Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
Callum goes completely still.
I can’t believe I said that. I just knelt beside him like I was genuflecting at a freaking altar—then basically told him to strip.
I’m so close his hip radiates heat against my knee. The only thing separating us is the echo of that saucy take off your shirt.
He looks up and locks his eyes with mine, and, oh jeez, if his eyes go down even the slightest bit, they’ll be right in line with my…me.
Donag rants in my head, words like sluttish, strumpet, brazen, and, for the win: just like your mother.
I’m close enough to hear his breathing—in and out, in and out—more rapid than normal. Heightened because he’s in pain. That’s all. Right?
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Maybe he’s waiting for me to do something. Maybe this moment isn’t actually weird. Maybe if I scoot back, that’s what will make it weird.
Enough time passes that I tune into my own heartbeat. Thump-swish. Thump-swish.
“Uhh…” I have to say something. “I mean, you don’t have to take off your whole shirt. I just need to see you. Your shoulder, I mean. If I’m going to help you. I need to see it. That’s why.”
With a silent nod, Callum lifts his hands like a man at gunpoint.
“Just relax,” I say, not sure which one of us I’m talking to. I’ve already seen him shirtless, at the forge.
No big deal, I tell myself as I unlace his shirt all the way, gently tugging it from his shoulder to expose the top of his arm. Unfortunately, that also exposes his chest.
This close, I see old scars, pale and thin as spiderwebs. One crosses his collarbone. Another is at the base of his throat—a perfect slash, like a blade once split his skin and nearly didn’t stop.
I inhale sharply. My fingers twitch with the urge to trace it.
I don’t. Obviously.
Nope, my eyes are laser-focused on his bandage. Only his bandage. It’s crusted and hard. “This needed stitches.”
His shrug pulls it taut, and fresh blood weeps onto the fabric.
“Hold still.” I slide my fingers down and around his arm, relieved to find his skin cool. “I don’t think it’s infected.”
I peek down the back of his shirt. An angry welt marks the path Hamish’s blade carved along his shoulder, ending in a deep gash across the back of his arm. “If he sliced your muscle,” I mutter, “I’ll fight him myself.”
Callum chuckles. “You ferocious wee thing. I do believe you would.”
“Don’t laugh yet. I need to disinfect this thing.”
As I work on untying his bandage, I do a silent run-through of the things I could use to clean the wound. A homemade saline solution, maybe? What I really need is alcohol.
“How do you usually clean your wounds? Does Donag make, like, a poultice or something?”
“I don’t like to tell her when I’m injured. She gets angry.”
I scoff under my breath. “Now there’s a surprise.”
Callum hears, and his laugh makes me blush inexplicably.
“She’s nae so bad.”
“If you say so.” I turn back to the task at hand, the bandage knot refusing to budge. I cut him a frustrated look. “Did a child tie this?”
“I favor my right hand. ’Twas hard to work the fabric with my left.”
The knot finally gives, and I gently pry the dressing loose from his skin. My whole body tenses. “Callum! Did you even wash this? It’s covered in old stains.”
He’s looking over his shoulder at me, and the stupid guy is smiling.
“What?” I give him my best glare. “Make fun of me, and I’ll cut your other arm.”
“You’ve never called me by my Christian name.”
I lean back. “Sure I have.” I test it on my tongue. “Callum, Callum. I’ve totally said your name.”
“Well.” He gives me a wink. “Something about it was different this time.”
“No,” I insist. “There’s nothing different.” Unless you count the way my chest is suddenly one giant pang.
His laugh is low and quiet. “As you say.”
“Whatever. You need to let me focus, Callum.”
I snatch the kettle from over the fire and pour boiled water into the basin at my bedside. Using a sliver of Donag’s soap, I wash my hands then scrub Callum’s bandage as best I can. It’s hopeless. I pour what’s left of the boiled water into a small bowl and return to his side.
“Ready?”
He glares at the soap and water like a toddler looks at vegetables. “I’d nae idea you were such a wee tyrant.”
I chuckle. “You don’t know the half of it.”
As I soap up the bandage, I explain, “My grandfather hates doctors. Last fall, he fell and dislocated his shoulder, so what did he do? He asked his old army-medic buddy to reset it, then had me fix him a comfrey poultice every day for a month. All to avoid the hospital. For bronchitis, it’s a mustard poultice.
Ginger for burns.” I hold up the sudsy strip of fabric. “So, believe me. I’ve got this.”
“If you”—he hisses as I touch it to his skin—“insist.”
I angle him toward the window. “Actually, this looks worse than it is. If you keep it bound tightly, you should be fine without stitches, because that I don’t do.”
As the morning light catches his skin, a tiny alarm pings in my mind. I’ll need to leave for the kitchen soon, or face the wrath of people like Margie.
I should hurry.
The deepest part of the cut is only a couple inches long, and it doesn’t take long before the water rinses clear from his skin. But his bandage is ruined. “You need a clean dressing. This thing’s dead.”
“Just fold it half-wise.”
My hands drop. “Don’t you know about germs?”
He looks away, shrugging. “It’ll serve till I can make another.”
Of course he doesn’t know about germs. “Sorry. I’ve got something we can use. It’s not a bandage, but it’s fabric and it’s clean.”
He adjusts his shirt, looking more self-conscious than ever. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
Does anyone ever trouble themselves on his account?
