Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
“Ow, would ye stop prodding it, woman?” the laird said as he winced. “T’is merely a scratch, lass; I’ve had worse.”
“Nay by me brother's hand ye havnae,” she admonished. “I cannae get to it with yer léine on.”
“I dinnae need ye to ‘get to it’; it’ll heal just fine without ye pokin’ it.”
“Off!” she said before she had really thought through what she had said.
Keira had seen many naked men’s torsos in her line of work, and she barely considered what she had asked him to do until he actually pulled the thing over his hand.
As his hair swung back into place, falling over his shoulders, and he placed the shirt on the log beside him, she tried to keep her gaze firmly on his wound.
The man had the most muscular chest she had ever seen. It was rare that she worked with anyone other than farmers and laborers. They were lean, fit men but undernourished and usually smaller in stature than this man. He was enormous, both in height and breadth, and his muscles had been honed over years of fighting.
She swallowed, her mouth going dry as she reached up to palpate the wound, and he rolled his eyes as she huffed at him.
“Ye are as bad as a bairn, and they have far more excuse than ye,” she said firmly as she satisfied herself that the cut was not too deep, although it was not, as he had said, ‘just a scratch’.
She was well accustomed to men insisting that an injury was nothing to bother about. A few days later, they would turn up at her doorstep with a sore head, sweating from head to foot, and she would have to deal with the problem several days after it would have been much easier to fix.
“I’ve never been ordered about as much as I have today,” he muttered.
“I doubt that, Me laird, and I am only orderin’ ye about because ye willnae sit still. I am tryin’ to help ye.”
His dark gaze fell on her, and she caught her breath at the power in it.
“Ye’d be surprised to learn, lass, that I am usually the one givin’ orders.”
She swallowed as his eyes remained trained on her for several seconds. The weight of his words made it sound as though he were not just speaking of ordering his men, but of ordering her around. Keira wasn’t sure why that idea was so appealing.
She imagined him refusing to take no for an answer, ordering her to do his bidding. Perhaps she was his personal healer, waiting on his requirements day and night—beholden to every command he chose to give her. Something about that made her shudder in anticipation.
She placed her hands on either side of the wound as she continued cleaning it, trying to distract her mind from her wayward thoughts.
“And what would ye order me to do, Me laird?”
His voice was low as he responded. “I havenae decided yet.”
She felt a tremor of anticipation run through her and quickly went into her bag to retrieve a fresh bandage in order to distract herself. She was accustomed to carrying medical supplies everywhere she went, and she was grateful that Scott had brought Cuddy, their donkey, with them, as Cuddy’s pack had everything she needed for a wound such as this.
As she began to wrap the wound, she felt the laird’s muscles relax beneath her fingers.
She would never have suspected that her love of healing would have brought her to where she now was in her life.
Shaking off unpleasant memories of Lucas and what he might be planning for her, she bandaged the laird’s wound tightly, ensuring that there was no room for air to reach it, and bound the gauze beneath his shoulder.
As she did so, something occurred to her, and she frowned, leaning away from him.
“Thank the heavens,” he muttered as she released him, moving to pull his léine back on. On instinct, she reached out a hand and took hold of his wrist. He turned to her, only inches between their faces as she held on to his arm and waited for him to stop resisting.
“I wish to see that it has stopped bleedin’;” she said softly, “if ye cover it, I willnae be able to observe it.”
Slowly, she ran her fingers over his wrist and took hold of the léine, plucking it from his grasp and placing it back on the log. Their bodies were so close she could feel the heat from him warming her chest.
Slowly he sank back onto the log, moving away from her, his breathing coming more quickly than it had been.
“I dinnae ken yer name, Me laird,” she said softly.
He turned back toward her, his eyes moving over her face, down to her lips, and back again. She watched his throat contract as he swallowed.
“Laird MacAllen,” he replied, just before he raised his shoulder, as though testing the movement.
“Stop movin’ it,” she said, placing a hand over his shoulder, only to have him grip her wrist, pulling her hand away. In the same movement, he dragged her toward him, forcing her to place a hand against his bare chest to stop herself from colliding with him.
