by Maya Banks
She shook her head and then gathered the ends of the sheet in her hands and hauled them over her shoulder.
“Give me strength, God,” she prayed. “I’ve no chance of dragging him into my cottage without your aid.”
She pursed her lips, ground her teeth together, and then pulled with all her might. Only to be jerked backward. She nearly toppled to the ground. Her warrior hadn’t budged an inch.
“Well, God never promised you extraordinary strength,” she muttered. “Perhaps he grants only reasonable requests.”
She stared at the problem before her and then glanced at the warrior’s horse who stood in the distance munching on grass.
With a disgruntled sigh she marched toward the horse and gripped the reins. At first he refused to budge, but she planted her feet and coaxed, pulled and begged the monstrous animal to do her bidding.
“Have you no loyalty?” she accused. “Your master is lying on the ground, gravely wounded, and all you can think of is your belly?”
The horse didn’t look impressed with her speech, but finally he clopped toward the fallen warrior. He leaned his snout down to nuzzle against his master’s neck, but Keeley pulled him away.
If she could just secure the ends of the sheet to the horse’s saddle, then he could pull him into the cottage. Not that she wanted a dirty, foul-smelling animal in her home, but at the moment she didn’t see an alternative.
It took her several long minutes before she was satisfied she had a workable plan. After the sheet was secure and she was reasonably sure the warrior wouldn’t roll off the material, she urged the horse in the direction of the cottage.
To her delight it worked! The horse dragged the warrior along the ground. It would take a week to wash the dirt from her bedding, but at least the man was being moved.
The horse clopped into her cottage. There was barely room to maneuver around the animal and the warrior. They filled the tiny interior of her home.
She hastily untied the ends of the sheet and then set about getting the horse to go back the way he’d come. The stubborn horse evidently decided he liked the warmer interior of her cottage. It took half an hour to budge the stubborn beast.
When she finally had him outside where he belonged, she slammed her door and leaned heavily against it. She needed to remember next time that good deeds often went unrewarded.
She was fair exhausted from her efforts, but her warrior needed tending if he was to live.
Her warrior? She snorted. Her pain in the arse, more likely. No need in entertaining stupid, fanciful thoughts. If he died, she’d likely be blamed.
Upon closer inspection, he obviously wasn’t a McDonald. She frowned. Was he an enemy to the McDonalds? Not that she owed them her loyalty, but she was a McDonald and as such their enemies were her own. Was she even now saving the life of a man who was a threat to her?
“There you go again, Keeley,” she mumbled. Her flights of fancy often veered dramatically to the absurd. The tales she spun in her head would make a bard look boring.
His colors were unfamiliar to her, but then she had never been farther than McDonald land in her life.
She had no hope of getting him to her bed so she did the next best thing. She brought her bed to him.
She arranged the blankets and pillows around him so that he would be comfortable, and then she added wood to her dying fire. Already the room had gone chilly.
Next, she collected her supplies and gave thanks that she’d traveled into the neighboring village a few days past to replenish her meager stock. Most of what she needed, she gathered herself. And thank the good Lord that she had superior healing skills, because it was all that had sustained her for the last years.
Though the McDonalds were quick enough to toss her out of the clan, they had no compunction about seeking her out when one of them needed healing. It wasn’t uncommon for her to stitch a McDonald warrior after a training mishap or a wee one’s head after taking a tumble down the stairs.
McDonald keep had its own healer, but she was aging and her hand was no longer steady at stitching. ’Twas said she did more damage than good when putting her needle to flesh.
If Keeley were more mean spirited, she’d turn them away just as they’d turned her away, but the occasional coin they provided for her services kept food on her table when hunting was lean and it enabled her to purchase supplies that she couldn’t gather herself.
She mixed herbs and mashed the leaves, adding just enough water to make a paste. When she was satisfied with the consistency, she laid it aside and set about preparing bandages from an older linen sheet she kept for just such emergencies.
When everything was in order, she went back to her warrior and knelt by his side. He hadn’t regained consciousness since being dragged into her cottage. For that she was grateful. The last thing she needed was a man twice her size to become combative.
She dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and gently began to cleanse the wound. Fresh blood seeped from the wound as she brushed aside the crusted, dried parts. She was meticulous in her task, not wanting to leave even a speck of dirt into the wound when she closed it.
It was a jagged wound and it would leave a great scar, but it wasn’t anything he should die of if he didn’t take a fever.
After she was satisfied that it was clean, she pressed the flesh back together and took up her needle. She held her breath as she slid the needle in the first time, but the warrior slept on and she quickly set her stitches, making sure they were tight and close together.
She worked down, hovering over him until her back ached and her eyes crossed from the strain. She estimated the wound to be at least eight inches in length. Perhaps ten. At any rate, it would pain him to move in the days to come.
When she set the last stitch, she sat back and sighed her relief. The hard part was over. Now she needed to bandage him and bind it in place.
By the time she was done wrestling with the warrior, she was exhausted. Wiping the hair from her eyes, she went to wash and to stretch her aching limbs. The inside had grown overwarm and she welcomed the brisk cool air of the outside. She walked down to the bubbling stream not far from her cottage and she knelt by the edge to scoop the water up in her hands.
