Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I’m ready now, Arran!” Skye called as she emerged from the bushes.
Suddenly, the sound of clanging metal shattered her peace. Two men attacked Arran, and she rushed to aid him.
“Skye, stay back!” he hollered.
This time, she obeyed.
Arran held his sword tight, ready to swing again.
“Step aside, Laird MacArthur,” one of the men growled, his voice rough and threatening. “We are here for Skye Pressly. I daenae want to kill ye as I’ve been ordered to, but I will.”
Arran tightened his grip on his weapon. “I daenae think ye’ll be doing either,” he replied coolly. He drew his blade back over his shoulder, the polished metal catching the last rays of the sun. “I’m givin’ ye one chance. Leave now, and ye will live.”
The men exchanged glances before lunging forward, one slightly ahead of the other.
The lead man, his sword held at the ready, struck first. Arran met the attack head-on, his sword clashing against his with a sharp ring.
The man was skilled, his movements swift and precise, but Arran’s size and his brute strength gave him an advantage. Nor was he without skill.
The second assailant circled to strike him from the side, but Arran had out his dagger, and used it to fend off the blows.
He met each of the man’s strikes and countered with powerful blows that sent the attacker tumbling to the ground, his sword flying from his grasp.
Realizing he was beaten, the coward turned and fled into the forest. Arran let him go, and focused on his companion.
The first attacker persevered and delivered blow after blow, but Arran moved expertly and dodged each one with ease. Blackwell’s man caught him one time on the arm, and the wound stung.
Skye gasped when she saw blood trickling from the wound. She looked at Arran, but the wound seemed to only give him more strength. He gritted his teeth, and with a mighty swing of his sword, he struck the man’s wrist. The man cried out and dropped his blade with a thud.
“Ye are beaten,” Arran stated. “Surrender, now.”
But the man still did not give up. He lunged at Arran with a roar, his fists swinging wildly.
Arran sidestepped, landing a swift punch on the man’s jaw.
The man staggered but recovered quickly, and he launched himself at Arran again.
Arran punched him square in the jaw a second time, harder now, and the man stumbled back once again, dazed.
Arran took him by the shoulders, bent him back over his extended leg, and pushed him down to the ground.
The attacker lay on the forest floor, breathing heavily. Arran stood over him, his sword pointed at his chest.
“Yield,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the pain in his arm.
The man hesitated, and Skye thought it was finally over. But the man turned his head and lunged for Arran’s leg, ready to bite him. Arran anticipated the move and swung his sword up one final time, before plunging it down directly through the man’s neck.
Skye looked away quickly but could hear the blood splatter everywhere as the life drained from the eneme’s body.
Arran looked at the man and then back at Skye, noticing the tears in her eyes. Skye’s heart pounded hard as she watched the man’s blood pool onto the forest floor.
Arran, oddly composed, turned to her with a nod. “We need to move, Skye,” he said. His voice was steady, but she sensed his urgency. “There might be more.”
Skye nodded but then reached to the hem of her skirt. She used her belt knife to tear strip of cloth from the bottom of her chemise, and wrapped it around his wound.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked.
“Nay, Skye. It is just a scratch. I’ve had worse. Leave it now. We must go.”
She mounted Iona, and Arran climbed onto Devil. Without another word, they left the pool and the cool forest cover. As soon as they reached the road, each urged their horses into a gallop.
The wind whipped through Skye’s hair and dried the tears on her face. She stole glances at Arran as he rode steadfastly at her side. She knew Devil was faster, but neither stallion nor man would leave her and Iona behind.
Her heart clenched at the sight of the bloodied cloth around his arm. The battle had been horrible to watch. She had never seen a man get killed, but Arran’s injury pained her more. She was terrified it might get infected without the proper treatment.
As soon as they’d rode a fair distance and neared home, she noticed something that filled her with dread.
Arran leaned to the side in his saddle, his usually erect posture slumped. Skye steered Iona closer to Devil, only to see that Arran’s face was as pale as a sheet.
“Arran!” she called, but he didn’t respond.
Panic surged through her. She spurred Iona forward, pulling ahead of Devil. She reached out and grabbed the reins of Arran’s horse and brought both animals to a halt. Devil snorted and stomped his hooves on the ground, sensing the tension.
