The Rogue

by Allison Butler

  Keila headed for the back entrance that lead into the kitchen and once inside, eyed the ever-growing pile of dishes needing to be washed. She turned away. Dirty dishes could wait until the morn. She’d washed, dried and packed the cabbages, leeks, turnips and onions into the wicker baskets while she’d waited for the brew to cool. She’d then fetched two pails of water from the nearby River Livet before dark had fallen. Now she’d use one pail of water to wash the carrots she’d pulled from the garden earlier.

  ‘Don’t you sleep?’

  Keila physically jumped at the unexpected sound of the masculine voice. Heart still thumping a rapid pace, she turned until her eyes settled on the man leaning against the sitting room doorway. The bare-chested man staring back at her. She really needed to fetch him his clothes.

  ‘I’m not tired,’ she said, feeling more awake than she had been a moment ago. Flickering light washed down over him from the flaming torch fixed to the wall above his head. ‘You look well rested and appear to be able to stand without falling down.’ She appraised the length of him as she spoke, trying to appear unaffected. But she couldn’t deny that once again she was left breathless by the size of him. Tall. Broad. Magnificent. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  He straightened where he stood, as if to prove he could indeed stand on his own without falling over. Keila drew in an appreciative breath before heading for the wooden stool beside the back door and retrieving the clothes she and Moira had stripped from him two days before.

  ‘Aye. You have my thanks for tending my wounds and for giving me shelter,’ he said, as she walked toward him.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She met his gaze, and then looked at the curve of stitches beside his right eye as she offered him his clothes. It was safer not to allow her gaze to wander lower while standing so close. He stared down at her through eyes that were less swollen, but the flesh surrounding them had darkened. She held out his clothes. ‘Do you need help?’ Why in heavens name had she asked that?

  ‘Nae.’

  ‘Good.’ She expelled the word in a rush and turned around, needing something else to focus on. ‘Dress and I’ll check your wounds.’ Keila didn’t think she could properly see to his injuries while he was awake and unclothed.

  He disappeared into the sitting room and Keila ladled boiled water from the pot they left to simmer over the flames. Always use boiled water to clean and bathe open wounds. Another useful lesson she’d learned from her Aunt Fiona. She then fetched a pot of unguent and several clean cloths and placed them on the long trestle beside the bowl of water. She looked up as he stepped around the doorway and entered the kitchen.

  The linen shirt they’d peeled from his muscular body had been washed and dried in the sun, along with the plaid now wrapped about his hips in place of her woollen blanket.

  Keila waved him to the stool before her. ‘Please sit.’

  He’d left his leather vest off, and she assumed from his slow actions of lowering himself onto the stool, his big body was still aching and sore. The lack of hearing him breathe until he’d found his seat, and the long exhalation once he found it, confirmed her beliefs.

  He sat side on to the table, facing her. She studied his clothed form, but images of his naked body had somehow embedded themselves inside her head. She’d treated many a man’s wounds over the years, thankfully none too serious, but she’d never been able to recall, or ever thought about their form as a whole afterward. She’d only seen the injury. Just as she would now.

  She repositioned the lit candle from the far side of the trestle nearer to where she stood and studied the neat row of stitches beside his eye. ‘I’ll bathe your stitches and then apply more salve.’ She stepped around to the side. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you.’

  Keila wet a cloth and squeezed much of the water out. He held still as she began gently washing the thick salve from the stitches, stepping around him to exchange a used cloth for a clean one.

  ‘Allow me.’ He lifted the bowl of water and the pile of cloths and held them in his hands within easy reach.

  ‘My thanks.’ The tinkling of water as she wet each new cloth, the crackling of low flames in the hearth and the soft slow steady breaths, his and hers, filled the room. It was strange standing so close to a powerful man who’d been brutally beaten, yet she sensed no feeling of being in danger. But she could feel him watching her and twice strengthened her will to see naught but his wound.

  Once the stitches were unguent free, she shuffled around and carefully bathed the bruised and swollen flesh about his eyes. ‘Forgive me if this hurts.’

