Chapter 6
Isabel had not expected Lachlan MacLeod to survive. Exhaustion ran deep in her veins, and her hands would not stop trembling. She’d been up nearly all night, helping tend the wounded along with the other women in the hall.
And she kept coming back to Lachlan MacLeod. The memory of his lips on hers superseded the memory of his blood, hot and slick pouring over her fingers as she’d tended to his wound. Either he was too stubborn to die, or by some divine miracle, he might just survive.
“What say ye, Freckles?” She placed a bit of rabbit into her ferret’s tiny paws and watched her gobble up the morsel. “Will ye nip him again?”
Freckles licked her paws clean, and then rubbed them over her face, before giving a squeak.
Isabel was still stunned she’d been able to staunch the bleeding enough to sew Lachlan up and pack the wound with a poultice. The shoulder wound on the other hand, had been a clean removal and easy to tend, the only uncomplicated part about her giant patient.
Still, his body heated with fever as the wound worked to heal itself, fighting against a mortal injury.
What a cruel irony that the first kiss she’d ever gotten had been from a man flirting with death.
A fever eating away at his ability to think, not that he was likely to have thoughts beyond, kill the enemy, and collect the goods.
The bigger, and perhaps more poignant question was, why had she allowed him to kiss her?
Fatigue of course was to blame for more than puffiness under the eyes, but of stupid impulses too.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, the memory of his mouth crashing against her, however brief and slightly painful, still a traitorous warmth curled low in her core. Nonsense. Foolishness. My gods, enough!
There were at least a dozen ways in which she’d imagined her first kiss. This was not one of them. Despite that, it was one she’d remember.
Isabel pressed her hand to his chest, which rose steadily, if not slowly. She wiped a cool cloth across his brow one more time and attempted to stifle a yawn that would not be suppressed.
Saints, but she needed to go to sleep. Needed to rest if she was going to be any good for helping anyone else.
“I think ’tis time for bed, Freckles, unless there is any news ye’d like to ferret out.” She chuckled at her own pun.
Even an hour’s rest would be enough to rejuvenate her for the next round of wound checks, and to keep her from making more bad puns. And while she did head toward the stairs, her bedchamber was not her ultimate destination.
Uncle Robbie had returned with several wounds.
More than he admitted to. And though she’d stitched what she could, he ushered her away and shut himself into his solar with a half dozen warriors, the door closed tight against any questions or prying ears.
That worried her more than any hidden injuries.
Isabel started up the stairs, Freckles weaving around her feet that felt heavier against the stones, as though someone had sewn rocks into the hem of her gown.
Elsa hurried after her with a tray of cheese, bread and ale, murmuring something about food, but Isabel barely heard her.
The castle pressed in around them. Low voices, the sharp scent of healing herbs and blood.
The occasional cry that slipped through the stone corridors before growing quiet.
Everywhere she looked, men lay broken, and those still standing all carried the same haunted look.
The English had not come knocking on the door, yet. Likely because they were licking their own wounds and taking stock of their victory.
Longshanks did not retreat. That was a fact drilled into their awareness since the start of this war several years ago.
The English king regrouped, recharged and then hit the Scots where it hurt.
With him this close to the border, it was only a matter of time before he returned his attention to her uncle.
Uncle Robbie was not yet king of Scotland.
King John, who’d worn the crown, had abdicated after the English invaded and was imprisoned in the Tower of London.
Having done such a cowardly thing meant her uncle, who was a descendant of King David, had stepped up to carry the weight of a kingdom.
Trying to restore the country back to the Scots.
Bleeding for freedom. No one brought up old King John, a sore subject obviously.
That gave her pause. Was it possible that English coin Freckles had found somehow had come from King John, left behind in a hurry?
As she neared the solar, the door stood slightly ajar.
Isabel slowed so that those inside wouldn’t hear her footsteps.
And her maid, who’d not been paying attention, hit her back with the rim of her tray, dropping a hunk of cheese on the floor that Freckles was all too eager to snatch.
Isabel looked behind her, taking in the shock of horror on Elsa’s poor, exhausted face and decided not to admonish her. They were all so tired and anxious.
