Chapter 12
Hew’s heart beat like the wings of a trapped falcon. Faster and harder than it ever had for Gormal, Anne, or any of his past lovers. It slammed painfully against his ribs as he turned to Carenza with purpose in his furrowed brows.
There was no time for tact.
He lunged toward her. Seized her about the waist. Heaved her up over one shoulder. And packed her off like his Viking forefathers packing off the spoils of war.
At a safe distance from the bonfire, he lowered her gently but swiftly to the damp sod.
She gazed up at him in startled shock, unaware of the peril.
But Hew had spotted it at once. Whipped up by the wind, the flames of the bonfire had leaped onto Carenza’s gown. They’d begun to greedily consume her leine and lap at the edges of her arisaid.
He started beating at the fiery fabric with his bare hands. Trying to extinguish the destructive flames. Scarcely noticing the heat.
From afar, the laird—seeing only a warrior attacking his daughter—cried out, “What the devil? Unhand her, sirrah!”
But those closer to Hew slowly realized what had happened. Gasps of concern rose around him.
Finally Carenza sat up, shrieking when she saw she was ablaze. She thrashed. Kicked. Tried to squirm away. Which would only make it worse.
“Nay!” he roared.
He forced her down with one hand and held her there. With his other sleeve, he fought to smother the fire.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the flames made one last sparking gasp of surrender and smoldered out.
With an exhausted sigh, he released her and rocked back on his heels.
She rose to her elbows, staring at him in wonder.
His heart still pounded. Panic continued to race through his veins. His body shuddered with residual fear.
Behind him, her father sobbed, “Carenza! Dear God, what hap—”
He cut himself off with a gasp when he saw the ragged edges of her leine, curled and blackened by fire, and the wisp of smoke rising from her scorched arisaid.
“I’m all right, Da. Just a bit singed.” Her grateful gaze settled on Hew. “Ye saved my…” Then she lowered her eyes. They widened in horror.
Hew followed her gaze. Below his shoulders, the sleeves of his leine were burned away. The flesh of his exposed arms, from shoulder to wrist, was bright red. The palm of his right hand was blistered.
“Ye’re hurt!” she said.
He didn’t want her to fret. “It looks worse than ’tis.” It wasn’t a lie. Not really. He could see there was damage. But at the moment, there such an intense current of residual terror flooding his body, he could feel no pain.
The laird crouched beside him with a worried frown. Then he turned and bellowed out over his shoulder, “Peris!”
Was the laird calling his physician on Hew’s behalf? Or for his own injuries? After all, Hew had walloped Dunlop with all the force of a battering ram in his effort to snatch Carenza from the blaze.
“Here,” the laird said when the physician arrived. “He’s been badly burned. Take him to my chamber.”
Hew scowled. Surely he wasn’t badly burned. Just a bit seared. He needed no special treatment. He was a battle-seasoned knight. The warriors of Rivenloch shrugged off injuries like a duck shedding water.
“That won’t be necessary, my laird,” he muttered.
The laird ignored him, adding, “Quickly, Peris.”
Carenza sat up and pressed a hand to her breast. “I pray ye do as he says,” she begged him. Her lips trembled. Her pale brow was etched with care. Her wide eyes were wet and full of fear.
Her urgent entreaty softened his frown. Melted his pride. How could he argue with an angel?
He gave her a reluctant nod.
And now that the excitement was over, now that the fire was out and Carenza was safe, Hew’s pulse could calm at last.
Carenza’s brow creased again as she perused his injuries. “They must be terribly painful.”
“I’ve had worse,” he said, giving her a wink.
This time it was a lie. Now that the danger was past and the tension flushed from his muscles, the pain seeped into his blood like swift poison.
He was accompanied to the castle by the three of them—the physician, the laird, and Lady Carenza.
By the time they reached the keep, Hew’s arms felt as if they were engulfed in liquid flame.
By the time they entered the laird’s chamber, he had to clench his jaw against the pain.
And by the time he sank down onto the laird’s pallet, sweat began to pop from his brow, chilling his fevered skin and making him shiver uncontrollably.
The physician performed with clean, quick efficiency. His manner was completely at odds with the nervousness he’d displayed when Hew had first questioned him. He opened his leather satchel, pulling forth vials with calm, collected expertise.
“I’ll need a bucket o’ cool water,” he said to the laird. “Butter. Honey. And a cup o’ wine.”
