She rummaged in one of the saddlebags until she found a small tin cup. She dipped the cup into the pot, ladling out some of the yarrow water, then brought it to Burke’s side within the shelter. She lifted up his head and poured some of the warm brew down his throat, pleased when she saw that he swallowed several gulps of the tea. Laying down his head as gently as she could, she scooted out of the lean-to and refilled the cup at the fire.
She managed to get one more cup of the yarrow tea into him, which boosted her spirits slightly. Yarrow was a powerful anti-inflammatory, antiseptic, and anti-fever medicine. She thanked her lucky stars that she had left some of the plant in her bag when she had packed, and that there was more growing in the area.
This time as she crawled out of the shelter, she brought all the bandages she could rummage with her. She would only be able to soak one at a time since the pot was so small, but it was better than nothing. Just as she was pushing one of the strips of cloth down into the pot with the waterlogged plants, she caught a glimpse of Garrick’s red plaid through the trees.
She watched as he approached, but when she could finally see him fully unobstructed by the trees, her breath caught in her throat. His arms were overflowing with yarrow. He strode to the fire where she knelt and dumped the armload of plants on the ground, making an enormous pile of them.
“Is this the kind of plant you need?” he said, his eyes on her.
She didn’t know if it was the lack of sleep or the razor-sharp anxiety of the past few days that brought it on, but all at once tears blurred her vision. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Suddenly, he was kneeling next to her. “What is it, lass? Is everything all right? Is it Burke?” Fear pinched his voice, so she shook her head quickly.
“No, Burke is resting. It’s just…You found all this yarrow, and…” She took a shaky breath and tried to pull herself together. “Thank you,” she eventually managed.
She was so struck by his kindness and eagerness to do something useful that she nearly lost her hold on the tears again. This was a man of action, a warrior used to being able to do something with his hands to change things. He was no healer, as she was sure he would vehemently insist, but he clearly cared enough about his friend to act like one. She wouldn’t let herself indulge in the thought that he wanted to be of help to her too, that he wanted to protect and care for her in the only way he could think of. That was just sentimental wishful thinking, she told herself firmly.
“The horses?” she said, trying to get her mind back on reality.
“They’ve been fed and watered. I found a shallow cave on the other side of this rock formation that is mostly covered over with shrubs. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do.”
She nodded, again grateful for the fact that he had taken care of things. “I managed to get some tea into Burke, which will hopefully help cut the fever, and if we are lucky, stop the infection.” Using a stick, she drew out the strip of cloth that had been soaking in the yarrow water. She let it cool in the air for a moment as she pushed another piece of cloth into the pot in its place. Then she took the soaked cloth into the shelter and began wrapping it around the wound. Garrick followed her silently, helping her lift Burke’s leg again.
When the task was done, they returned to the small fire. “How often does the bandage need changing?” Garrick asked quietly as they both stared into the flames.
“About once an hour.” She registered that her voice was flat with exhaustion, but she was too tired to care.
“And when should I give him more tea?”
“When should you?” Though she felt foggy with fatigue, she didn’t miss what he had said.
“Aye, lass. I can tend to Burke. You need to rest.”
“What about you?” He hadn’t slept since the night she had stowed away in their wagon—two days ago.
He scrubbed his hand over his face but didn’t try to deny his own exhaustion. “Why don’t we take turns?” he said finally.
“Very well. You’ll go first,” she said firmly. He started to argue, but she interrupted him. “I slept a bit in the wagon. And besides, I need to prepare some of this yarrow and make a fresh batch of this brew before I can rest.”
He still looked like he wanted to object, so she placed a hand on his shoulder to still him. Despite their exhaustion, both of them seemed to grow alert at her touch.
“Sleep,” she said softly, then gave his shoulder a little push to get him to lie down.
He mumbled something about stubborn lasses, but he let himself be tilted over to the ground. She watched him settle his arm underneath his head and close his eyes, not bothering to find a more comfortable position. Within a minute, she could hear a change in his breathing as he slipped into sleep.
She let herself gaze down at him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. He still looked fierce, even in sleep. His dark hair was disheveled, and several days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw and cheeks. Though he was relaxed in sleep, his muscles were still corded and well-defined. His large chest rose and fell rhythmically with his breathing, and even lying down he looked like a giant.
But there was also something incredibly intimate about being so close to him as he slept. He was completely vulnerable. Jossalyn doubted very many people ever saw him like this. Based on what she had observed, he was normally guarded and cautious, but here he was, stretched out a mere foot away from her on the ground in a deep sleep. She suddenly had to fight the urge to lean into him, inhale his scent, and run her fingers along his hard jawline to feel the bristly stubble there.
She shook herself, forcing her eyes back onto the pot on the fire. She went about adding more water and stuffing more yarrow in along with the strip of cloth, all the while telling herself not to think about Garrick—not think about him sleeping next to her, not think about being pressed against him again, not think about what their next kiss would feel like.
Despite her best efforts, the dark and inexplicable desire had taken root in her, and there was no going back.