Instead, she returned her attention to her uncle who sat slumped in a chair, one leg stretched stiffly before him, his hand pressed to the bridge of his nose in pained contemplation. For a moment, he looked older than he had that morning.
“Isabel,” he called, his voice edged with roughness, but also resignation. “Come in.”
Caught in her snooping, Isabel sighed heavily and pushed open the door the rest of the way.
“Uncle.” She dipped into a curtsy; more habit than formality.
“We are spared a siege this night,” he said, lowering his hand from his nose. “But ‘twill no’ last. Each day brings Longshanks and his rabid dogs closer to our door.”
Isabel nodded. She had already known this much was true. Still, hearing him say it aloud made something inside her chest tighten. If only she could summon the powers of Merlin and eradicate the enemies from Scotland.
His gaze fixed on hers. “Ye canna remain here.”
Uncle Robbie’s words struck harder than any blow. Isabel straightened, certain she hadn’t heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“’Tis no longer safe for ye.”
Not safe. Isabel’s pulse quickened, a dozen possibilities racing at once. Where in blazes was he going to send her? North, perhaps? One of his more distant holdings, far from the fighting. She opened her mouth to argue but the resolute expression, the stiff set of his mouth, had her close it again.
A sudden thought burst through her panic, this one, equally riddled with alarm. What if he intended to wed her off to someone else? To have them protect her so she was no longer his problem?
Swallowing the earlier hesitation, she questioned. “Ye are better served with me here, uncle.”
Uncle Robbie shook his head. “Nay, lass. And I’m too exhausted to spar with ye. I’ve made my decision.”
Perhaps it was a good thing she could not summon the magic of Merlin, for her uncle might no sooner have said those words than croaked like a toad on the floor. “I’d like a say in where ye sent me.” She had a cousin in France, and she’d been meaning to brush up on her French.
“Nay. Ye’ll go to the Isle of Skye.”
Isabel blinked, confused. “Skye?”
“With Lachlan MacLeod, as soon as he is able to travel.”
An incredulous breath escaped her. That edict made absolutely no sense. MacLeod wouldn’t be able to travel for a month. Longer, if a fever took hold. That was if he survived the next twenty-four hours. Every other healer within a hundred hours’ ride would say the same
“I shall have Elsa and the staff prepared for me to leave in the next moon cycle.”
Her uncle’s expression did not change. “Ye underestimate the man. Ye’ll leave within a sennight.”
Or perhaps ye, uncle, overestimate the man.
Isabel bit the inside of her cheek to keep the words from slipping out.
Whether or not the man could ride was not the issue at hand.
It was that her uncle wanted her gone, and she wanted to stay.
So badly, that he would rather send her away like cargo with a man who was nearly dead on his table this morning.
If his goal was to see her buried, there were easier and quicker ways.
“Pardon my saying so, but ye’ll no’ want to tax the man. I shall attend him until he is ready, as ye said, which will be much longer than a sennight.”
The men in the room shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, drawing Isabel back to the audience. Well, she decided she didn’t care if they were here. With no one else to advocate for her, Isabel had to advocate for herself–even if it meant through the life of the Wolf of Skye.
“My goal,” he said evenly, “is to keep ye alive, and your goal is to keep him alive.”
Isabel swallowed a disbelieving laugh. A man hovering at death’s door is my surest protection? She knew she was exhausted but even she wasn’t that stupid to believe such a thing.
Uncle Robbie held her gaze. “That man has survived worse than this. And when he stands again, there is no safer place for ye than at his side.”
Isabel’s pulse faltered briefly before she forced a scoff.
“MacLeod is no’ simply a warrior,” her uncle continued.
“He is loyal, to me, and to Scotland. There was a betrayal on the field of battle today. Men I thought I knew turned away from us.” His jaw tightened.
“MacLeod is among a few men I trust without question. If I must send ye away, it will be with a man I know will no’ fail ye. ”
Isabel crossed her arms tightly over her chest, as if to ward off her uncle’s ridiculous idea that a man half dead could protect her, especially one who’d nearly died this morning.
But perhaps it wasn’t the smartest idea to remind him of that, in case he got the notion she wanted a different protector.
Which she did not. She didn’t want any protector.
And did her uncle truly believe that MacLeod had not died because of his loyalty? Preposterous!