She filled a bowl full of fresh water and then headed back to the cottage. Then she washed the wound down once more before applying the thick poultice to the stitched flesh. She folded over several strips of material to fashion a thick bandage and then holding it to his side, she awkwardly wound the much longer strips around his waist to hold the bandage in place.
If only she could sit him up, it would make the task much easier. Deciding there was no reason she couldn’t lift him to a sitting position, she tugged at his head and then put her entire body behind him to shove upward.
He sagged forward and more blood seeped between the stitches. Working quickly, she wound the strips tightly around his midsection until she was satisfied that everything would stay as she’d positioned it.
Then she eased him gently back to the floor until his head rested on one of the small pillows. She smoothed the hair from his brow and fingered the braid that hung from his temple.
Drawn by the beauty of his face, she ran her finger over his cheekbone and to his jaw. He truly was a beautiful man. Perfectly formed and fashioned. A strong warrior honed by the fires of battle.
She wondered about the color of his eyes. Blue, she speculated. With that dark hair, blue would be mesmerizing, but it was just as likely they were brown.
As if deciding to answer her unspoken question, his eyelids flipped open. His stare was unfocused, but she was mesmerized by the pale green orbs surrounded by dark lashes that only added to his beauty.
Beauty. Clearly she needed to come up with a better term. He would be mortally offended by a woman calling him beautiful. Handsome. Aye. But handsome didn’t begin to aptly describe the warrior.
“Angel,” he croaked out. “I’ve gone to heaven, aye. ’Tis the only explanation for beauty s
uch as this.”
She felt a prick of pleasure until she remembered that just earlier he was likening her to hell. With a sigh she smoothed her hand over the warrior’s unshaven chin. The bristle abraded her palm and she briefly wondered what it would feel like on other parts of her body.
Then she promptly blushed and pushed the sinful thoughts from her mind.
“Nay, warrior. ’Tis not heaven you’ve found. You’re still of this world, although you might be feeling as though you’ve been gripped by the fires of hell.”
“ ’Tis not possible for an angel such as you to reside in the bowels of hell,” he said in a slurred voice.
She smiled and soothed her palm over his cheek again. He turned and nuzzled into her hand, his eyes closing as an expression of pleasure settled on his features.
“Sleep now warrior,” she whispered. “ ’Tis God’s truth you have a long recovery ahead of you.”
“You mustn’t leave, lass,” he murmured.
“Nay, warrior. I won’t leave you.”
CHAPTER 3
Alaric became aware of burning pain in his side that grew stronger with each second he was conscious. It became so much that he stirred and shifted in an attempt to alleviate the unbearable tension.
“Be still, warrior, lest you rip your stitches.”
The honeyed voice was accompanied by gentle hands that scalded his already overwarm skin. The heat was nigh unbearable and yet he stilled, not wanting his angel to stop touching him. ’Twas the only semblance of pleasure he had.
How he could straddle the fires of hell and the pleasures of the sweetest angel, he didn’t know. Perhaps he was betwixt the two worlds and it was as of yet undecided which direction he would venture.
“Thirsty,” he said hoarsely. He slid his tongue over his dry, cracked lips, craving the soothing balm of water.
“Aye, but just a bit. I’ll not have you retching all over my floor,” the angel said.
She tucked her arm underneath his neck and lifted his head. It shamed him that he was as weak as a newborn kitten. He’d have never been able to hold himself up if it weren’t for her firm grip.
The rim of a goblet pressed to his lips, and he drank greedily, nearly inhaling the cool water. It was a shock to his system, so cold and refreshing, that a shiver stole over his body. The contrast was nearly painful. Ice to the fires that burned over his flesh.
“There,” the angel soothed. “ ’Tis enough for now. I know you suffer. I’ll make a tisane for the pain and ’twill make you sleep a little easier.”
But he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to remain there in her arms, cradled to her bosom. ’Twas a very nice bosom. Pillowy and plump, just as a woman should be. He turned, nuzzling into her softness. He inhaled her sweet scent and felt the fires of hell recede. Peace surrounded him. Ah. He’d taken a step toward heaven surely.
“Tell me your name,” he ordered. Did angels have names?
“Keeley, warrior. My name is Keeley. Hush now. You must rest so you can regain your strength. I’ve not worked this hard for you to be arbitrary and die on me.”
Nay, he wouldn’t die. There were important things he must do, though at the moment his bruised mind couldn’t grasp exactly what it was that was so pressing.
Maybe she was right. He should rest for a while. Perhaps when he next awakened, he’d know the right of things.
He inhaled deeply again and let himself go limp. He was vaguely aware of his angel lowering his head. He inhaled one last time, absorbing her scent. It was like drinking the sweetest of wines. A warm, soothing buzz flowed through his veins and lulled him.
He stopped fighting. His angel wouldn’t allow him to die.
“Nay, warrior. I won’t allow you to die.”
Soft lips brushed over his brow, lingering at his temple. He turned his face, wanting her mouth on his own. He thought he might die if she didn’t kiss him again.