Skye dismounted swiftly and with trembling hands pulled Arran down from his saddle. He was heavy, his body limp. She lowered him to the ground as quickly as she could, her heart racing with fear. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing shallow.
“Arran, stay with me,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. She quickly tied the horses to a nearby bush. She would need them.
She examined the wound on his arm. The edges were an angry red, and dark veins spread from the cut, a telltale sign of poison.
“No,” she whispered.
She’d seen this before, but she had no healing potions or tonics with her. The few she had were all back at the keep.
“Hold on, Arran,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Just hold on.”
Quickly she went to the bag hanging on Devil’s saddle.
She took it to Arran’s side so she could keep an eye on the wound.
She pulled the root from it, scrubbed it as clean as she could on her skirt, then placed it in a fold of the cloth that had been their table linen.
She used the haft of her belt knife to pound the root into a pulp.
As she placed the pulped root over his wound, Arran’s eyes fluttered open, and he managed a weak smile. “I’ve faced worse,” he murmured, though his voice was strained.
“Daenae talk,” Skye ordered, her tone firm despite her fear. “Save yer strength.”
She glanced around, calculating now long it would take to get him home. Leaving him alone was not an option. One of his attackers was still alive. But how would she get him back on a horse? Devil was already prancing and tossing his head.
What was it Arran had said? That only he and Callum could handle the big horse.
She pulled Arran away from the road and made him as comfortable as possible beneath the bush where the horses were tied. “I’ll be back,” she promised.
Arran was practically unconscious now, and he did not protest.
Leaving Devil on guard, she mounted Iona and urged the mare into a gallop. If she remembered correctly, there was a cottage nearby. She’d seen it on the way to Aberray. She prayed silently for him to stay safe until she could return.
The cottage came into view, a modest structure nestled among the trees. Skye almost leaped off Iona, rushing to the door and pounding her fists on it furiously.
“Please, help!” she shouted, her voice cracking with urgency.
An older woman opened the door, her eyes sharp despite her years. “What’s the matter, lass?”
“It’s me husband. He’s been poisoned. Please, come quickly!” Skye pleaded, grabbing the woman’s arm.
The woman didn’t waste a moment. She rushed back into her cottage, and at first, Skye thought she was refusing to help them. But within a moment, the woman reappeared, armed with a healer’s bag.
Skye helped the woman up onto Iona, than put the mare into a gallup to where Arran lay. Each second felt like an eternity. Skye’s heart was heavy with fear and hope.
When they reached Arran, the woman quickly revealed her name was Nelda. “I am a healer, lass. We’ve got this.”
She knelt beside him, her experienced hands swiftly examining the wound. “Ye did well to clean it,” she said. “And yer poultic is good. But this poison is strong. We must act quickly.”
Skye watched her prepare another poultice from her bag. She placed a hand on Arran’s forehead and felt his skin burning like fire.
“I daenae have anything for the fever, lass. And he needs medicine.”
Skye said, “I have fresh willow twigs, and yarrow.”
“Just the thing,” the older woman said. “Look in me bag. Ye’ll find a small pot, tinder, and a flint.”
Skye nodded, inwardly vowing to never leave home without her own healer’s bag, quite forgetting that it was one of the first things Blackwell had taken from her when he threw her into the prison cell.
She quickly started a small fire, and poured water from the skin that had been part of their lunch into the small pot. She then added the willow twigs. They would do nothing for the poison,but could ease pain and perhaps bring down the fever.
Meanwhile, the older woman had gone into the grove behind the bush where Devil was tethered. There was the sound of chopping, and she came back dragging two long poles.
“Which horse is more likely to drag a burden safely?” the woman asked.
“Iona,” Skye replied. “But I’m not sure how Devil will behave.”
“We’ll have to chance it,” the older woman said. “For ye an’ I between us will nae be able to get yer man on a horse.”
The healer quickly made a litter, using the two poles and the remains of their picnic blanket. Between them, they managed to roll Arran onto it. Skye felt as if her heart would stop at the way Arran’s body lay limply on the cloth.