Chapter 2
Clara had killed him.
A whimper escaped her as she knelt next to the man she’d hit with her dagger. Just before he’d collapsed, his eyes had gone wide as they’d found hers.
All around her was death. Slain Englishmen scattered about the forest, and this man who had saved the family trapped in the burning cottage.
He’d saved them, and she’d killed him.
Nay. Perhaps not. She was rushing ahead of herself, being led by her fear. It would not be the first time she’d let anxious feelings get the better of her.
Her dagger still jutted from his back, buried no more than an inch deep. Thanks be to God. It would not have caused too much damage. She pressed gently around the blade, confirming the tip had likely caught on one of his ribs.
Not dead then, just in enough pain to lose awareness.
A swift glance around indicated no Englishmen still lived. At least none she could see, which meant she could hastily staunch his wound before finding a way to get him to safety. For the time being, at least she could ensure he didn’t lose too much blood.
Acting quickly now, she pulled the dagger from his back. It slid free with a wet, sucking sound as blood trickled freely from his wound and darkened the surrounding area of his gambeson. A filthy gambeson, at that.
Such things were the makings of infection, a warrior’s worst enemy.
She tugged a strip of clean linen from the leather pouch she’d brought with her and pushed it against the wound. It was fortunate the cave she’d stayed in the night before was not too far off. His wound would need to be thoroughly cleaned and tended to lest it turn.
She bound another length of linen around his chest, keeping the wadded bit taut against the injury. That was the easy part.
She got to her feet, slung her bag over one shoulder and regarded the massive man at her feet. Moving him would prove difficult. Never one easily deterred, she gripped his thick wrists and tugged. He inched forward.
If this was the only way to save him, so be it.
“I can walk,” he muttered.
“Thank heavens,” she gasped, releasing his arms.
He pushed upright and swayed. His auburn hair hung down to his shoulders, dotted with bits of leaves and grass. There was a sharpness to his golden-hazel eyes as he studied her. “Ye stabbed me?”
Heat effused her cheeks. “Well,” she hedged. “Now I’m saving ye.” She went to his side so that he could drape one sizable arm over her shoulder and she could assist him to her horse.
He did not apply much weight on her despite his size. No doubt he was trying to walk more on his own than relying on her. “My destrier,” he gritted out.
“Is he by the cottage?” she asked.
The man nodded, and his weight began to rest more heavily upon her as they walked.
“I’ll come back for him,” she said. “Only a few more steps.”
He straightened somewhat, easing the bulk of his frame once more.
Perspiration shone on his brow as he looked behind them with obvious concern over his steed, but he did not utter a single complaint of discomfort as he swung up on her horse.
It was indeed a far preferable option to dragging him.
She remained vigilant as she led her horse to the cave. Fortunately, no more English appeared.
She led her horse into the mouth of the cave, and he managed to stagger from the old mare. The air inside was dank and held a clammy chill to it. But it was better than being exposed out in the open.
He leaned against the wall and slowly began to slide down to the ground. “I need to rest a moment.”
She didn’t try to keep him awake as his eyes slid shut.
It was for the best, as she would likely have to stitch him up.
After starting a fire with the remnants of what she’d used the night before, she lay a clean blanket on the ground beside him and reached for the bag still slung over his shoulders.
His large hand gripped her wrist as his eyes flew open, bright with awareness. “What are ye doing?”
She left her fingers curled around the strap, the worn leather smooth to the touch. “I’m seeing to yer wound.”
His brow furrowed in obvious confusion.
“I need to remove yer gambeson and leine,” she explained.
His face smoothed in a subtle grin. “Ach, aye, but only because ye’re so verra beautiful.”
She ignored his flattery as his eyes fell closed once more. He was not the first injured man to pay her compliments, and she paid them little mind.
This time when she drew the bag over his shoulder, he did not wake. Nor did he rouse when she unfastened and withdrew his gambeson and eased his dirty leine over his head. Her gaze skimmed over him, noting the bruises and partially healed wounds marring his muscular torso.
This was a man who had seen battle, and often.
The wound at his back from her dagger still bled, but beside it was another wound, older, the skin around it inflamed. Perhaps it was not one of her daggers that had sent him to the forest floor but a number of injuries. She touched the former wound and gasped at the blazing heat there.
