Chapter Nineteen #3
Two fingers stabbed him again, and when she withdrew her hand his skin bore the imprint of her fingernails.
‘Now use the knife and stab at me as if yer life depended on it! It’s attack or be attacked! Always think in these terms.’ His voice grew louder, harsher, with each word he spoke. ‘’Twas ye who wanted to dress like a man, so show me ye can damned well fight like one!’
The mocking remark, the uncompromising bite in his voice, and the heat of his skin was like tinder to the spark in Helene’s rising anger. In a flash she switched the sgian-dubh from one hand to the other, and with all the force of her resentment she thrust the blade forward and up.
Lachlan’s hand caught Helene’s wrist in a tight, vice-like grip. Her gaze flew to his, where she saw in his widened eyes something akin to surprise, if not pride, like that of a teacher whose student had finally mastered the skill being taught.
‘Well done, lass. This time, yer blade would have found its mark.’ He still held her wrist, but his gaze flashed downward, then back at her in an invitation to inspect her aim.
Helene looked down. Blood trickled from the point at which the tip of the blade had pierced Lachlan’s skin. Panic shot through her, and she gasped in horror. Her hand holding the knife flexed open, the weapon falling at her feet. Instinctively, she pressed both hands to the crimson-smeared flesh.
‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!’
‘Hush now. Ye needn’t worry, lass. ’Tis but a wee scratch.’
‘A scratch?’ Her voice rose with her panic. ‘I stuck you with a knife and you’re bleeding!’
He took a step back out of her reach and untied the neckcloth at his throat. He used it to wipe away the blood. ‘’Tis but a tiny puncture wound. I caught yer hand before ye could do any real damage.’
Beads of blood reappeared, and again he wiped them away.
‘Come,’ he said, walking towards the stream and beckoning her. ‘Wash yer hands here beside me.’
They crouched at the water’s edge, where Helene washed Lachlan’s blood from her hands.
He drenched and squeezed water from the neckcloth and wiped clean his wound. ‘See? ’Tis as if I’d nicked myself shaving.’
Air whooshed from Helene’s lungs in a sigh of relief, and her chin dipped to her chest. The rough pads of his thumb and forefinger settled beneath her chin.
‘Look at me,’ he said, his voice calm. Gentle.
Helene opened her eyes and could not hide the glistening sting of tears.
‘I’m not sorry for putting ye through that, lass, for ’tis imperative ye learn to protect yersel’ as best ye can in any situation, not just here in the Highlands. We both ken what men can be like, even in what should be the most civilised of circumstances.’
He was right. She knew of several young innocents who’d been forced upon, their reputation in ruins at the hands of so-called noblemen. How different those young women’s lives would be had they the knowledge or skills to protect themselves.
Prudence. How would she protect herself if one of the asylum minders were to—? She quashed a strangled cry. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Helene acquiesced with a blink, and Lachlan thumbed away the single tear falling down her cheek. He rinsed his neckcloth in the stream and gently wiped the day’s grime from her face. That done, he pulled her to her feet, retrieved and cleaned the sgian-dubh, and handed it back to Helene.
Darkness had descended, the fire their only source of light except for the heavens above glittering with a thousand stars.
‘Best ye get some rest now. We leave at dawn.’
Helene sheathed the knife inside her boot, pulled her bonnet tight on her head, and settled beneath the blanket on her makeshift bed. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. She tensed and pulled the blanket tight about her like it was a suit of protective armour.
‘Dinnae worry, lass. Animals, insects, and the like will nae approach us while the fire burns, and I’ll be sure to fuel it throughout the night.’
Reassuring words, yet Helene would have felt even safer if they were to share a blanket, with Lachlan’s arms about her.
Beneath lowered lashes she watched him tuck his shirt into his breeches and don his waistcoat and jacket.
He spread the wet neckcloth over a nearby rock close to the fire, there to dry overnight.
He bedded down facing away from her, the fire between them.
Helene glanced up from his strong, solid form to the dark mass of encircling trees standing like sentinels guarding them.
A gentle breeze kicked up a murmuring discussion between the leaves.
Like a lullaby, the soothing sound forced Helene’s heavy lids to close over tired eyes.
Her thoughts drifted to Drumocher. The stone fortress, and those who resided within it, had grown on Helene in such a short time.
Her heart sank in knowing she’d never return to the Highlands, the shielings, to the MacLanochs and their clan.
The brooch came to mind. Grizel or Caitrin would surely have found it by now, sitting on top of the dresser in the bedchamber Helene had occupied. They’d return the heirloom to its rightful owner. Aila.
The last thing Helene heard before slumber claimed her was the soft, deep hoot of an owl.