  ‘You have gentle hands. And it is I who beg your forgiveness.’ His warm breath brushed her inner wrist and sent a trail of goose flesh up her arm. ‘I’m sure you have other tasks you’d prefer to be doing.’

  She stilled and cocked her head to one side. The idea of washing carrots and dishes suddenly seemed even more unappealing. ‘Nae really.’

  She patted his skin dry and applied a good measure of new salve to the stitches.

  ‘There. Now I will see to the wounds on your lips.’ Her gaze dropped to his mouth and the two dried lines of blood that marked the right side of each lip. The flesh beneath his nose and around to his chin was puffed and discoloured with the same numerous shades of purples and reds that showed about his eyes. Using another cloth, she cleansed his lips and about his mouth before carefully drying the area. ‘How could someone do this to you?’ She spoke the thought out loud.

  ‘I’ve been asking myself the very same question.’

  The skin of his lips stretched tight and threatened to reopen the gashes as he smiled.

  ‘Nae.’ She pressed her fingers against his mouth to still any movement and felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. Her gaze leapt to his and though his eyes were almost swollen shut, she felt the weight of his stare. The pads of her fingers suffered the loss of his mirth. ‘This is serious. How can you smile and jest about your beating?’ She straightened and removed her fingers from his lips.

  ‘Nae one takes my attack more seriously than I, but a smile and a jest won’t change the outcome, nor will anger or tears.’

  Keila searched his battered face. ‘I am nae used to someone making light of serious matters.’ She wasn’t. Both she and Moira worried about everything as much as each other.

  ‘Then you’re in luck, for it seems I am.’

  Her gaze fell to his smiling mouth once more. She reached for the pot of salve and offered it to him. It didn’t seem wise to touch him anymore right now, and definitely not his mouth. ‘Apply this to your lips.’ She took the bowl of used water from his hand and gathered the used cloths from the table. ‘Keep it. If you plan on smiling continually, apply more, more often.’ She dropped the cloths into the wash pail and tipped the cooled water into the slops bucket and turned in time to see him applying the salve.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ He must be starving. He was a large man and hadn’t eaten since he’d arrived.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’ll prepare you something to eat.’ Instead of leaving the victuals whole, she cut several chunks of cheese, sliced the ham and placed it on a wooden platter, along with a half loaf of bread. With his injuries, it would be easier for him to eat, and although she still didn’t experience any sense of danger at being alone with him, she wasn’t about to hand him her dagger. Her gaze swept over him once more and she was certain he didn’t need a weapon to overpower her if he wanted to.

  ‘Your meal is ready,’ she said, pushing the platter to the opposite side of the large kitchen table that served as a workbench.

  ‘You’re not eating?’

  Keila focused on the man sitting before her, holding a heel of bread and staring up at her through swollen, blackened eyes. ‘I’ll eat come the morn.’ He nodded and tore off a bite-sized chunk of the loaf with his fingers. ‘Ale?’ she asked, wrapping the remaining cheese in a cloth.

  ‘Ale would be welcome to wash away the bitter taste of your potion.’

  She tur
ned and her gaze lingered on his lop-sided smile. She reminded herself he was commenting on the taste, not insulting her efforts. She lifted a jug of ale and filled a wooden cup. By the time she offered him the beverage, his eyes had shifted from her and his mouth was too preoccupied chewing to hold a smile. She reached forward and set his cup before him. ‘The swelling about your face is a little less.’

  He chewed some more, swallowed and lifted his cup. ‘It’s good to speak without sounding like I’ve drunk a full cask of ale on my own.’

  Keila watched him drink. ‘When we found you, you smelled as if you’d bathed in ale fully clothed.’

  A frown appeared on his bruised brow. He lowered his cup and peered across the table. ‘My thanks for washing my clothes.’

  She returned his look. ‘For that, you need to thank Moira.’

  ***

  Adair stared at the redheaded beauty on the other side of the table. She had an air of honesty about her that he doubted could be feigned. Hearing that his clothes had been washed by the dragon-lady he knew didn’t trust him, surprised him. ‘I will,’ he said, holding Keila’s gaze. ‘Where is Moira?’

