Chapter 4
Chapter Four
As they rode hard towards the MacDonald Keep, the wound on Tavish’ shoulder continued to bleed.
Ailsa, at first, tried to ignore it. What did it matter to her if this man was hurting? He had hardly cared for her comfort when he had demanded her hand in marriage with no warning, anyway, and she could see no reason why she should play along.
But, while they closed the distance between themselves and the Keep, she could feel his body growing heavier and heavier in the saddle.
She was leaning up against him, arms wrapped around him, as he had insisted when she had climbed on to the horse with him.
She had tried to protest, tried to tell him that she’d be fine riding side-saddle and holding on to the stiff nub that stuck up from the back of the tack, but he had simply shaken his head and told her that, the way he rode, she would not last long in such a pose.
So, she had done as she was told, deciding it was best not to anger him after what had happened. He rode out ahead of his men, the carriage trundling, empty, behind them, and she was glad at least for the chance to breathe fresh air.
They followed a small burn for a while, the twists and turns mirroring those in the road, and the trickle of water soothed her somewhat, even if it was not enough to allow her to forget her fate entirely.
She could sense that he didn’t want to show any weakness in front of his men, but she could already tell they were terrified of him as it was.
She hadn’t realized how deep the wound in his arm had been.
His reaction when he had brushed it off had led her to think it was nothing more than a flesh wound, but now, she could see it had not stopped bleeding.
He let out a slight grunt of discomfort every time he pulled the reins one way or the other, the muscle flexing painfully with every movement, until she could take it no more.
She squeezed tight around his waist, trying to get his attention.
“Ye must stop.”
He ignored her. At first, she thought he hadn’t heard her, but when she caught a look at his face, she knew he was simply choosing to pretend not to.
She tried again, thumping his side lightly. “Tavish, listen to me,” she demanded. “Ye must stop! Yer wound willnae stop bleeding, and if ye leave it untouched—”
“No’ long till we get back to the Keep,” he growled at her. “It can wait till then.”
“How far?”
“Soon.”
She drove her arm into his side again. “How far, Tavish?”
“Another hour,” he confessed finally, his eyes set forward. “Perhaps two.”
“Ye cannae wait that long,” she insisted. “Stop the horse. I can tend to it if I get some clean fabric and whiskey…”
“I said it’s alright!” he said through gritted teeth and let the horse gallop onward a little longer.
But when another shock of pain seemed to pass through his body, Ailsa had enough of his stubbornness.
“Stop or I’ll make ye! Ye hear me, Tavish?”
The pain must have been insufferable because he pulled the steed to the side of the road with no further protest. Surely he did not care about her threats. Maybe it was the thought that she could run for it again and he wouldn’t be able to chase after her that irritated him more.
She hopped down, glad for a moment to gather herself, and waved down a few of the approaching guards so she could use their help.
The handful of men following behind were quick to join them, and she planted her hands on her hips as Tavish dismounted behind her. At least she could show that she was somewhat useful. Perhaps it would earn her some respect among the men, even if she would not get much else in return.
“I need whiskey and a few rags,” she told one of the guards as they approached, glancing towards Tavish with surprise.
She raised her eyebrows pointedly. “Ye cannae leave the Laird waiting!” she pointed out. “Go!”
They sprang into action, and she turned her attention to Tavish. He could not quite meet her gaze, as though there was something he loathed about allowing someone to see him in this state.
“On yer knees,” she told him.
He stared at her for a moment. “What did ye—”
“I cannae reach the wound,” she pointed out. “Ye’ll need to stoop.”
Tavish stared back at her for a long moment, but then, to her surprise, he did as she asked.
For a moment, her hands faltered over the cut in his shirt.
Something about seeing him like this, on his knees before her—the first inch of deference that he had shown to her since they had first met—was as alluring as it was shocking.
She didn’t know he had it in him, a willingness to kneel for her, but…
“Ye enjoy seeing me on my knees, lass?" he asked, half-tilting his head to hers.
Silently, she answered his question, More than I should…
The guards returned with a flask of whiskey and some pieces of a tunic that had clearly been torn off just a few moments before—not much, but it was something.