Though I guess the same is true for me. Aside from Poppa, there isn’t really anybody I can count on. Not in any meaningful way.
I hesitate, then lean over. “Can I—?” Before he can answer, I pull the knife from the scabbard at his waist. The move is supposed to be casual. It isn’t.
At my touch, his breath catches, and suddenly I’m on fire. “Can I use this?” My voice comes out weak. “I need it to cut a strip. From my shirt.”
“Your shirt?”
His gaze flicks to my upper body. My skin burns hotter.
“I—” I clear my throat. “I was wearing an undershirt when I came here. I’ve got it on now, under my dress, to keep me warm. It’s still pretty clean, so I can cut fabric from that. But you can’t look.”
“You’ve my word,” he says gravely.
He stares. I wait.
“You can shut your eyes now.”
“Oh. Aye.” He shuts them.
My hands are trembling, though I don’t know why I should be so nervous. It’s just a strip of cloth.
With a deep breath, I loosen the neck of my dress and tug it over one shoulder. I reach in, but it’s not wide enough. “Crap,” I whisper.
He opens an eye. “Ready?”
I yelp and swat at him. Unfortunately, I still have his knife in my hand.
He laughs, ducking. “Mind the blade, you wee savage.”
“I said don’t look!”
He shuts his eyes again, this time lifting his face skyward like he’s praying for divine intervention.
Holding one strap taut, I saw the knife along the piping at the neckline. The cut is sloppy, but by the end, I have a strip of pale purple fabric, and miraculously, neither of us is bleeding.
“You can look now.” I straighten my dress and hold out the bandage for his inspection.
His eyes widen. “What other treasures do you keep hidden under your kirtle?” I swallow and feel my neck flush. He goes rigid, realizing too late how that sounded. His face floods with color. Quickly, stiffly, he adds, “’Tis a bonnie color. Like bluebells.”
The way his own innuendo embarrassed him only embarrasses me more. I latch onto the safer topic. “This is more purple. Bluebells are probably blue.”
His head snaps up. “You’ve nae seen a bluebell?”
I shrug. “No, I guess not.”
He makes a small, incredulous sound. Then, very gently, he rubs the fabric between his fingers.
His hand mesmerizes me. I hadn’t known fingers could look strong. But his do.
There’s a strange crackle in the air, and I realize he’s spoken.
“Huh?”
“I said, you cannae give me this.”
I shake my head. “Of course I can.”
“It’s too fine.”
His scrutiny embarrasses me. The shirt came in a three-pack from Costco. The notion that it’s too fine for anything is preposterous.
“Just shut up and let me bandage you.” I barrel ahead, focusing on the task at hand. But as my fingers skim his bare skin, that focus wavers like a mirage. Touching him like this is so strangely intimate, and yet I have to, if I’m going to wind the dressing around his arm.
Clearing my throat, I shift my hand lower. Away from that solid bicep.
Only now it’s grazing a satin-smooth valley under his arm.
Even worse.
I adjust again and—oh no.
Armpit hair. Tickling the back of my hand.
He jolts with a sharp laugh. “Is this bandage or torture?”
“You’re ticklish?” I tell myself that isn’t the most unexpectedly adorable thing ever.
What is wrong with me?
“I can do this. Really.” I dive back in, wrapping faster than necessary.
But as I work, a surprising anger rises in my chest. Callum is just some ticklish guy. Sometimes shy, sometimes funny. Has he ever even kissed a girl?
My stomach clenches at the thought, and I shove it aside.
Regardless, he’s just a young man who tries to do right by the people in his life. Why does he have to take this kind of abuse?
There’s nothing I can do. None of it’s my business.
I’ll be leaving here soon.
Won’t I?
As I’m trying to convince myself, the sensation of smooth man skin flares back into my consciousness.
I can’t help the low urrgh that escapes my throat.
“Are you well, Rosie?”
His concern only makes it worse. I can’t handle this kindness, this closeness. I need to focus on what matters. On getting home. The only way to silence my mental chatter is with actual chatter. I blurt, “So I looked around but I couldn’t find a spell book.”
That throws him. “Spell book?”
“For a list of chants or something. You know, to get me home? I thought Donag might have one hidden.”
“Ah.” His face has gone blank. “And?”
“I searched everywhere, but no luck.” I tighten the last knot on his bandage. “But that shouldn’t stop us from planning our trip.”
His whole body stiffens. “Trip?”
“Get with the program, Callum.” I nudge him. “You told me there are holy spots in Scotland that might be used as portals. Remember? You said there was an island or a cairn, or something—”
He recoils. “Nae a cairn. I said crannog. A cairn is for burying the dead.”
“Fine. Crannog. Whatever gets me there.”
“Heaven forfend,” he mutters. His eyes have gone distant, opaque as winter fog.
“You’re still going to help me, right?”
His gaze snaps back to mine, suddenly fierce. “I said I would.”
I nod. Callum keeps his promises. Somehow, I know that deep in my bones.
But his expression has gone blank again. Like the lights went out. Like he’s sad?
My mouth goes dry. I can’t dwell on his feelings. Whatever our connection is—whatever it was that made his apparition come to me or brought me to his doorstep—I can’t let it get any bigger.
The only thing that matters is finding my way home.
There’s too much to lose if I stay.
I can’t risk waiting till there’s too much to lose if I don’t.