скачать книгу бесплатно
Alana jerked free and seized the hem of her skirts; she pushed a wad of it down hard on his wound. What had he been thinking?
“That was a fine way to remove the blade,” she said tersely. But the enemy blade had missed his heart; she was relieved to see the wound was high up, almost in his shoulder.
He eyed her exposed knee as another man handed her a piece of linen. Alana quickly put it on his wound in place of her skirt. The wound continued to bleed. Dughall knelt, offering the warrior a flask. He took it with his right hand and drank.
Now on both knees in the frozen snow, she shivered—but not from the cold. She was terribly aware of the Highlander she was trying to help. His presence—his proximity—seemed overwhelming. “Your wound needs cleaning. It needs stitches.”
His blue eyes were ice. “Why would ye help me—a stranger?”
She had no answer to give. She did not know why she was compelled to aid him. She did not know why she was worried. But he had clearly survived the attack—and she was relieved.
She had no explanation for her relief, either.
When she made no answer, his eyes darkened with suspicion. He struggled to stand. Instantly he reeled, as if he were a tree buffeted in the wind.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, left holding the bloody linen. She rushed to him to brace him to stand.
“Dughall, tell the men to raise our tents. We will spend the night here.” He did not glance at her, shaking her off, his gaze on the burning manor. It was mostly rubble and smoldering ash now, although some timbers still burned. He appeared satisfied. “No one will use this place against us now.”
Alana recalled what she had heard about Bruce—how his armies left no stones standing. So it was true.
He turned to Alana. “So yer an angel of mercy.” He was mocking.
She flushed. He did not seem grateful for her aid. He seemed highly skeptical.
“I could not let you bleed.”
He turned as if he hadn’t heard her. “And, Dughall, get a needle and thread.”
“Aye, Iain.” Dughall raced off.
Her pulse was racing. His name was Iain. Why did that seem to matter to her? “I can see a simple knife wound will not kill you. You should sit back down, my lord.”
“A true angel.” He eyed her. “Why not, mistress? Why not let a stranger bleed to death?”
She did not know the answer herself!
“Why were ye in the woods? Did ye flee the manor when we attacked?” He spoke sharply.
“No.” She hesitated, now thinking about the fact that Eleanor was hiding in the woods, and it would be dark in another hour. And he was fighting for Robert Bruce. He had been in battle with Duncan’s men. It would be dangerous to reveal who she was, or where she had been going—or why. He was the enemy, even if she had been compelled to help him. “I was on my way to visit kin in Nairn.” A version of the truth would surely do.
“Ye journey alone?” He was obviously doubtful. “And then ye rush into a battle, to aid a stranger?” His stare was unnerving.
She wet her lips. She could not blame him for being so suspicious. “I am not alone. My grandmother is in the woods, where I left our mule and the wagon. We heard the battle....” She stopped. Now what could she say?
“And ye decided to come closer? Ye’ll have to tell a far better tale, my lady.” But now, his gaze swept over her, from head to toe. “Who are ye? Whom do ye visit in Nairn?”
“I am not from the castle,” she managed to say. Had he just looked at her as if she were in a brothel and awaiting his pleasure? “We are simple folk, farmers....” She could barely speak. Men did not look at her with male interest—they were too frightened to ever do so.
For a moment he stared.
“My grandmother carries healing potions.” That much was true. She could finally breathe, somewhat. “If you will allow it, we will clean the wound and put a healing salve on it, then stitch it closed. I must get her, my lord. She is old and it is cold out.”
He turned. “Fergus, go into the woods and bring back an old woman and a wagon.”
A Highlander with long blond hair rushed off to obey.
Alana hoped that was the end of the conversation, but it was not. He said, “Ye still cannot explain why ye rushed into the battle, mistress, when all other women would hide in the woods and pray.”
She again had no answer to make.
His gaze narrow, he took her shoulder and guided her with him to the largest of the tents that had just been erected. He gestured and Alana preceded him inside.