“Stop tellin’ me what to do,” he growled.
Noah battled not to grip her by her arms and drag her in for a kiss. He had not expected to be half-naked in front of her, and he certainly didn’t need to be any closer to those full lips.
She glared at him, her hand still motionless, held in his wrist.
“I cannae treat ye if ye dinnae let me examine ye.” Her eyes flicked down to the sight. “It is bleedin’ again, let me go, Me laird. I must see to it.”
“And what if I forbid ye from touchin’ me, lass?” he whispered.
He watched her tongue wet her lips as her wide eyes came up to meet his gaze.
“Ye arenae a fool, Me laird. Ye ken it needs tendin’ to.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes were on his mouth now, and he felt arousal stir in him at her proximity.
Alarmed by his body’s reaction, he slowly released his grip on her wrist, and she retracted her hand.
She returned to the site of the wound, adjusting the bandage. He could not help staring at her face. He realized he was counting the freckles on her nose only as she finished her work, and he hurriedly looked away.
“Ye said ye have a method for treatin’ burns,” he found himself saying. “I have never heard of a healer who doesnae amputate a burned limb.”
She shook her head. “I try nae to do it if I believe I can fight the infection.”
“With what?”
She looked up at him then, her eyes inquisitive. It was clear that she did not get asked about her trade very often.
“Ye are interested, Me laird?”
“I wouldnae ask if I wasnae interested, lass.” He paused, scratching at the wound absently. “A friend died on the battlefield from his burns. They left him to die for days; nothin’ could be done.”
Her eyes turned sad, and a haunted look swept across her face. “I am sorry. A battle would be a difficult place to tend to the wounded without the proper supplies. Burns can sometimes be too severe to treat, and that must have been the case with yer friend. There is nay guarantee that anything could have been done.”
As she spoke, the tension that had sprung up in his chest eased. Warwick had been a fine man, but there was no dignity in death. He wished he had not seen him in his final hours, begging for relief, sobbing for his mother. Noah closed his eyes as she continued, her voice soothing him like a cool breeze.
“Yarrow is very good for swelling; I often add a mixture of honey, yarrow, St John’s Wort, or comfrey. Cold water is as good an option as any and helps to soothe the skin. If ye are ever burned and near the source of a river, it can be a balm to the skin.”
She was folding everything from the bag into neat sections now. Her brother had brought it with him, seemingly out of habit, and the inside of it was a sight to behold. Noah had never seen an item with so many pockets.
“Honey?” he asked.
“Aye. Honey is a great healer for wounds. I found a nest of bees not so far from home the other day. Delicious and useful.” She looked up at him with a coy smile, and he felt his heart beating like a battle drum inside his chest.
She had such full lips, the lower one larger than the upper, and long, extremely dark eyelashes to match her hair. He found himself wondering how they might look when it rained, with droplets catching in her hair and over her face.
He stood up abruptly and received a tsk in response.
“Ye shouldnae move so fast,” she scolded, but as she stood up beside him, she looked satisfied, too. “I think it has stopped bleedin’,” she said, sounding relieved. “Make sure that ye dinnae overuse yer shoulder for the next few days and rest it.”
“It’s me shoulder; I shall need to use it, lass. Stop fussin’.”
“It is me job to fuss,” she protested as he grabbed his léine and pulled it over his good arm.
He jolted as a cool hand came to rest on his, and without a word, she took the hem of the fabric in her fingers and gently guided it over his head. What was more surprising was that he allowed it without any protest.
As the white fabric was pulled over his eyes, their gazes caught and he had to physically fight the urge to pull her body against his so that he could feel her curves against his skin again.
He glanced at her brother and sister. Scott was watching them with interest, and Noah swiftly stepped away from her.
He pushed the léine into his kilt and turned to face her, ready to leave and be rid of her for good.
They stared at one another for what felt like an age.
This is a good thing. This woman is not me problem. Why is it so hard to walk away from her?
He tried to think of something to say, perhaps to thank her or wish her well. For a long time, he stood frozen in place and then sighed in frustration.
“Stay out of trouble,” he snapped, turning on his heel and walking swiftly from the forest.