Chapter 6
If I die from falling off a horse, it willnae be for the temperament of the animal but the exhaustion of the rider.
Every fiber of Willow’s being screamed at her to sleep. She had managed to doze briefly, lulled by the rock of the horse’s steps, but it was when she realized that she’d leaned into Keegan’s chest that she was forced abruptly awake again.
Still, he was so wonderfully warm, and the frigid air licked at her ankles and calves as she sat astride the horse.
Scottish evenings were rarely forgiving at the best of times, and spring was a fickle season in the highlands.
Willow was desperate for the comfort of warmth, and as much as she wanted to fight it, leaning into her captor provided at least a semblance of it.
How can the man still be driving this bloody creature across the land? Sleep is necessary for all humans, dammit.
As if hearing her thoughts, Keegan adjusted in the saddle, and she looked up to see him fighting back a yawn. He shook himself afterward, securing his grip on the reins once more and directing the steed off toward a hill that sat a few yards away from them.
“What are we—”
“There’s a shepherd’s hut just up there. We can rest for the remainder of the evenin' out of sight.”
She didn’t bother commenting on their situation after that, knowing that Keegan would keep his answer short and curt if provided at all.
It took them only a few minutes to reach the hut, and her captor dropped down from the horse with a thud.
He turned back toward her, offering a hand to get down, but Willow was in no mood to accept his help.
Swinging her leg over the rear of the animal, Willow clumsily slid from the saddle, catching herself on Keegan when she nearly fell to the ground.
“Are ye quite all right there, lass?”
Willow yanked herself away from him, pulling down on the arsaid that was the only scrap of fabric keeping her warm. She glared, maintaining a straight spine. She would not answer him.
With a scoff, Keegan disregarded her and faced the hut which lay behind him.
Willow, too, was curious what they would be using for coverage, and as she took in the state of the small hovel, it was clear that no one had used it in some time.
The straw and bags of feed were musty and nearly picked clean, and the hard ground was packed down at the entrance but showing signs of returning vegetation.
We shall certainly nae be found here.
She kept the thought to herself as Keegan stepped forward into the low opening of the hut. He reached in his sporran, and Willow was surprised to see him produce a few coins, leaving them just outside the right side of the structure.
“What are ye doin'?” she asked, unable to stop herself from being curious.
“Leavin' a thank ye to the shepherd who tends this area. He shall find it when he returns.”
The notion was ridiculous. The place around them was nearly entirely deserted.
Still, it struck her that the idea of the shepherd returning seemed possible to Keegan, and he wished to repay the mysterious figure for his unknown act of kindness.
The gesture didn’t line up with what she’d seen of Keegan so far.
Though nothing seemed predictable about the man, which was infuriating.
Willow sniffled, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Perhaps the man-at-arms was merely heeding his Laird’s orders. She had seen her own clansmen do things that they had a difficult time stomaching to keep her brother happy. It could very well be the same for the Brahanne clan.
As cynical as it may have sounded to even her, Willow could imagine that many a laird was a brute in fancy clothing.
In any event, she would be remaining with Keegan for the foreseeable future—at least until this exchange took place, and it was better to have an understanding with the man than to be constantly at odds.
“I appreciate that ye dinnae kill Finley. Though I imagine that ye could’ve been a hair gentler.”
Flicking her eyes up from the ground to her captor, she was surprised to see him glaring at her, his jaw muscles working like he was fighting back the urge to say something.
With his stare still narrowed, Keegan reached for the clasp containing his plaid and began to pull the thing loose so that it dropped over his shoulder.
It was a strange choice, to be certain. It was quite cold, and Willow couldn’t imagine that he was taking it down because he was warm. The wind howled at her back, and Willow stifled a shiver, sure that the man was daft for availing more of himself to chill.
And then his fingers went to the hem of his shirt, and Keegan swiftly pulled it over his head.
Willow spun around so that she didn’t face him, gasping as her eyes first flared wide and then squeezed shut.
“What in God’s name are ye doin'?!”
There was no answer from him but a guttural grunt that forced Willow to turn back over her shoulder, eyeing him. Keegan’s eyes searched the ground, Lord knew what for, and that’s when she noticed it. On his side was a slash of red, the smeared blood covering a bit of his ribs.