It was warmer within. A boy was laying out furs and a pallet. From outside, she could smell meat roasting—a cook fire had been started. Alana hugged herself. She felt uncomfortable, and not just because of her lies. Twilight was near, and they were alone. He did remain the enemy, he was a warrior, and as such, was frightening.
Dughall stepped inside, carrying a small sack. “Do ye want me to sew it?”
Alana was alarmed. “My lord, the wound must be cleaned first.” He could so easily die of an infection if it were left dirty and unwashed.
His blue gaze upon her, he sank down on the pallet, shoving off the fur that had been loosely draped about his shoulders. For an instant, Alana stared at his broad shoulders, his huge biceps. The upper half of his leine was blood soaked. “Come, angel of mercy,” he said.
Mockery remained in his tone. She looked aside and hurried to him. “Pressure must be kept on the wound.” She tried to sound brisk. “Or you will certainly bleed to death.”
“Give her a blade,” he said to Dughall. To Alana, “Cut the leine off.”
She nodded, taking the knife Dughall handed her. And then he seized her wrist another time. Alana froze, meeting his hard gaze once again.
“Try anything untoward and ye will suffer my wrath,” he said.
She nodded. Did he truly think she might stab him now?
He released her. She quickly cut his leine down the front, to his belt, and pulled open the sides of his leine. She pretended not to notice the hard slabs of his chest, the dark hair there, or the small gold cross he wore. Then she uncovered his left shoulder completely.
The wound was bleeding again. Dughall handed her more linens, which she gratefully took and pressed to it. Iain inhaled in pain and their gazes collided.
“I am sorry.... I am trying not to hurt you.” She avoided his gaze now, acutely aware of him.
“You have no calluses,” he said.
She started, eyes wide, locking with his. What was he talking about?
“On yer hands.” He was final—triumphant.
She finally realized what he meant. If she were a farmer, her hands would be callused. Alana could only stare. She had been caught in her first deception.
His smile was slow, dangerous. “Who are ye, lady? Dinna tell me yer a farmer’s wife—falsehoods dinna sit well with me.”
“We were summoned to Nairn,” she managed to answer. “My grandmother carries healing potions.”
“An answer that is no answer,” he said.
She glanced at Dughall, her cheeks aflame. “Can you bring me warm water and soap?”
“Aye, my lady.” He slipped from the tent.
“The truth,” Iain said.
Alana felt mesmerized by his unwavering stare. “We do not know why we were summoned,” she lied, feeling desperate. “But we believe my grandmother’s potions are needed.”
His blue gaze moved over her face now, feature by feature.
Did he believe her, when she was so deliberately lying? When she hated doing so, when she was a poor liar by nature? And Duncan of Frendraught was his enemy—would such a lie even protect her? “You should not speak. You should rest.”
“Ye do not play these games well. Ye have no ready answers.” He had become thoughtful.
She checked to see if his wound had stopped bleeding, and was relieved that it had. “Saving a life is no game.”
He said, “Ye cannot or will not tell me who ye are. A spy would be prepared.”
“I am no spy, my lord,” Alana said tersely. He thought her a spy? She was horrified. “I am no one of any import.”
He smiled coldly at her. “Ye have import, lady, or ye would not hide from me. And—” he paused for emphasis “—I am intrigued.”
She was dismayed. She did not want his interest, not at all!
“A young woman, alone in the woods with her grandmother, not far from Nairn. A young woman who does not flee from a battle, but goes into it—and warns a stranger of treachery. How long do ye think it will take for me to learn yer name?”
If he wished to find out who she was, he would certainly be able to do so, quickly enough. She and her grandmother were well-known in these parts. But she would be long gone by then, or so she hoped.
“And you, my lord? You fly Bruce’s flag. You command these men. You come from the Highlands. My guess, from your speech, is you come from the islands in the west.”
“Unlike ye, lady, I have no secrets to keep. I am Iain of Islay.”