His skin was hot. Too hot.
A jolt of panic shot through her. It hadn’t been a weapon at all that felled this great warrior, but a fever.
She poured out whisky from her wineskin and rinsed his new wound.
“’Tis a fine thing ye’re sleeping,” she quietly said as she set to work cleaning the fresh injury and the one that had gone bad with infection.
The poultice of plantain and calendula on his turned wound would help leach out the contamination while it kept the fresh injury clean and healing in a healthy manner.
She carefully covered both with a strip of linen about his torso, and then she steeped some willow bark in the water she’d boiled in her small pot.
Once the tea had cooled enough, she dribbled the brown liquid into his mouth with careful, patient drops until he’d had enough to reduce his fever.
Hopefully.
As she’d anticipated, he’d remained unconscious through her ministrations.
Indeed, he continued to sleep on even afterward, as the sun sank in the sky and firelight played over his finely featured face.
Rather than try to wrest his leine back on and undo her work, she laid a plaid over his chest to keep him warm.
Though she didn’t intend to, her gaze continued to wander toward him.
It had been impossible not to notice how attractive the man was with his auburn hair, straight nose and a strong jaw that warned her he’d likely be as stubborn as he was alluring.
Equally inescapable of her notice was his strong physique.
Even in his relaxed state, his torso was rippled with banded muscle beneath his scarred skin.
Perhaps it was foolish to remain in the cave with him, a man more than double her own weight and emanating raw power. Just because he was Scottish didn’t mean he was good. And there were many with prejudice against her due to the English inflection of her accent.
Except there had been kindness in the mysterious man’s eyes when his gaze fell on her after she’d thrown her dagger at him. She knew it made her seem whimsical, but something about the way he had looked at her touched a place deep inside her.
He thought her beautiful.
An indulgent warmth swelled in her chest. Surely, he meant her no harm, and even if he did, she was not defenseless. Not with her daggers within reach.
And anyway, she could scarcely toss him out in such a state into the forest where Englishmen might happen upon him. If his fever were not tended to, he would most assuredly die.
Therefore, it was easy to justify staying in the cave with the man as he slept, leaving only to obtain vegetation and a snared rabbit to make a stew for them both and reclaim his destrier.
With luck, he would recover soon, and she could resume her travels to the Paisley Abbey, where there would be no more chances of encountering handsome, mysterious men in the forest.
Her gaze slid to him once more, and her cheeks went warm.
For he was truly fine to look upon.
The savory aroma of cooking meat coaxed Reid from a deep slumber. His stomach snarled with hunger, dissatisfied with the hunk of old cheese he’d eaten some time ago. How long ago?
He blinked his eyes open to find the world had gone dark save for the cheerfully burning fire, which reflected an orange-red light off the jagged walls of what appeared to be a cave. A pot hung from a strip of metal over the flames, its contents bubbling with whatever had roused him.
Sweat clung to his skin beneath a thick plaid. His mouth tasted like ash, and his throat was dry as stone. Sleep tugged at him, even with the promise of food so near. His eyes slid closed once more when several questions assaulted his mind.
Where was he?
How had he come to be here?
Where was his bloody leine?
He jerked awake and pushed up on one arm. The injury at his back screamed in agony, but he brushed it aside, the same as he’d been doing since he’d been struck the past fortnight. ’Twas only a flesh wound, after all.
The blanket fell away, leaving his damp skin chilled despite the nearby fire.
“Ye’re awake.” A feminine voice pulled his attention to the right, where a striking woman approached him with a flagon. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a thick braid, and the eyes that met his were a pale shade he knew to be blue despite the muted light.
His heartbeat quickened with recognition.
Clara.
“Ye’re lucky to be alive.” She settled on the ground beside him and handed him the vessel.
Liquid sloshed inside and made his parched throat burn.
She nodded encouragingly. “’Tis ale.”
He put the rim to his lips and tilted his head back as he drank deeply, reveling in the refreshing wash of cool liquid against his parched mouth. It ran empty all too quickly.
Clara held out her hand for the flagon. “I’ll pour more.”
“Why am I here?” He asked, his voice rough with fatigue.
“Ye’re injured.” She cast her eyes demurely downward. “I fear I threw a dagger at ye.”