“Ye can have the bottle o’ Bordeaux on the table,” the laird said. He turned to Carenza before he left the chamber. “Stay with him?”
“O’ course.” Carenza drew near, wringing her hands. “How can I help, Peris?”
He handed her a wee vial. “Pour out a cup o’ the wine. Then add three drops o’ this. No more. No less.”
While she fetched the wine, the physician carefully removed the remains of Hew’s leine.
“’Tisn’t too severe,” he proclaimed as he studied Hew’s damaged flesh. “The worst is your hand. Your arms should heal within a day or two. But ye won’t be able to wield an axe for a while.”
When Carenza returned with the wine, the sight of his injuries must have shocked her. She fumbled the cup in her hands and nearly dropped it.
“Does it look that bad?” Hew rasped out.
“Nay,” she rushed to say, turning as red as his arms. After that, she wouldn’t meet his gaze, though her eyes flitted frequently to his bare chest.
“Have him drink it down quick,” Peris said.
Hew hated the way he was shivering. Doubly hated that he wasn’t able to even hold his own cup.
But the compassion in her eyes, the light breeze of her sweet breath upon his face, and the touch of her delicate fingers on his chin as she tipped the cup up for him almost extinguished the fiery pain searing his arms.
The wine did the rest.
Whatever was in the vial, it worked quickly. Once he laid back on the pallet, his shudders subsided. The burning in his arms lessened. And lethargy drained the strength from him.
When Carenza drew near to mop his brow with a cool rag, he looked up at her with glazed eyes and smiled.
She was a mess. She was still clad in the blackened shreds of her leine and the scorched arisaid she’d adjusted for modesty.
Strings of her dark hair, strewn with dead grass, had escaped her braid and now hung like a frayed mantle over her shoulders.
Her hands were filthy. Her pendant was askew.
Ash smudged her perfect nose and painted her rosy cheek.
But his last thought as he drifted off to a land of oblivious euphoria was that he had never seen a more beautiful woman.
Samhain had been cut short after Carenza’s accident.
But before the clanfolk retired, they took the time to snatch branches from the bonfire to light their own hearths for good luck.
The sacrifices from the harvest had worked to appease the dark spirits.
No evil entity had dared to venture past the bright fire of the living to do harm.
Unless you counted the wicked flames that had licked at Carenza’s gown.
Now, with Hew sleeping soundly, Peris and her father chatted quietly by the fire.
“O’ course he’ll stay at Dunlop to mend,” her father announced.
Carenza was afraid of that.
She could feel things happening in her heart that did not bode well for the future.
Things like the way it had softened, knowing Hew had sacrificed his own safety to keep her from harm.
Things like how it pounded when she beheld his bare chest, bold and magnificent.
Things like the way it ached when she thought of the kind warrior wasting away in a monastery instead of taking a wife.
She sighed. She needed to listen to the voice of destiny. Hew’s fate was spoken for. By a higher power than she possessed.
It was hard to remember with temptation so close at hand.
“But he’ll miss All Saints Day,” she argued, “and All Souls Day.”
“Tis best not to move him in his condition,” her father said. “Besides, the physician is already here.”
“But they have an infirmary with beds at Kildunan,” she told him. “Ye can have your bedchamber back.”
She knew she was grasping at straws. Her father was perfectly content to sleep on the rushes in the great hall with his clanfolk.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said.
“He’s goin’ to need watchin’ o’er, day and night,” the physician warned. He held up the vial. “He’ll need drops o’ this every few hours.”
“Right,” Carenza agreed. “At Kildunan, they have dozens o’ monks who are up all night, prayin’. Surely they can—”
“I insist,” her father insisted. “’Tis the least we can do for the man who saved your life.” To the physician, he said, “Ye’ll o’ersee his care. And if ye’re called away, Lady Carenza can look after him.” He uttered the words with far more enthusiasm than Carenza deemed appropriate.
She clenched her teeth even as she curved her lips into a pleasant smile, as if that weren’t the worst idea in the world.
It was obvious what fueled his satisfaction. The laird schemed to make a match between her and her Samhain hero. A feat that would be so much easier with the prospective bridegroom sleeping in the laird’s chamber for several days. And Carenza serving as his nursemaid.
“’Tis settled then,” the laird decided.
She wished she could say the same thing about her heart.