Chapter Twenty
Garrick woke to the sound of thunder. He jerked upright, reaching instinctively for the fletching dagger he always kept in his boot. Suddenly, his eyes locked on Jossalyn, who was frozen in surprise in front of him, her eyes wide and startled.
“Sorry,” he said, easing his hand away from his dagger. “Habit.”
She let out a breath and nodded, relaxing somewhat. She had been working over the fire, stirring the mixture of plants, water, and cloth inside the pot. Despite her diligent attention to the task at hand, she looked haggard and exhausted. Her golden hair was mussed and coming out of its braid, her shoulders slumped forward, and he had noticed dark smudges under her eyes a moment ago when she had been staring at him.
“How is Burke?”
“About the same,” she said, her brow furrowed. “But he took more tea, which is good.”
He stood and went to her side. “You need to rest, lass.”
“But you only slept for a few hours,” she responded, but there wasn’t much fight in her voice.
He actually felt surprisingly refreshed. He was used to sleeping outdoors and working long hours. He doubted that she was, though.
He glanced up at the sound of another roll of thunder and noticed the storm that had been brewing to the west earlier in the morning had now arrived. As if to prove his observation, he felt a large raindrop hit his shoulder.
“You shouldn’t be out in this storm anyway. I can watch over the fire. You go check on Burke and get some sleep.”
She only nodded, confirming for him just how tired she was. She disappeared inside the shelter for a moment, but then reemerged.
“He’s still asleep, but there’s not enough room in there for both of us,” she said wearily.
Garrick glanced around for a spot that would work as a second makeshift shelter during the storm. Several more drops of rain had fallen, and the sky was growing increasingly dark despite the fact that it was midday. Not fa
r from where Burke lay underneath the overgrown leaning logs, there was a slight inward curvature to the rock face. If he could gather enough fallen trunks and branches, he could create a second lean-to that wouldn’t look out of place.
He set about dragging several tree limbs from the forest floor to the rock outcropping, propping them against the rock to create a little space underneath them for Jossalyn. Once the structure was in place, he covered the logs with freshly fallen branches that still had leaves or pine needles on them to provide more protection and make the lean-to blend in more. When he was satisfied, he peeked inside. Even as the rain started to come down in earnest, the inside of the little structure was staying dry.
He turned away from the shelter, only to find Jossalyn staring at him, an unreadable look on her face, but a softness in her eyes. Feeling uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and not wanting to think about why her soft look made his chest pinch, he cleared his throat and said gruffly, “That should do.”
“Thank you.” She kept her large green eyes locked on him as she approached, only breaking their gaze so she could duck her head down and crawl into the shelter. One more idea occurred to him to make her sleep more comfortable. He went to his saddlebag, which was still next to the fire, and retrieved an extra length of plaid, then went back to the new shelter and knelt in front of it.
“Here,” he said, extending the plaid toward her. He realized suddenly that perhaps he was fussing too much over her. He berated himself silently, reminding himself that he was supposed to be keeping his distance from her. Why should he overexert himself just to make her comfortable?
A voice in his head whispered that he wasn’t exactly living up to his self-appointed title of villain very well. But just because he was an assassin in Robert the Bruce’s army didn’t mean he was a cold-hearted bastard. What was so bad about trying to make the lass comfortable, especially when it was his own blockheaded and moon-eyed “rescue” of her that had put her in this situation?
She took the proffered plaid but was gazing up at him with that look in her eyes again—a combination of tenderness and desire. He had to get out of here before he did something stupid again.
“I’ll be back,” he said tersely, standing.
“Wait! Where are you going?” A thin edge of concern cut through the surprise in her voice.
“Hunting.” They could use some fresh food, but the real reason was because he needed to calm his mind and straighten out his thoughts, and nothing did that better than having his bow in his hand.
“Oh.”
Just as he was turning away again, she called after him once more.
“I was wondering…why does your bow look so strange?”
He couldn’t help the smile that quirked up one side of his mouth. So she had noticed. As far as he knew, he was the only Scot with a recurve bow from the Holy Land, and likely the only one in all the British Isles.
“It’s called a recurve bow. You’ve seen normal longbows?”
She nodded.
“Then you’ll know that they are long and almost straight, and can be as tall as their shooter. They are made out of yew, which makes sense in these parts since it’s fairly common and sturdy wood. They are also easy to make, which is important in wartime, like now, because it doesn’t take as much time or skill to produce them. What did you notice was different about my bow?”
She thought for a moment. “It was curved or warped somehow, and was a bit shorter than the bows I’ve seen. The two ends seemed to be going the wrong way.”
He nodded. “That makes it far harder to make, but more accurate and precise. Most English armies line up in long rows and shoot a swarm of arrows at their opponent, hoping some of them reach a mark, but relying more on sheer numbers rather than accuracy. My bow is designed to be shot from horseback or among tree cover, so it is more maneuverable and precise.”
He surprised himself at his own loquaciousness, but he felt a twinge of pride, not only for his bow, but also for the fact that she had noticed it.
She tilted her head to the side a little. “Where did you get it?”
