Chapter 29 Angel of Mercy
THE WAY UP the mound was rocky. Rough going, even drenched in moonlight. It was difficult not to turn her ankle or trip. No wonder those men had made such hard work of descending earlier.
But panic now thrummed in Fiona’s breast, and as she reached the brow of the hill and the tower itself, she broke into a run. “Ailean!” she called, her voice echoing in the stillness. “Ailean!”
No answer came.
Fearing the worst, she hurried across the courtyard, past a squat stone well, and turned left, climbing the four steps that led through the open stone archway. Someone had kicked the flimsy wattle door open.
And inside, she found him.
Ailean stood by the hearth, an iron poker in his hand. “Fiona,” he slurred. “What are ye doing here?”
She ignored his question, focusing instead on his face. Blood streamed down his cheek from a gash to his forehead. His lower lip was swelling.
“Satan’s cods,” she breathed. “What did they do to ye?”
“They would have done far worse.” He attempted a grin and winced. “But I saw the shitebags off.”
Fiona’s lips parted with shock. One against five. Armed only with a poker. And he’d sent them running.
He swayed on his feet, nearly toppling into the fire. Fiona rushed forward and caught his arm, steadying him. “Ye need to sit down, Ailean,” she said urgently. “Come.”
She shifted him sideways to where a stool lay overturned from the fight, righted it, and gently pushed him down onto it.
“Who were they?” she asked, even as her gaze flicked to the open doorway.
“Those MacDonald brothers,” he mumbled through his swollen lip. “Seems they took umbrage at being thrown out of the tavern and came back with some friends to teach me a lesson … a permanent one.”
Fiona breathed a curse. “I had a feeling they weren’t done,” she admitted. “Just a sense in my gut that they’d be back.”
“And, unfortunately, ye were right,” he said thickly. “Though after this, I don’t think they’ll try again.”
She huffed out an exasperated breath. “Let’s hope not.”
She looked around then, taking in his living space.
The floor was newly laid, and a large square hearth and a scrubbed worktable in one corner dominated the room.
A curtain divided his sleeping space from the rest. The upper levels were still under repair, but unlike Diarmaid, he didn’t live in squalor.
Aye, two stools had been overturned in the fight, and a jug lay shattered on the flagstones, but the space wasn’t cluttered and dirty.
It was simple, and it wouldn’t be overly warm in winter, but it felt like a home.
It felt like him.
Pushing aside the foolish thought, she crouched in front of him and examined his face. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “they made a right mess of ye.”
“The big one got me in the mouth,” he said, testing his teeth with thumb and forefinger. “I don’t think anything’s loose, though.”
“Just as well,” she replied, studying the split lip—then her attention fixed on the gash on his forehead. His eyes were slightly unfocused. His pupils dilated. He’d taken some heavy blows and shouldn’t be left alone tonight.
“That cut on yer temple needs seeing to,” she said briskly. Then she stood and held out her hand. “Come on. I’m taking ye back to the tavern so I can sew ye up.”
He waved her away. “There’s no need. It’s just a scratch.”
“No, it isn’t,” she snapped. “I can see the white of yer skull through that cut. And ye look fit to keel over.” Her gaze hardened. “Ye’re coming with me, Maclean. And I’ll have no argument about it.”
Sitting upon Eithne’s kitchen table, Ailean watched as the two women bustled about the space around him. Fiona was pouring hot water into a bowl while Eithne fetched some strips of linen.
“Those MacDonalds,” Eithne muttered. “We’ll have the bastards stoned.”
“I don’t think ye’ll see them again,” Ailean assured her, attempting a smile and then grimacing as his split lip stung. He didn’t add that, although they hadn’t beaten him to a bloody pulp as they’d planned, it had been a close thing.
He’d been sitting by the fire, whittling a piece of wood, and thinking about the work he had planned for the following day, when the scuff of a boot outside had brought him swiftly to his feet. There’d been just time to grab the poker as they kicked in the door.
And then it had been all on.
Five of them. Big brutes. Swarming in.
He’d fought like a man possessed, fury catching fire in his veins. Suddenly, he’d been back on the battlefield, swinging his claidheamh-mòr instead of an iron poker. However, it had turned out to be a formidable weapon. They’d come armed with dirks. One of them had held a cudgel.
He’d taken blows and wounds, but he’d dealt his own. And after he’d felled two of them, the others—cowards at heart—had fled, taking their injured companions with them.
He’d been about to crumple when Fiona appeared like an angel of mercy on his doorstep.
Never had he been so glad to see anyone.
Now he felt cold and shivery in the aftermath, shock setting in. His head throbbed. And as Fiona moved close, pouring some vinegar into the bowl of hot water, he found it difficult to focus.
She was right. The knocks he’d taken to the skull had affected him. He needed rest.
However, as she moved closer still—stepping up between his spread thighs and dipping a strip of linen into the water—her nearness made his belly tighten.
She was lovely tonight. Her golden hair was unbound. Her cheeks flushed.
He ached to draw her close, to wrap his arms around her. But, of course, he did no such thing. Instead, he stilled, his breathing growing shallow as she dabbed at his lip with the cloth.
He winced. “Ouch.”
“Hold still,” she said sternly, a groove etching between her brows.