  Her lashes suddenly dropped down and shielded her emerald eyes. Adair had to blink himself. He’d never seen such enchanting eyes. When he next looked into them, there was a wariness to the depths. Had Moira gone home and Keila didn’t want to reveal she was here alone with him?

  ‘Moira is sleeping.’ She lifted a pail of water onto the table and spread a length of cloth out beside it.

  Adair didn’t know if Moira slept elsewhere or beneath this roof. He was indebted to this woman, a circumstance that was new to him. The last thing he wanted to do was make Keila fearful in her own home. ‘Then I will thank her when she wakes.’

  He resumed eating, hoping his actions erased the wariness from her gaze. Adair needed to ensure she was comfortable in his presence. Now that his head had stopped spinning every time he was upright, he needed to find out what had happened to him.

  She began washing the soil from the carrots in the pail of water and lying them in neat rows atop the cloth, a chore he was certain she wouldn’t continue if she were concerned for her safety.

  As he ate the remainder of the ham, he recalled her stating that he’d smelled like he’d bathed in ale fully clothed. Odd, when he’d only had two cups of ale at the inn that evening. The inn where he’d coaxed a half-smile from Morag and then walked out of to fetch his mount, too lost in his dire thoughts of never finding out where he’d come from. He’d then woken up here, wherever and whatever here was.

  ‘What is this place?’ He’d asked the dragon the same question and she’s responded with a question of her own.

  Keila’s green-eyed stare met his. ‘Drummin House is my home.’

  Adair didn’t miss the defensive note that strengthened her tone when she spoke of her home. Her gaze lowered and Adair lifted his cup and peered at the liquid contents within.

  ‘Why did you help me?’

  She looked at him. ‘You needed help.’

  Forthright, simple reasoning. But did she speak the truth or did she have other motives for taking him in? ‘Again, you have my thanks.’

  She resumed her task. ‘Rory did find you on my doorstep.’ She looked up, her glance brushing over him like silk. ‘I think you’d be a little hard to step over on my way out.’ Her gaze dropped to the carrot in her hand. She laid it on the cloth beside the others.

  Who was Rory? Her husband? Her brother? Her lover? His gut tightened at the thought. He needed to know who Rory was, for the man knew he was here.

  Adair looked up from the liquid contents of the cup he’d forgotten he still held. He lifted the beverage and drank. ‘That’s a fine brew.’ And it tasted the same as the ale he’d been served at the inn two nights before. ‘Where do you purchase your ale?’

  Her eyes flickered up to meet his every now and then as she dried off each carrot. ‘I don’t purchase ale, I make my own.’ A glint of pride glowed in the gaze that clung to his for several moments.

  Adair’s admiration for this woman doubled. ‘You must have men and women lining up to buy your brew.’

  ‘Nae.’ A glimpse of wariness narrowed her eyes. ‘We sell it at market and to the inn.’

  Adair slowly straightened where he sat. Could the inn he’d visited be the same one where Keila sold her brew? He couldn’t help but wonder if yesterday was her first turn at testing her herbal skills on him, or if she’d done so before. His bonny host was adept at putting a man to sleep with a potion for pain.

  ‘How far is the inn?’

  She stared at him a moment. ‘A full day’s ride.’

  Hoof beats pounded from outside, cutting into his line of thought. Keila turned toward the door, and by the time she turned back to face him the look of worry that had momentarily splashed her features was gone.

  She grabbed the cloth and hastily dried her hands. ‘Stay inside and stay quiet. Please.’

  The look of worry might be gone from her face, but whoever she believed might have come caused her words to ring like a plea. And she didn’t want them to know he was here.

  At Adair’s nod, she tossed the cloth on the table and hurried out the door.

  Adair’s gaze slid straight to the closed shutter an arm’s length from the door. He waited a few moments before standing and quietly walking to the window, silently giving thanks that the head spinning he’d suffered the day before hadn’t returned. It would be hard to remain unseen or unheard while stumbling all over the room.

