Finding My Highlander

by Aleigha Siron

  He moved to within a foot of her and knelt down. Kendrick would not leave an injured, defenseless woman alone in the wilderness even if she were a Cameron. “Dinnae fear us, my name is Kendrick MacLean. Tell me, where is your home, where are your kin, your protectors?”

  He noted her fingers glittered with expensive rings, diamond studs adorned her ears, and an exquisite, gold, Celtic cross hung at her neck. This was no common woman, definitely a lady, or perhaps a noble, as she claimed. Surely, such evidence of wealth meant that that degenerate, Cormag Cameron, was not a relation of hers.

  She didn’t answer him. Delicate long fingers gently pressed against the lump on her head, and came away smeared with streaks of blood. Still bent forward on her knees, she moaned, shook her head, spat and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and then riveted him with wide, terrified eyes.

  Softly but more firmly, Kendrick tried her name. “Andra, we cannae stay here. Enemies may be fast on our trail. My brother is grievously injured, and a storm approaches. I won’t leave you here alone and I cannae wait to find your kin. I swear on my honor I will help you, but you must leave with us immediately.”

  He reached forward and lightly touched her arm. A shock of energy shot through his hand. She hissed, pulled back, and fell onto her backside. Terror-filled eyes, the color of moss in a shadowed glen, brimmed with unshed tears and locked on him. He stilled, his hand suspended just above her. Holding her gaze, he reached under her arm, lifting her as he stood. She wobbled but didn’t pull away this time. She’s definitely addled, but he could do nothing about it now.

  Keeping his eyes on her face, he called to his cousin, “Rabbie, gather her things into her plaid and strap them to your horse, we head for the caves.”

  A sharp whistle brought his horse forward, huffing, and tossing its bridle. Andra flinched at the animal’s approach. “Relax, Thunder is well mannered.” He hoped to soothe both horse and woman with his calm voice. As soon as his horse stood beside them, Kendrick mounted and lifted the woman to sit her in front of him. Though solidly built, she felt feather light in his hands. He wrapped one muscled arm tightly around her waist. She winced and sucked against her teeth but did not fight him. Her warmth penetrated the underside of his arm and her fresh scent invaded his senses.

  “Struan, grab Lorne’s reins.” The horses chuffed and stomped their feet for a moment, then surged forward in full flight up the hill into the darkening forest.

  The woman quaked in his arms; her lips, blanched of color, trembled as though she wanted to speak, but she said not a word. She held herself taut as a bowstring, exhaustion heavy across her tensed shoulders as she attempted to keep herself apart from him.

  The forest thinned to large swaths of scrub fern and heather that sprouted around the base of scattered boulders large enough to conceal a horse and its rider. Sparks flew from beneath the horses’ hooves as they grappled for purchase on ground that had transitioned to a hard, stony surface.

  Eventually, the woman relented to Kendrick’s grip and tentatively leaned against his chest. He wanted to encourage her ease but feared any words would tense her again so he remained silent. That’s good, lass, relax. You’re safe.

  Finally, they reached their destination, hidden between high, craggy cliffs swathed in mist and slipped into a cleft between two large outcroppings. Soon they passed single file into the deeper blackness of a cave. Flexing thickly muscled thighs to guide his horse through the tight, stone passage, Kendrick felt Andra stiffen and pull away from his body. He whispered in her ear, “Dinnae fash yourself, all will be well.”

  Kendrick dismounted then lifted Andra to the packed dirt floor and moved her against the solid wall of the cave. Her knees buckled. “Steady now, I’ll come back to you in a moment, I must tend me brother. For your safety, do not leave the cave,” he cautioned, more gruffly than he intended. He took a moment to study the fine form of her face. Dazed moss-green eyes stared somewhere over his shoulder as though through a fog, lost and unfocused.

  * * *

  Andra leaned her head against the cool, damp stone. This can’t be happening. It isn’t real. But the odor of sweaty horses and men and the coppery tang of blood certainly smelled real. The hard-muscled mass that had kept her from toppling off his horse certainly felt real. More real than anything she had felt for months, perhaps years, but her mind couldn’t connect this experience to a meaningful reality.