“Iain is a common enough name.” But Alana’s heart lurched. She had heard gossip of one Iain of Islay—a warrior known as Iain the Fierce. The cousin of both Alasdair MacDonald, lord of the Isles, and his brother, Angus Og. He was renowned to be ruthless, bloodthirsty and undefeatable.
“Are ye frightened?”
Alana dragged her gaze to his as Dughall returned. “I hate war. I hate death. Of course I am frightened. Many men died today.”
His gaze was on her face.
“Are you the cousin of Angus and Alasdair MacDonald?” she had to ask.
“So ye have heard of me,” he said, but softly.
He was the savage Highlander known as Iain the Fierce, a warrior who never let his enemies live.
And she was in his camp, in the midst of a war for Scotland—as the enemy.
No, she was not just in his camp—she was in his tent.
She got to her feet, taking a step back and away from the pallet. “I have heard of you,” she said.
He made a sound, perhaps of satisfaction. And then Eleanor hurried into the tent, shivering, Fergus with her, breaking the tension, the moment.
“Grandmother!” Alana hurried to her, relieved. “Are you cold? I am sorry I have been so long!” she cried, hugging her.
“I paused before the fire, Alana, so I have warmed up.” Eleanor hugged her back while Alana flinched. Now Iain knew her name. Tomorrow, if he made enough inquiries, he would learn the truth—that she was Elisabeth le Latimer’s bastard daughter, from Brodie Castle, and that her father was Sir Alexander. He might even learn that she was a witch.
She must leave his camp before he made any inquiries about her.
Iain was watching them closely. “Yer granddaughter has been kindly tending me, Grandmother,” he said.
“Of course she has, for no one is as kind,” Eleanor said. “May I help you, as well, my lord?”
“It is Iain, Grandmother.” He glanced casually at Alana. “Iain MacDonald.”
Eleanor went to him and knelt, responding as Alana had feared she would. “I am Lady Eleanor. Well, the wound is deep. You will need stitches. Alana, bring me the bowl of water.”
Alana met Iain’s amused gaze. He had just ferreted out her grandmother’s name, as well, easily enough. When he asked about them, he would quickly learn that they were from Brodie Castle. It would not be difficult now.
They had to leave his camp as soon as possible.
Alana did as her grandmother instructed, then remained silent as Eleanor cleaned the wound. She did not look at Iain, but was aware that he was watching her. When Eleanor was done, she said, “Alana’s hand is steadier than mine, and she makes a fine stitch. She will sew you up, my lord.”
“It is Iain,” he said. “I am no lord, just a fourth son.”
Alana handed him the flask, absorbing that bit of information. Younger sons were either churchmen or soldiers of fortune. He had clearly chosen the latter. “I will need at least two men to hold you down.”
He took a long drink from the flask. “Ye will need no one. Bring me the blade,” he said.
He would struggle when she stuck a needle in his flesh, all men did. “My lord,” she objected.
“Bring me the blade, Alana,” he ordered.
She inhaled. It was so odd, unnerving, to have him call her by her name. Alana handed it to him.
She took up the needle, which was threaded. He would only make her efforts more difficult. It would be hard to remain steady if he struggled. How silly, to be so proud.
And Iain put the hilt of the dagger in his mouth. She carefully pricked the needle into his skin. He tensed, making a harsh sound, but he did not move.
Alana knew better than to look at him. Very swiftly, with determination, she put ten stitches into the wound, closing it completely. He did not move, or flinch, again. She knotted the thread, and Eleanor snipped it. Finally, she looked at him.
His eyes were closed, long, thick lashes fanning his skin. His face was white and covered with perspiration. For a moment, she thought he had fainted. And she hoped that was the case.
Eleanor began to apply a salve to the wound. His eyes flew open, gazing at her, not her grandmother. “Thank ye, Alana.”
“Do not speak now,” she told him. “Most men would be unconscious with such a wound. You should sleep.”