  Resting his shoulder against the cool, sandstone kitchen wall, he drew in a shallow breath and angled his head so his right ear came as close to the timber shutter as possible. He wouldn’t be able to see who had come but was hoping to determine who it was by hearing an exchange between Keila and her guest. But his efforts were futile. He heard nothing.

  His hand lowered to his waist, where his sword should be. But his fingers brushed empty air. Christ! He might be dressed but he felt naked without his weapon. The attack had cost him dearly. He’d lost his horse, his sword, his dirk and his change of shirt. To some his possessions might not be much, but they were all he needed and all he’d brought with him when he’d come to the Highlands.

  He was certain even Duff and Cal would be amused by his situation if they could see him now. Hell, if the right side of his head wasn’t throbbing and his body didn’t ache with every breath he drew, he’d find his situation amusing too.

  His lips curved upward at the thought of giving his serious friends a moment of mirth, and he discovered his head and body didn’t seem to hurt as much. Better.

  He focused his hearing again and still heard nothing. Which raised the level of his concern for Keila. Despite her self-efficient manner, was she unharmed or did she need his help?

  Through his swollen eyes, he searched the kitchen’s long and sturdy timber table and found a knife lying on the surface at the furthest end. A slight movement near the doorway that led to the rest of the house caught his attention. He turned so he could fully see what had caught his eye. The sight of Moira standing still and silent, staring at him while he stood by the window, eavesdropping, reminded him he’d also lost a certain amount of his masculine dignity since the attack.

  With a useless glance at the shutter, he slowly made his way closer to the dragon, remembering the need for quiet. As he neared her, he spoke softly. ‘Ah, Moira, you always seem to arrive to see me at my best.’

  Moira made a scoffing sound. ‘Then I’d hate to see you at your worst.’

  What would she think of him if she knew he was pretending to not remember who he was? Adair forced his lips to lift up at the corners and looked into her eyes. ‘If Keila doesn’t need rescuing, I’ll finish my meal.’ He reached the stool, wondering why he’d felt the need to tell Moira he’d been watching out for Keila.

  ‘Keila doesn’t need your help,’ Moira said firmly, stepping up beside him. ‘But I know someone else who does.’

 
; Chapter 5

  Keila opened the door leading outside, wondering if Leith wasn’t content to wait to speak to her again at market. He and his companions were the only callers she knew who owned and rode horses. And Leith would be the only visitor who would dare to call at such a ridiculous hour. He did what he pleased, when he pleased.

  She closed the door quietly and turned, surprised to find the night had passed and dawn had arrived so swiftly since she’d left the ale shed and found the battered stranger in the kitchen. She walked toward the vegetable garden, silently hoping he did as she asked and remained quiet and out of sight. He might be steadier on his feet but his injuries were still new and raw and he needed time to heal and grow stronger. If it was Leith who’d come to call, and he saw the wounded man here, in her home, she didn’t know what he would do. And she didn’t care to find out.

  With sure but cautious steps, she searched the grounds around the back of her home but saw no one. She hadn’t imagined the sound of pounding hooves. The look on the injured stranger’s face told her he’d heard them too. But who was it and where were they?

  A deep grunt sounded from behind the stable, followed by another and another.

  Saints. Had the rider been injured? Had he fallen off his horse? Keila rounded one end of the stable and gasped in shock at the sight of Rory clinging for dear life to a dark horse doing its best to toss him from the saddle.

  ‘Hold fast, Rory,’ she yelled. The horse needed to be calmed so Rory could dismount without hurting himself. There was naught else for it. She’d have to try and soothe the animal.

  Dragging in a long breath, Keila stepped forward, and slowly raising her hands said, ‘Shh, nae one will harm you.’

  The horse must be the one Rory found standing over the stranger. The stallion’s eyes rolled back in its head, making it look both frightened and frightening at the same time. It reared again. Keila shrank back away from its front legs as they cut through the air. She wasn’t an expert with horses and she didn’t usually fear them, but this horse was much feistier than the two she and Moira kept. Both Mist and Nettle were placid and older and were used for pulling the cart rather than for riding.