  As Kendrick walked to the back of the cave, she closed her eyes and slid to the floor. The past few hours would not congeal into anything that made sense. “Well, Dad,” she groaned, “either I’m suffering delusions and the wildest hallucinations, or I am in Scotland, but I know not when, where, or how.” For a moment, she swore she could hear his laughter, scolding her to buck up Andra, and go with the flow. It was one of his favorite admonishments, always delivered with a chuckle.

  Battered, bruised in body and mind, Andra questioned her tumble through...what? Space, time? Impossible! But perhaps not, how else could she explain her present circumstances? Her shoulders and back ached from the extreme effort it had taken to hold her body stiff and separate from Kendrick’s during their frantic charge through the night. Yet she still felt the thrill of desire that had infused her when she finally relented to the grip of those strong arms and sagged against his hard chest. What was that about?

  The man called Lorne moaned. She felt a disturbance of air as they carried him past her and deeper into the cave. Keeping her eyes closed, she leaned against the cold wall until the sound of water sluicing over stone entered her awareness, and amber light drifted over her closed lids. When she opened her eyes, she noted someone had lit several torches, and she could see they were in a large cavern. To the rear of the area, water softly cascaded over a segment of the stone face, passed into several drop-down pools, and disappeared into a crevice hidden in the shadowy dark.

  Water! Her mouth and throat felt parched, and her head ached. Water would help. She pushed against the wall until she could stand without fear of falling. The men were busy with the injured warrior, horses, and dragging dense foliage to cover the entrance they had come through. She moved slowly toward one of the lower pools, knelt down, and splashed cold, rejuvenating water on her face. It felt like a touch of heaven in the middle of this nightmare. She leaned forward and stuck her entire head into the shallow depths, expelling air bubbles, then drank deeply like a dog lapping at a pool in the desert. When she sat up, the quiet one stood to her left side.

  “Lass, can I help you?” His voice was softer than the others, his stance relaxed, composed, despite the dirt and blood splattered over his massive arms and clothing. He seemed to be a quiet, gentle man, though physically as imposing as the others.

  “You could bring me my bag.”

  He moved his hand from behind him and cautiously extended her mother’s old carpetbag. “Do I need to check it for weapons?” A slight crinkle lifted the corner of his mouth. A piece of leather cord tied wavy, light-brown hair at the nape of his neck and tight braids spilled alongside sharp, scruffy cheeks. His eyes were dark and shadowed.

  “Thank you…it’s Rabbie, correct?”

  “Aye,” he nodded.

  Andra granted him a guarded smile. “I’ll pull no further weapons if you promise to be kind.” The slight attempt at humor from both of them eased the tension coiled in her gut.

  He swept an arm gracefully in front of him and bowed, “Always, m’lady, as I learned at me mother’s knee.” Then he left her to tend the horses.

  She searched her bag for the washcloth, hand towel, and first aid kit she always carried when traveling. The washcloth came to hand first. She dipped it into the cold water and wiped the dried and clotted blood from her face and hair. Then she dunked her head in the pool several more times.

  “I seem to be awake,” she whispered, just for the comfort on her own voice. “My surroundings feel solid enough,” she pounded her fist on the dirt, “so it must be real. Accept it, Andra, and decide what
to do next.”

  She could hear the men speaking Gaelic, hushed yet clearly distraught about the condition of their clansman. They gathered near another pool of water several yards from where she knelt. She watched them over her shoulder for a few minutes struggling to fit the scene into her new reality. A million questions rose in her throat.

  “Not now. Patience and observation are what’s required. All will be revealed in time.” What a stupid cliché.

  Should she offer her help with their friend; would they accept it? She could not sit here and do nothing when one of them was seriously injured. Besides, anxiety always spurred her to take action. Her father had always said, “Move, keep busy, and don’t let dust gather under your feet.” With her father’s words ringing in her ears, she approached the men cautiously, keeping her eye on the mean one, Struan.