“Ye’re hurt!” Her stomach dropped as she recalled the dirk clutched in Finley’s hand. “God, he managed to cut ye.”
“I’ll hand it to yer guard. He’s quicker than he looks. Ugh,” Keegan hissed as he bent, digging through the saddle bag.
Willow rolled her eyes. The man would tear himself further if he kept padding around like that. With a deep exhale, Willow approached him, pointing down at the rounded mound of old hay furthest from the entrance to the hut.
“Sit. Ye’ll need to be cleaned.”
Keegan stared at her as if she’d grown a second head, one of his brows cocked up as he regarded her.
“Aye, and ye’re keen on assisting me why? I’ve no need of some trickery to injure me further.”
Scoffing, Willow tilted her head at Keegan, gesturing harder at the ground. “I’m nae tryin' to harm ye. Just sit so I can look it over.”
But the man continued to stare at her. She understood his reticence, but in truth, she had not considered injuring Keegan further at all. She simply wished to clean his wound so that the bastard wouldn’t get feverish.
However, the longer she considered that thought, the more Willow realized that it was strange of her to want to help him. He was her enemy, after all. Why were her instincts insisting she heal him?
“I’m nae lookin' to anger yer laird further by letting ye catch yer death. So, if ye daenae mind?”
She gestured again toward the mound, and this time, Keegan sat, albeit quite begrudgingly based on the scowl he still wore pinned to his face.
“Thank ye. I’ll find a cloth.”
Doing as she said, Willow dug through the saddle bag for a clean scrap of fabric that the man had likely packed as a means of preparation for this very event. She pulled the thing free of the satchel and then searched around for a pot.
As expected, Keegan had the makings of a mess kit in his collection, things he might use to help start a fire and cook while he was out on the road. She poured a small bit of the water into the pot and brought it and the rag over to where he sat.
“Apologies, but this willnae be pleasant, I imagine. And cold.”
Keegan offered no response, still watching her like a hawk as she moved to tend to his side. The cut wasn’t as bad as she first believed, which Willow was quite glad about, and she dabbed at the injury with the dampened cloth to clean away the dried blood.
Grunting low when she touched the wound, Keegan gritted his teeth, and Willow’s brows pinched together as she let up.
She clearly needed to be especially careful.
It was a new thing to her, cleaning someone’s injury, and she did her best to recall the bit of teaching the McCallum castle’s healer showed her.
Moving slower, Willow was gentle as she swiped away more of the red from Keegan’s side. Her knuckles brushed over his skin as she did, and an odd tremor ran through her at the contact. His flesh was warm, and Willow’s throat was immediately parched. She had to force herself to swallow.
Still, Keegan said nothing, and when she looked up at him from kneeling before him, the man was as stoic as a stone with his eyes fixed on her. Willow felt pinned down by his stare, and she quickly looked back to the blade injury, doing everything to focus on cleaning it.
Ye are fine, Willow. Come now, get it done.
But her fingers trembled, and she knew there was no way that Keegan didn’t notice. She was progressing, but as the moments stretched on, that invisible weight she felt grinding on her only doubled.
“Ye’re shaking, lass.”
Willow nearly jumped out of her skin at his words, and she fumbled with the cloth as she dipped it in the water and wrung it out. She couldn’t bring herself to respond, choosing to pretend as if he hadn’t spoken and paid complete attention to aiding his injury.
“I wonder if it is from the cold. Or…are ye still so frightened of me.”
Uncertain which of the two was more pressing at the moment, Willow chewed on her lip. There was a solid mixture of fear and chill within her, but even more, something threaded through her with every touch she laid on the man. Keegan’s presence was…doing something to her.
“Could there be something else, lass? Something that ye daenae wish to tell me?”
Heat flared through Willow’s cheeks, and she cursed her fair complexion. It was very likely that the pink of her flesh was visible even in the low light, and she ducked her head, sucking in the fresh air so that she might be able to think clearly.
Still, it did nothing to dislodge the replaying of Keegan’s words from her mind. His voice low and husky—a darkness that was unfamiliar humming behind that—Keegan had spoken so softly. Though it had felt like a cannon blast as she’d heard him.