Chapter 6
The defeat was soul crushing.
It wasn’t that William had let his father down in his failure to reclaim the land that once belonged to the MacLeods. That was the least of his concern.
It was the men he had lost. Six of his father’s guards, good men who were tough fighters, cut down as they clung from ropes and shot with that damn weapon.
And Fib.
A knot of emotion lodged itself in William’s throat and his eyes burned with tears he longed to shed for the boy. He swiped them away. Sorrow tangled with rage.
The lad’s death had been senseless. Unnecessary.
Fib was too young to have joined as a warrior in the first place. William never should have allowed his father to harangue him into bringing the lad. It hadn’t sat comfortably with William. He should have known better.
Even going into battle so soon had not felt right.
He ought to have listened to his gut.
His men had paid the heavy price with their lives. Men, and one lad.
William stared at the opposite side of the cave they’d taken refuge in.
The surrounding forest was thick and they were far enough away that if guards from Mabrick Castle tried to find them, it would be a challenging feat. William and his remaining army needed a chance to see to their wounds and bury their dead.
They were staying only until the afternoon before making their way to Edinburgh to meet with the king’s troops, that castle having just recently been reclaimed.
William had been foolish enough to expect to join them as he celebrated his own victory.
Footsteps sounded at the mouth of the cave, but he didn’t bother to look at who invaded his privacy. “Leave me.”
“Not when ye have an arrow stuck in yer side.”
The voice was feminine, familiar albeit slightly hoarse.
Kinsey.
He turned his face away from her to hide evidence of his grief. “I dinna even feel it.”
Her sweet scent told him she was near. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Defeated, with his heart buried under the weight of such terrible mourning.
“Has he been buried?” William ground out, dreading the answer. He hated the idea of Fib in the earth, his body cold and alone. It was too final.
Kinsey gave a slow intake of breath, loud in the quiet of the cave. “Aye.”
Agony split open inside his chest. Never again would he experience Fib’s eager smiles, his enthusiasm to be counted as a warrior, or the incessant chatter as he went on excitedly about his newly learned skills.
“Ye were right.” William shook his head. “I never should have let him come. Not on the campaign and certainly not in battle.”
Kinsey settled beside him. “He was a determined lad. Ye thought he would be safe. And it isn’t yer fault.” She paused, and when she spoke, her voice was thick. “I tried to get him to leave—”
“Nay.” William looked at her fully now. “It wasna ye.”
Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Understanding showed in her gaze. “Ye truly cared for him.”
“He was a good lad.” The anger welled up inside him once more. “And too damn young.”
“He was,” Kinsey agreed.
Their grief sat between them, emotion running like a current of energy beneath the companionable quiet.
After a time, she gently touched his arm. “Will ye let me look at that arrow wound now?”
He regarded her with renewed fascination. “I dinna know ye were a healer.”
To his surprise, Kinsey gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m not. But apparently, no one else here is either, and I’m the only one who knows how to sew.”
Wariness replaced his fascination. “Have ye sewn a wound before?”
“Nay, but how much different can flesh be than cloth?”
It was as good an answer as any. The wound at his side thrummed in time with his heartbeat, a reminder of its existence.
She was right. He needed her to attend it. He’d seen far too many men carried off by infection.
Their next recruit would need to be a healer.
With a resigned sigh, he lifted his shirt where the arrow had sunk into the left of his abdomen.
Arrows were nasty things. Once they were in, they were the very devil to take out.
If one pulled the shaft, the wax holding the head on would separate, leaving the barbed metal in the wound.
This could only be removed with a scoop, a vicious thing that left the wound gaping.
The best way to go about it was to shove the arrow the rest of the way through.
She probed gingerly at his side, and the discomfort edged into his awareness.
“Reid fought well today.” He watched her as he said it, not expecting a reaction. Especially since she hadn't mentioned William’s friend again. Nor had either of them shown interest in the other.
She pulled a wicked-looking dagger from her back and expertly trimmed away the fletching of the arrow with a quick arc of her wrist. It was a clean cut, one that wouldn’t splinter inside him.
“I suspect ye already know I’ll have to push this straight through.” Her eyes found his. God, but she was beautiful like this, fierce with determination.
“I thought ye said ye were no’ a healer,” he teased.