There was hesitation, what felt to him like an eternity, before finally, her mouth touched his. Just a simple, innocent gesture that a child might bestow.
He growled low in his throat. Damn if he wanted a simple peck.
“Kiss me, angel.”
He felt more than heard her sound of exasperation, but then her breathing hitched and it blew warm over his mouth. He could smell her. He could feel her vibrating against him. The tiny puff of air signaled that she was close. So very close.
It took all his strength, but he lifted his arm and delved his hand into her hair, gripping her nape to hold her in place. He raised his head and their lips met in a breathless, heated kiss.
Lord, but she was sweet. Her taste filled his mouth, slid over his tongue like smooth honey. He pushed impatiently at her lips, demanding her to open to him. With a sigh she gave him what he wanted. Her lips parted and he delved inside, probing and tasting every part of her mouth.
Aye, ’twas heaven. Because, if this was hell, there wasn’t a man in the whole of Scotland who’d ever tread the path of righteousness.
His strength gone, he slumped back, his head hitting the pillow with a thud.
“You’ve overtaxed yourself, warrior,” she reprimanded in a husky voice.
“ ’Twas worth it,” he whispered.
He thought she smiled, but the room was so blurred around him that he couldn’t be sure. He was vaguely aware of her leaving, but he didn’t have the strength to protest. A moment later, she returned and pressed a goblet to his lips again.
The brew was bitter and he coughed, but she didn’t relent. She poured the liquid into his mouth until he had no choice but to swallow or choke.
When she was done, she lowered his head once more to the pillow and brushed her fingers over his brow.
“Sleep now, warrior.”
“Stay by me, angel. I find it doesn’t hurt so much when you’re near.”
There was faint rustling and then she pressed into his uninjured side, her body soft and so warm, a shield against the chill that gripped him more with each passing moment.
Her scent surrounded him. The feel of her against him soothed the savage fires. He breathed easier as peace enveloped him. Aye, she was his own sweet angel come to guard him from the gates of hell.
Just in case she thought to leave him, he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her in tighter to his side. He turned his head to the side until her hair tickled his nose. He inhaled deeply and gave in to the darkness creeping over him.
Keeley was in a predicament. Aye, she was trapped against her warrior, his arm like a band of steel surrounding her waist. She’d been there for hours, hoping after he fell asleep that his hold would loosen, but she was melded tight against him.
She could feel every tremor of his body. Every time he shook with the chill from his fever. Several times he mumbled in his sleep and she swept her hand over his chest, up to his face in an effort to soothe him.
She whispered words of nonsense, pitching her tone low so as to offer comfort. Each time she spoke, he seemed to settle and relax once more.
She pillowed her head in the crook of his arm and rested her cheek against his broad chest. ’Twas sinful how much enjoyment she gained from lying against him, but there was no one to see it, and surely God would forgive her if she managed to save the warrior’s life.
A glance at her window had her grimacing. Dusk was upon them and it was growing chillier with each passing minute. She needed to get up to cover the window and she also needed to stoke the fire if they were to be warm the night through.
There was also the matter of the warrior’s horse, if the animal hadn’t already ambled off. Few things would make a man angrier than to have his horse neglected. He’d probably sooner forgive her neglecting his injuries before forgiving insult to his horse. Men had their priorities, after all.
With a sigh of regret, she set about extricating herself from the warrior’s grasp. No simple feat when he seemed just as determined that she stay.
He frowned in his sleep and even mumbled a few words that pinkened
her cheeks and scorched her ears. But in the end, she won out and managed to slip underneath his arm and roll free.
She struggled to her feet, stretching her stiff muscles, before heading to the window to pull down the covering and secure the sides. The wind had picked up and whistled through her thatched ceiling. If it didn’t snow soon, she’d be surprised.
After fetching her shawl and wrapping it securely around her, she stepped outside and looked for the horse. To her surprise, he was right outside the window, as if he’d been checking in on his master.
She patted his neck. “I’ve no doubt you’re used to better care than I can offer, but ’tis the truth I have no place to shelter you. Think you that you’ll weather the night out here?”
The horse snorted and bobbed his head up and down, blowing warm air out his nostrils. He was a huge animal and surely he’d dealt with worse before. At any rate, she could hardly board the animal in her cottage.
With one last pat, she left the horse and went to fetch more wood for the fire. Her pile was dwindling, and in the morning she’d need to chop some more if she was to keep her fire ablaze.
She shivered when the wind howled over her, picking up the ends of her shawl and pulling as if trying to upset her balance. She hurried inside and stacked the wood by the hearth. After making sure the door and the window were both secure, she added more logs to the fire and poked until the blaze burned high and bright.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since she’d broken her fast before dawn. Settling on a piece of salted fish and a leftover heel of bread, she sat cross-legged by the sleeping warrior and ate by the warmth of the fire.
As she absently chewed, she stared down at his features, illuminated by the orange glow of the flames. Ever fanciful, her mind began to paint images. Pleasing images. She sighed as she imagined belonging to this man. The two of them eating after a hard day’s work. Or perhaps her welcoming him home after a fierce battle. He would have, of course, been victorious, and she would have given him a hero’s welcome.