  “May I be of assistance?” She stood with her feet firmly planted on the hard-packed, dirt floor, her head held high, one hand pressed flat against her side, the other rested on the cross dangling on her chest. It took an extreme effort to control her trembling body. Her palms moistened with sweat. She steadied her focus on Kendrick. His strong hands moved carefully over his brother’s body. The mean one harrumphed and growled.

  A growl? Really?

  Kendrick looked up, concern etched on his face. His dark, probing eyes bore through her. “Are you a healer, then?” he asked.

  “Not a healer exactly, but I have cared for ill and injured persons and have some training in first aid. I wish to help if you’ll permit me.”

  “I dinnae ken your meaning. What’s the first aid of which you speak? As you can see, we give him aid, but if you can do anything to help save my brother’s life, I will gladly accept your offer.”

  The mean one growled again. “Don’t trust her, she’s the enemy and will just as soon slit his throat.”

  Ignoring the slur, she continued, “Have you determined the extent of his injuries?”

  “Aye, his shoulder is dislocated, several fingers broken, which we have straightened and bound as best we’re able. We need to stitch multiple, deep wounds, and he’s lost a lot of blood, though blood no longer flows freely.”

  The injured man lay on a plaid, stripped completely naked, his kilt torn away from his battered body. Mud, blood, and all manner of vile debris caked the hard planes of his bronzed chest. Andra couldn’t identify the severity or location of all his injuries. He moaned but appeared unconscious, or so she assumed, since he hadn’t opened his eyes. Clumps of dried blood crusted over wounds on one leg and foot. Dark, matted refuse covered the entire other leg.

  His manhood lay flaccid against his thigh, and none of the men seemed concerned about his state of undress in front of a strange female. She stood quietly, waiting for several breaths.

  Kendrick studied her with hooded eyes. A shock of hair slipped across his face. He nodded his head toward the side. “Along yonder wall you’ll find stores and a bucket to haul water.” He turned back to his brother, and the men set to fixing the shoulder without looking at her again.

  As she walked away, they spoke Gaelic, most of which she didn’t understand. However, she understood the curses spewed against a man named Cormag and a Colonel Richardson.

  Looking toward the entrance, she considered the possibility of escape, and quickly dismissed the idea as impossible. She noted that Rabbie and one of the horses was no longer in the cave. The other horses had been relieved of their packs. She briefly wondered where he had gone, but it didn’t really matter. Focusing her attention to her task, she quickly located several buckets, stacks of wood and peat, pallets of straw, strips of torn linen, and numerous other items she didn’t have time to explore. Andra grabbed the largest pail, a small wooden cup, and several strips of linen and returned to the water.

  A pop sounded accompanied by a harsh groan from Lorne when the men slotted his shoulder back into place. She’d heard that setting a dislocated shoulder was excruciatingly painful, but fortunately, followed by certain relief. At least they addressed one of his problems.

  Dear God, what possessed her to offer help? What are you doing, are you crazy? You’re not a doctor! You’re not a nurse! What if he dies? They might blame you, torture you, kill you, or burn you at the stake. Her thoughts whirled out of control.

  Okay, maybe she was getting a little over-the-top paranoid, but these men appeared to be every bit the fierce Highland warriors she had learned so much about from her father and grandmother. They had a rigid code of honor, if one could believe the romanticized versions found in every romance novel, but they were also ruthless, brutal to their enemies and a highly superstitious lot. Yet here they knelt, tenderly washing off dirt and blood using a piece of cloth torn from their friend’s slashed and bloodied kilt.

  Andra lowered herself beside the injured man. She averted her eyes from his thickly muscled and ravaged torso, glanced quickly over his private parts, and set to washing off the caked mess from his legs. She uncovered a deep wound in his right thigh that needed stitching. No bone showed through; that must be a good sign.

  What do you know about such horrendous wounds, you dolt! Keep your eyes on your job and clean away the muck.

