Chapter 8 #2
Lachlan pulled his claymore from the scabbard on his back, setting it by the empty brazier, and sat heavily on a stool that he turned upright with a scrape, his leg throbbing.
He pushed this leg out in front of him, lifting his plaid to see in the very dim light from the half-missing roof, that the bandages were drenched in more than water, blood was starting to seep.
“Let me clean that for ye,” Isabel said.
Before he could argue, she was already unraveling the soaked bandages, her movements efficient, practiced, and no nonsense.
Her maid struck a flint, and lit a candle in the small space, lighting the way for her to work.
Its glow revealed the meager, ramshackle space.
There was one small pallet, a broken table where he’d pulled the stool from, a rusted pot, and little else but hard ground.
Lachlan sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers palpated the aching flesh.
“Careful,” he muttered before he could stop himself. My gods, but he really hated being so vulnerable.
She glanced up at him, sympathy in her face, and he hated that too. Yet he was glad that she didn’t say anything, though her expression spoke volumes. She reached for her satchel, pulling out a jar of salve and fresh bandages.
He watched her as she worked, her brow furrowed slightly. Her touch was gentle and soothing, the ache dulling to a mild throb. She glanced up at him a few times, and still she said nothing. Her attention returning to the bandages, though he could feel her awareness of him lingering.
“Ye stare at me an awful lot, lass, for someone who claims to dislike me,” he teased.
Without hesitation, she said, “I’m checking to see if ye’re still alive.”
Lachlan grinned and raised a playful brow. “Disappointed?”
She ignored him then, but he could see the little twitch of her lip curling up in a smile.
One of his warriors, Angus, ducked into the lodge a few moments later. “I found a few logs that were no’ too wet,” he said. “I’ll light a fire for ye, laird.”
Lachlan shook his head. “Nay, ‘twill only draw attention.”
“Aye,” Angus said, glancing at Lady Isabel, “but the lassies…”
“Ye’re already close to catching a fever from your injuries. The last thing we need is for it to come on because we froze to death,” she said. “A candle will no’ do the job, and we really should save it, besides.”
Reluctantly, Lachlan agreed. “Ye take the pallet, my lady,” he said.
Isabel shook her head. “Nay. Ye need it more than me. Ye’re injured. I’ll take the floor with my maid.”
Already her lady’s maid was pulling blankets from their satchels and shaking them out. Lachlan shook his head again.
“I refuse to sleep on a bed when a woman is sleeping on the floor. What do ye take me for, some sort of tyrant?”
Isabel rolled her eyes. “’Tis no’ about taking anyone anywhere for anything. ‘Tis about the fact that ye are injured and I am no’.”
“I’ll no’ lie comfortably while ye freeze beside me.”
“Ye’re a stubborn arse. And I refuse.” She crossed her arms over her chest, chin lifted in challenge as she tapped her foot on the floor.
Lachlan didn’t argue further. He simply took his blanket, dropped it on the hard ground and lowered himself onto it with a grim set to his jaw.
The cold came for him first. It seeped through the stone, the blanket, and into bone and muscle alike, until he could no longer tell if he was freezing or burning. Isabel huffed, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to take him before she could argue with him again.
He woke to an uncontrollable trembling of his limbs and the chatter of his teeth. Despite his shivering, his skin was hot to the touch. The world tilted and blurred. Something cool touched his forehead.
Lachlan forced his eyes open to find Isabel hovering above him, her face drawn tight with concern.
“Ye rage with fever,” she said. “This is why ye should have been in the bed.”
Here he was, a fever raging as she said, and she was still finding time to rebuke him. If he weren’t delirious he would have laughed. Lachlan tried to say something defiant, but the words tangled on his tongue and came out sounding more like a groan.
“Stubborn mule,” she muttered, “Keeping everyone awake because of your pride.”
Strong hands, hers and two sets of others, gripped his arms and legs. The movement sent a spike of pain through his leg, but he could not muster the strength to resist as Hamish and Finlay eased him onto the pallet.
Isabel pressed a cool cloth to his face, and he let out a slow, unsteady breath. They hadn’t even ridden an entire day before he’d fallen ill. Pathetic. What kind of a warrior was he? Damned Sassenachs had done this to him. But he was too weak even to gather more anger.
As he shivered, she unceremoniously lay down beside him, pulling her blanket over them both. The added warmth was an immediate comfort.
“Dinna try anything, warrior,” she said. “I am here but to keep ye warm.”
A small laughed escaped him. “Ye are safe with me,” he said through chattering teeth.
“I’m no’ afraid of ye, warrior. Mayhap a little concerned over a wandering hand is all.”
Lachlan didn’t know whether to be offended or glad that she trusted him.
“I’ve no’ wandering hands, lass.”
“Hmm,” she said, her body heat steady at his side, grounding him in a way he had not expected.
The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him, was the unsettling realization that he did not want her to move away.