The guards fell back, taking the chance to have a drink and gather themselves before the final leg of the journey.
She pressed some of the fabric against the bottle, soaking it in whiskey before she swiped it along the open wound.
Tavish drew in a sharp breath but did not make a sound in protest, staring at the ground beside him like it would keep the pain from showing on his face.
She bit her lip as she thought of what had happened. If it hadn’t been for her rushing off into the woods, he wouldn’t have taken that hit. She’d led him right into a trap, and he had been the one to pay for it.
“Ye shouldnae have taken the hit,” she remarked, once she had wiped away the blood that had dried on to the skin around the cut. There was little they could do to save the shirt, it was ruined now, but at least she could stop the wound from getting any worse.
“Not as though I had a choice,” he grunted back, not bothering to look up at her.
“Lift yer arm.”
He shifted it slightly, just enough that she could reach beneath it and wrap the strip of the tunic around him. She tightened it, making sure it would not slip while he rode, and he started at the sudden pressure against him. She noticed, as she worked, that her fingers were trembling slightly.
There is something about seeing him like this, seeing the vulnerability in his body represented by the wound, that felt almost intrusive to her.
As if it was a side of himself he would never have chosen to show her given the chance.
It seemed that under the strength of his muscles and his blade lay something softer, more vulnerable than a man like him would ever want to put into words.
Once she was sure that the wound was properly covered, she brushed the threads that had come loose aside and stepped back, surveying him to make certain that he was in one piece.
He glanced up at her there, from where he knelt on the ground, and for a second, she just looked back at him, the breath knocked from her body.
It made no sense to her that a man as fearful and terrifying as him could look at her with that gaze, from where he stooped below her, deferring to her, if only for a moment. Then, her mind drifted back to the very attackers who had caused this in the first place.
‘Those men who attacked us,” she remarked, changing the subject as he straightened up and adjusted the saddle.
No blood leaked through the bandage she had placed on his arm, and she had to hope that she had done enough to keep the bleeding from getting any worse while they rode.
“They wore MacCairn tartan, did they not?”
He did not look back at her as he untangled a knot in the reins. “Aye.”
“Are the MacCairns not an ally to the—”
“They’re no friends of mine,” he replied, cutting her off before she could go any further, much to her chagrin.
“But—”
“Let’s move.”
With that, he reached for her with his good arm, grasping her around the waist and lifting her up onto the horse.
She loathed that it was so easy for him to move her to and fro, regardless of her protests.
It didn’t matter what she might have said to him, he could overpower her in an instant, and that was all there was to it.
The strength of his grip around her waist, even after the blow he had just taken, surprised her into silence for a second, but by the time he came to join her on the horse and gestured for his men to begin the ride once more, she was keen to return to the matter at hand.
“Did Malric send those men or—”
“That’s enough, Ailsa,” he shot back to her, his voice leaving no room for argument.
She reluctantly put her hands on his sides, holding on to his kilt to keep from slipping from the horse.
“If I am to be yer wife, I think I deserve to ken these things,” she retorted.
She was feeling bolder now, having seen him stooped there at her feet, but the way he glanced back over his shoulder at her warned her that she should have thought better of it.
“Watch yer words, lass,” he warned her. “Or I might have to bind ye when we get back to the Keep.”
She tensed at the very thought of it. Did this man not have enough control of her as it was?
Was he really so determined to have her bend to his will that he would do something like that?
The glint in his eye made it hard to tell whether he was joking or not, though she got the feeling that he would do whatever it took to keep his wife in line.
“Tie me up?” she protested. “What do ye want, a wife or a mare, Tavish?”
He flashed her a grin that did not reach his eyes.
“No’ much difference,” he replied as he gripped the reins and turned his eyes back to the road. “Either way, I’ll need to tame ye.”
And, with that, he drove the horse into a gallop, leaving her clinging on for dear life—and wondering exactly what sort of marriage she was headed towards in that moment.
And knowing, deep down, that whatever the answer, it was far too late for her to find a way out.