  She wanted to speak with them, but didn’t know how to begin. If she even looked at Struan, he glowered at her. Completely focused on his brother, Kendrick more or less ignored her, so she concentrated on cleansing and assessing the leg wounds. Her ministrations revealed a few, less-serious slashes across Lorne’s calf. On inspection, she felt certain they could bind them without stitches. When she looked up, the men had begun cleaning a large gash along his ribs. It looked gruesome, and her stomach lurched. It took a moment to steady her breathing. Kendrick poured whisky over the wounds and Struan started to suture, but the patient no longer responded. His chest rose and fell in a halting fashion, and yet he did not moan or move.

  The scent of strong whisky burned her nose, mingling with the smell of blood and filth. She breathed shallowly, repressing a gag. “His leg will also need stitching.”

  With a nod of his head Struan huffed, “There is another needle and gut, just be certain you clean the wound.”

  They expected her to suture. “Oh! I have never sutured a wound. I’m certain I would make a mess of it. But I’ll clean it thoroughly for you.”

  Struan harrumphed, grunted, and snarled, “What good was your first aid train’en then, if you cannae even stitch a wound?”

  A well of annoying sounds and insulting comments, Struan drew out the words as if scum coated his tongue. Even so, his hand remained steady as he expertly stitched Lorne’s flayed flesh. Obviously, these men had considerable experience with wounds of this nature. Andra ignored his baiting and continued to clean Lorne’s legs but watched surreptitiously, thinking she might need to acquire that skill.

  Searching through her bag, she found a tube of antibiotic cream. Her hand fisted over the tube. The ointment couldn’t hurt and might help, but how could she conceal it and use it at the same time? She must not allow them to examine the tube closely, or they’d think she was a witch. A burning fire under her feet would be her reward, especially if they found the stamped expiration date. “Damn!” she hissed.

  Struan snapped his head up, auburn hair curled wildly around his face, his brow furrowed as he growled, “What is that you say, wench?”

  She ignored Struan and focused on Kendrick. Handsome, rugged, all virile male, just glancing at him made her weak in the knees. His dark-blond hair fell across a bronzed, well-proportioned face with a straight nose and full lips. A small cleft in his chin lent him a hint of boyish charm. Large, powerful yet gentle hands examined his brother’s neck, shoulders, arms, and torso—for bone fractures, she assumed.

  Watching him, she found herself wanting to feel those hands on her. Whoa, from where did that thought come? She needed to examine her sanity and rein in her wild imagination.

  Her voice trembled when she spoke, “Kendrick, will you permit me to use some healing ointment on th
e bandages before we bind his wounds? I will use it on my own cuts and scratches. It is quite safe and may help prevent infection.”

  Kendrick studied her with focused concentration that shot to her core; it felt as though he reached to her very soul. “You’ll need a few stitches on your head as well. Let me tend to them and then you may add your ointments.”

  Andra sat as still as possible while Kendrick applied a few stitches along her hairline. The pain made her dizzy and nauseous. At least the heat of his presence offered some small distraction, though not enough to prevent a few tears or repress her hisses as the needle pierced her skin.

  As soon as he finished, she opened the tube inside the bag and wiped ointment on her finger. She applied it to her forehead laceration first. Then with her back to the men, she squeezed out a generous portion on strips of linen and placed them over Lorne’s wounds while Struan bound each one.

  Andra and Struan silently switched places when he moved to stitch the thigh. She retrieved her thick, cotton washcloth, rinsed it clean and wiped away the matted blood and dirt from Lorne’s face and head. Kendrick glanced with interest at the washcloth but said nothing to her.

  “This long cut along Lorne’s temple may require a few stitches,” she said. The man shook violently under her hands, and his teeth chattered loudly. “We must finish quickly and warm him or our efforts will have been wasted.”

  Kendrick glared at her as though he wanted to smack her for stating the obvious. He swallowed hard, nodded, and abruptly went to start a fire in a stone circle farther back in the cave while Struan finished tending to Lorne. Someone had placed straw pallets near the fire pit.

  Once he completed the stitching and binding, Struan bent to lift Lorne. Placing her hand on his thickly muscled arm Andra stopped him. “Wait, if you and Kendrick each lift one end of the plaid, I’ll slip my hands underneath to support his back, and we can move him more safely to the pallet.”