“He holds off five brutes with a poker,” Eithne said, amused as she laid more cloths beside the bowl, “but whimpers when a woman dabs at his lip.”
“Aye, it’s always the way with men,” Fiona replied.
Eithne studied him, her brow furrowing. “Yer father should hear of this.”
“I’ll let him know,” Ailean assured her, even as his belly clenched.
Part of him didn’t want Rae learning about the attack.
It had happened, and he’d handled it. And he knew in his gut those MacDonalds wouldn’t return.
They’d overreached. They’d underestimated him and would move on and stir up trouble elsewhere.
Nonetheless, the Chieftain of Dounarwyse had to be kept informed.
Ailean owed him that.
Fiona shot him a questioning look, as she’d marked the wariness in his voice.
Their gazes met then, and he wondered why no one at Ardnacross had learned about their scandal.
He’d expected news to leak, for the men who worked with him sometimes to say they’d heard.
But none of them had changed in their manner toward him.
And with the passing of days and weeks, he’d begun to hope news wouldn’t reach Ardnacross, after all.
Fiona must have been relieved as well.
“Ye look like a man in need of an ale,” Eithne said then, moving to where a jug and cup sat.
She poured him a drink and handed it over.
“And if ye’re not, ye soon will be. Ye’ll require something to take the edge off when Fiona stitches yer temple.
” Then she turned to the lass in question.
“There’s a bone needle and catgut on the bench behind ye, Fi. ”
Fiona nodded. “Thank ye.”
“Ye’ve done this before, I hope?” Ailean asked, nervousness fluttering.
He didn’t like needles. It reminded him of that rough surgeon on the battlefield a couple of years earlier who’d taken pleasure in causing him agony as he sewed up a gash on his arm.
He’d wanted to punch the man’s teeth down his throat.
She favored him with an arch look. “My father’s a carpenter. He did himself a few injuries over the years. And I’m not just skilled at weaving … but good with needle and thread too.”
“Sounds like ye’re in safe hands,” Eithne teased. She cut a quick look between them.
A knowing look.
It made Ailean stiffen. Had Fiona told her about them?
“I’ll return to my bed before Ewan comes looking for me,” Eithne said, moving away. “Make up a bed in the annex. Ailean should sleep there tonight.”
“I will,” Fiona said.
“Thank ye, Eithne,” he murmured.
Nodding to him, Eithne departed, her slippered feet padding across the floor. And as soon as she was gone, Fiona became all business. Her movements were brisk, bordering on sharp, as she reached for a cloth and dipped it in the vinegar water.
He didn’t blame her. This was likely the last thing she wanted to be doing.
“Let’s have a look at that cut on yer forehead,” she said, a curt edge to her voice now.
Ailean stiffened. When the sting came, he hissed.
She leaned in close—so close he caught the hint of rosemary.
A familiar scent. Her clothing smelled of lanolin and dye, but her skin was different.
He remembered their last encounter in her dye-house at Dounarwyse. How he’d taken her against the wall, buried his face in her neck, and breathed in that same perfume.
She bathed with rosemary soap. It would forever remind him of her.
“Ye’ll need four or five stitches at least,” she said, then pulled a face. “One for each MacDonald who attacked ye.”
“Well, that’s fitting,” he said, trying to lighten the moment. “A stitch for each bastard I bested.”
She huffed and eyed him. “Why do ye always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act as if nothing bothers ye. As if ye’re invincible.” Her gaze sharpened. “Ye clearly aren’t.”
Silence fell as she gathered the needle and catgut.
Ailean watched her thread it. “It’s my way of managing, I suppose,” he admitted finally. “It’s easier to make light of things.”
She inclined her head. “Ye think showing others who ye really are is a sign of weakness?”
He grimaced. “Isn’t it?”
“Sounds like a sure way to end up miserable,” she replied with a shake of her head.
Their gazes held before he cleared his throat. “Ye know who I am, Fiona,” he said softly.
“Do I?” she replied, her manner stiffening. “I don’t think ye ever really let me in.” She moved closer then. “Grip the table. Hard. This will hurt.”
It did.
Each stitch burned. Fire raced down his face. But he didn’t flinch this time. He just gripped onto the table until his fingers ached.
“Ye’re doing well,” she said. Grudging respect laced her voice now. “I was wrong. Ye’re not a bairn about this.”
He made a sound, half laugh, half groan.
Eventually, she finished and cleaned the wound. “These will need to be removed in a week. Come to the tavern, and I’ll do it.”
“Thank ye,” he said, still breathless from pain.
She inclined her head, scrutinizing him. “How do ye feel?”
“I’ve felt better. My head hurts.”
She frowned. “Ye need rest.”
As she turned away, he caught her wrist gently. “I’m glad ye came to find me in the tower,” he said. “It means more than ye know.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I was out for a walk and saw that shifty group of men struggling down the hill. I had to check on ye. I’d have done it for anyone.”
“And were ye relieved to find me alive?” He knew he shouldn’t ask the question, yet he couldn’t help it.
Her chest hitched, a pulse fluttering in her throat. “Stop it,” she whispered.
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm lightly. “I shall … but know this. Ye are an angel, Fiona Mackinnon … and I will never forget yer kindness tonight.”
Letting her go, he allowed her to step back. Color flooded her cheeks before she turned away. “Let me see to that room for ye.”