“The Holy Land. I was on a mission.” He almost added that he had been hunting a target for the Bruce, but decided to withhold that information. For some reason he didn’t like the thought of her picturing him hunting down and killing someone on the order of the King of the Scottish rebels. He shouldn’t care what she thought of him, but he did.
Her eyes widened in amazement, and he reminded himself that most people never traveled more than a day or so away from their homes. In her case, she had moved from England to the Borderlands, and was now in Lowland Scotland, but her circumstances were rare and unique. He had seen more of the world than most people could dream of. Working for the Bruce had taken him to Ireland, France, and even the Holy Land.
Though he believed in the importance of his work and was honored to call the Bruce his King and commander, the reminder about how different his life was from hers sat like a stone in his stomach. Yet another piece of evidence that the two of them could never be together.
That thought startled him, for he didn’t realize that some small part of him was still looking for a plan that would allow him and Jossalyn to be together. He shouldn’t need to collect evidence for why it wouldn’t work. He should already have moved on from his little fantasy.
“I won’t be long,” he said, turning to go again, “but you should sleep.” He had to get his head on straight before he forgot all his reasons and logic and duty. Because if he didn’t start thinking clearly, he would join her in the shelter and do something that no amount of reason or logic or duty would undo.
The rain was finally unleashing its full might, just in time for him to be trying to keep their little fire alive. Upon his return from his hunt, he had stowed their saddlebags inside Burke’s shelter to protect them from the mounting downpour. Then he had skinned, cleaned, and skewered the rabbit he had shot. Now he was trying to roast it over the meager flames, but the rain seemed to have other plans.
Both Jossalyn and Burke were still sleeping, Jossalyn peacefully inside her dry little shelter, and Burke somewhat fitfully. Garrick had forced more tea down his throat and had changed the dressing on his leg a few more times, but Burke’s fever still burned, and the wound looked angry and enflamed.
He had thought of rousing Jossalyn, first to have her check on Burke to see if anything else could be done, and then to share the rabbit with him, which would have been done cooking by now if the skies hadn’t decided to open up and nearly completely douse his fire. It was already sometime between late afternoon and early evening if Garrick could judge correctly through the heavy cloud cover. She had been asleep for several hours, but he was glad he hadn’t roused her. She needed it, and who knew when they would get a place and time to rest again?
Unfortunately, his bow had offered him little in the way of solace or clarity as he had hunted. He still had no idea what to do about Jossalyn. He knew that he couldn’t keep her with him, at least not after Burke healed—God willing. He still wouldn’t let himself wonder what would happen if his cousin, his brother’s right-hand man, and, he grudgingly admitted, someone who had become a companion and friend to him over the last few weeks, somehow didn’t pull through. He had to believe Burke would make it, and that they would still be able to complete their mission together.
When—not if—Burke was well enough to ride, they would need to continue heading north, and fast. But Garrick had to get to the Bruce, whereas Burke needed to report back to Garrick’s brother Robert. Although Robert was still Garrick’s Laird and leader of the Sinclair clan, the Bruce’s position as the King of Scotland trumped his brother’s authority over him. Burke could report back to Robert on what they had learned in the Borderlands about Warren’s movements, and Garrick would deliver the news of Longshanks’s death and the crowning of Edward II to the Bruce.
But where did that leave Jossalyn in all of this?
He still didn’t like the idea of le
aving her in some random village in the middle of Scotland. He hated to admit it, but he felt too protective of her to do that. Though her healing skills would be welcomed anywhere she went, the farther into Scotland they traveled, the less amenable people would be to having an English lass in their midst. Some would likely distrust her, while others might even be openly hostile toward her. Plus, word of a bonnie English lass in the middle of nowhere in Scotland would likely draw attention. Her brother might be able to find her, or maybe someone looking to kidnap and ransom her would be drawn in. Either way, her presence would stand out and draw unwanted notice.
But he couldn’t very well take her with him—could he? Though he longed to cling to any thread of an idea that would mean he could stay in her presence longer, he couldn’t think desperately or let his desire for the lass cloud his judgment. He couldn’t involve her further in the rebellion—it wasn’t safe for her to be in the middle of a war. And besides, he doubted that the Bruce or the others in the army would appreciate him bringing an English lass—and Raef Warren’s sister no less—into their secret camp.
His mind continued to churn, still unable to find a solution.
Just as he was about to give up on the rabbit ever getting cooked, he heard the distant whinny of a horse and froze.
He strained to hear through the patter of rain in the trees, praying he had been mistaken. But then he heard it again—another whinny, a bit to the left of where the first had come from.
He bolted upright, and in a flash, had kicked dirt over the fire, rabbit and all. Luckily, the ground was soft and damp enough that the fire was quickly smothered, and the ground looked relatively undisturbed. He grabbed his bow and quiver, which he had wisely kept with him after his hunt instead of returning them to where the horses were stowed. His mind tried to picture how well the animals were hidden, and he prayed they were resting quietly behind the thick screen of shrubbery that blocked the entrance to their little cave.
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