“I’m an archer.” She smirked. “I know arrows. But my sister has knowledge of healing. I’ve learned a bit from her.” Her brow raised. “A very little bit.” She pulled the stopper off a wineskin.
The pop echoed around the cave, and the scent of whisky reached William. She offered it to him. “Drink first. Ye may want to make it a hearty swallow.”
This was going to hurt.
God, how he hated arrow wounds.
With a resigned clench of his back teeth, he took her advice and drank generously from the wineskin. The alcohol burned down his gullet, and a pleasant heat threaded through his body. He handed the wineskin back. “Get on with it then.”
“Another.” She nodded to the whisky.
Broaching no argument at such instruction, he lifted the whisky to his mouth. No sooner had the liquid passed his lips than a powerful pressure came from the arrow shaft, followed by a brilliant pain as the head punched through his back.
He hissed a breath through his teeth and drank in earnest.
“Not all of it,” she cautioned. “I’ll need some for the wound.”
“That will feel divine, I’m sure,” he gritted out. “I’d rather drink it, ye evil lass.”
She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “A thank ye would do nicely.” She extended one hand toward him, and he gave her the wineskin. “Lay back on yer good side for me.”
“All I have are good sides.” He attempted a charming smile and stretched out on the cave floor.
She rolled her eyes. “Keep talking like that, and mayhap I’ll actually enjoy this.”
Whatever smart retort he might have come up with singed away as the alcohol poured over his injury like fire and made stars wink and fade in front of his eyes. A cloth wiped over his skin in delicate strokes.
His head spun, feeling too light to stay on his body.
Images of the men who had died rushed to the forefront in his mind.
Along with gruesome memories. How the bolt had torn through the two men at once.
How small Fib looked where he lay on the damp leaves of the forest floor, the wound in his chest glistening in the darkness.
Kinsey’s chainmail smeared with his blood.
He was gone. Dead.
And it was William’s fault.
“Unless ye can dodge an arrow, ’tis not yer fault,” Kinsey said.
William lifted his head to look at her, which sent the cave around him swaying. Had he spoken aloud?
“Fib,” he replied earnestly. “The failure of attempting to capture the castle. We should have spent more time observing, and I knew better. ’Twas far too soon to go in.
I sensed it but ignored my instinct.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes against a rush of nausea.
“That damn weapon. If I’d have known…” His throat clenched around the swell of emotion.
“Men died because of me. Fib died because of me.”
Her ministrations paused for a brief moment. “Nay,” she whispered. “’Twas not yer fault at all.” She sniffled. “’Twas mine. I knew about the pot-de-fer but didn’t tell ye. I didn’t realize how powerful it was. Or what it could do to a man.”
William’s mind whirled. “Ye knew?” He stared at her, incredulous. “Ye knew, and ye dinna tell me?”
She looked away. “I couldn’t.”
“Who told ye?” William’s usual patience snapped at its weakest point. Aye, he could get more from her by being charming, but he couldn’t help his anger when she could have spared so much death. “How did ye know?”
She silently shook her hand, clearly intent on not replying. That was when it came to him suddenly. The recollection of the man who had been staring intently at Kinsey at the tavern.
“The dark-haired man,” he said. “At the tavern.”
Her head snapped up, and he knew his guess to be correct.
Kinsey stared at William incredulously. He had seen Drake.
When?
She turned her attention to the wound once more. The arrow had passed through cleanly, and the whisky had appeared to dribble through the wound. Hopefully, it would help stave off any infection.
“Who is he?” William’s breath was coming harder, evidenced by the tight clench of his stomach every time he exhaled.
Even in such a situation, it was difficult to ignore the flex of his body in the firelight.
She threaded a length of catgut through a needle and pretended she didn’t notice his attractive physique. “It’s difficult to explain. Now hold still.”
Healing had always been Clara’s job. Kinsey’s only real assistance was limited to fetching water or bottles of herbs. Never had she needed to tend to someone herself. Her stomach roiled still after having to shove the arrow through William’s side.
The tip of the needle hovered near the edge of his open wound and trembled with the slight shaking of her hand.
It’s like cloth.
She drew in a slow, deep breath.
Just like cloth.
She pushed it to his skin, but it was not at all like cloth. It did not yield easily, requiring more pressure, so she was shoving with the might of her powerful archer’s fingers. The needle popped through, and William’s taut abdomen flinched in a display of lean bands of muscle.