.” He stood and held his hand down for her. “I think we should try to walk a little. We’ll see what of that you can bear before we turn our minds to trying to get home.”
“Sure,” she said. She let him pull her to her feet, waited until the involuntary gasping had stopped, then nodded firmly. “I’m fine. I’m really fine. Let’s go.”
He put his arm around her, his strong, comforting arm around her, and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Slowly, aye? No need to rush. We’ve all the time needful.”
She didn’t believe him. He was anxious. Under that sleek, suave exterior, he was anxious. She supposed he wondered if an entire herd of Fergussons was going to descend soon, or if he just wondered if she was going to have some kind of nervous breakdown.
It had been tempting, there, for a while. After he’d removed the body, she’d been tempted. But she’d sucked it up, rationalized all kinds of things, and concentrated on keeping herself from screaming while he set her finger.
She was better this morning. It was light outside and they were still alive.
She was free of the cage. Her finger hurt a little less.
And Patrick MacLeod had one arm around her shoulder and the other hand holding on to hers as if she was some delicate creature that might shatter if he held her too tightly. She looked up at him and smiled.
“I’m not going to fall apart.”
He paused, then smiled, looking more relieved that he probably realized. “I never doubted it.”
“Patrick, you don’t lie well. It’s all right. You can be worried.”
“By the saints, Madelyn,” he said with a half laugh. “There are times I’m simply unsure how to take you.”
Take me any way you want
, she thought, but she didn’t say as much. She hoped that too much of it didn’t show on her face. She looked down, just in case.
And then she had no choice but to concentrate on everything but Patrick.
Every muscle protested the exercise. Her feet hurt, her legs, her back, and her head hurt as well.
She walked in circles until she could walk no more.
Patrick took her and sat her back down on the rock near the stream.
He covered her feet with leaves and other soft things, then went back over to the hut.
He saddled his horse, and the other horse, strapped the Fergusson man’s sword to the Fergusson horse, then tied them both up close by. Ready to go at a moment’s notice, apparently.
Then he returned with a bit of curved log in one hand, his knife in the other, and stood in front of her.
“We’ll rest for another hour or so,” he said, “then move on. We’ll try the forest, if you think you can manage it.”
“I can manage it.”
“Then take your ease for a bit longer.” He smiled down at her. “If that suits.”
“It suits.”
He nodded, then sat down at her feet and set to his wood with his knife.
Madelyn watched him, and while she watched, her mind wandered.
She looked up above her. The sky was still the sky, but there were no telltale jet trails.
Birds flew, trees swayed, clouds ambled past. There was something amazingly peaceful about the sound of no civilization.
Just the scrape of a knife against wood and the whispering of nature all around her.
It reminded her a good deal of Patrick’s land, as a matter of fact.
“What are you making?” she asked lazily.
“A bowl, hopefully.” He looked up at her and smiled. “I’m not much of a carver.”
“It looks like a bowl to me.”
“You’re kind.”
“I’m hoping for a good drink,” she admitted. “What can I do to help?”
“Just sit,” he said. “Sit and heal.”
“Heal,” she said softly. “That’s a beautiful word.”
He nodded, his knife never ceasing its work on the wood. “It is.” He paused, stared off into the distance, then looked back down. “It is a good word.”
She watched him for a minute, but apparently he wasn’t going to say anything else. “So,” she said, “how did you find me? How did you even know where to look?”
“Well, that is something of a tale, isn’t it?” he asked. “And so fascinating a one that it lulled you straight to sleep last night.”
“That was last night. I’m very awake right now, so get on with it.”
He was silent for several moments, then he stopped, put his knife down, and looked up at her. “You never should have had to come here.”
“That was hardly your fault.”