by Aileen Adams
“I do not think it is as bad as that.” For the first time, the woman smiled. “Though if it had waited another day or more, things might have grown much worse. You’ll note there are no angry, red lines stretching out from the wound.”
He looked down at Ysmaine’s bared thigh. knowing in the back of his mind that she would all but die of embarrassment at his familiarity with her body. “Aye.”
“The infection is not so advanced that it poisoned her blood and moved to her organs, thank the gods.” She turned toward them with a small wooden bowl in one hand and a knife in the other.
“What of anything that may have been present on the blade which cut her?” he asked, still fearful of what might come. Ysmaine shivered, her teeth chattering, and he felt pitifully useless as he took her hand.
The healer shook her head with a grimace as she knelt beside him. “There is no telling, I must admit. I take it the man in question is such that he might not be located?”
Quinn shook his head, his eyes still on Ysmaine’s flushed face.
“I do not blame ye,” the healer muttered, angry and sharp. “These roadside thieves are a plague which must be stopped.”
More guilt, perhaps the worst of all. What would the woman think if she knew who he truly was? Why Ysmaine was in his company? And how the dead thief had found it so easy to accost her?
“So, there is no asking the man if he is ill, or whether he’d washed the blade after its last use. We might assume that he hadn’t,” she admitted. “The most we can do is hope that her body is strong enough to fight back the illness. I will treat her with the poultice, as I said, and a tincture in hot broth to bring down the fever and aid in lessening the pain. She will likely sleep a great deal for a day, perhaps two.”
Their eyes met. “Are ye prepared to hold her down while I drain the wound? It will hurt a great deal. She may thrash, may scream. Ye must be prepared.”
“I am.” He took her shoulders, pinning them to the floor, wishing he did not have to do it. That they might be taking shelter somewhere, warm and dry, and that the most pressing concern was answering Ysmaine’s incessant questions.
Would that she might ask him a question now, instead of shivering so.
Her eyes opened at his touch and stared up into his. It was clear she could not quite see him. “Quinn?” she croaked.
“Aye, lass,” he smiled, doing what he could to sound encouraging.
She blinked slowly, her bright eyes searching his face. “Am I dying?”
“Nay, you’ll not die,” he assured her over the lump in his throat. “Not today. Not for a long time to come. But ye must be brave now.”
“My dear.” The healer leaned in. “I must drain the wound to remove what infection I can. Ye must try to stay still, though it will pain ye greatly.”
Ysmaine’s chest rose and fell in sharp, rapid gasps. She was panicking, each breath a whimper.
“Do not fret,” Quinn urged, striving to keep his tone calm in spite of the fear which rose in his chest for her sake. “I am here with ye. I will not leave ye.”
“Of course,” she whispered with a faint, rueful smile. “You need me.”
Yes. He did.
16
“Lad.”
Quinn woke at the healer’s touch. She shook his shoulder, crouched beside him. For the briefest of moments, he forgot where he was, why he was there.
All around him hung dried and drying herbs, their scent both comforting him and turning his stomach. Something burned in the fire as well, something more than simply wood. His nose wrinkled in distaste and he wondered why anyone would burn something so foul.
Who was the woman crouching by his side?
The sight of Ysmaine just over the woman’s shoulder brought everything back.
He had fallen asleep while sitting up against the wall, it appeared. It had not been his intention to do so, the last thing he wished was to sleep and miss something important. Something he might be able to do to help.
He refused to entertain the notion that she might die.
Why, then, could he not stop fearing she would?
“How is she?” he asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes. What if she had died while he was sleeping? What if he had awoken to find her gone?
The healer pressed a mug of something warm into his hands. “Drink this. It will strengthen ye.” When he raised an eyebrow, she smiled. “Beef broth. Strong. Very good, in my opinion.”
It was good, and he drank deeply of it. The lingering chill which had seemed to make its home in his bones thanks to the cold rain melted away, leaving a pleasant warmth behind. It made the stiffness in his back and legs after spending so much time seated against the wall fade into the background of his mind.
She drew up a stool. “The lass will be well. The fever has reduced, but it has not yet left her entirely. I suspect she was weak, tired, unable to fight off the infection as well as she might have otherwise.”
Quinn sighed. “She was, like as not.”
The woman, she might have been anywhere from twenty to sixty, with a sort of face which displayed wisdom but none of the signs of aging, touched a finger to his tunic. “Where did ye get this? I know it does not belong to ye. A Highlander, as ye told me.”
“Aye. There is much to the story.”
“I have time.” She jerked her head in Ysmaine’s direction, indicating the fact that she was still deeply asleep. There was little more visible than the top of her head, the rest of her bundled tight in blankets by the fire after having been washed down. She would need more bathing, the healer had told him, but not until she had sweated out as much of the infection as possible.
He looked the woman up and down. Her modest, plain kirtle, the elbows and knees worn. The modest dwelling in which she lived and worked. “How do I know ye will not take this story to one who would pay for such information?” he challenged.
Her dark, sharp eyes widened before she let out a deep laugh. “Does it appear as though I have any need for riches, lad? I have never cared much for money. I’ve seen what it does to men, and to women. My mother, and her mother before her, were healers who traveled from place to place because of war, because of mistreatment. Forced from their homes, their villages, everyone and everything they ever knew. I am content to live a simple life among people who need me. That is enough.”
So, he told her his story. His reasons. The agreement he and Ysmaine had come to, that she would travel with him without giving him away.
“Because you saved her from the thief in the woods,” the healer murmured.
“Did I save her?” He looked to Ysmaine again, her head rolling from side to side as she whimpered in her sleep.
“Aye. Ye did, and ye know ye did. Now, if ye would bathe her forehead with cool water to provide her some relief while I look at her leg,” the woman commanded, pointing to a bowl and a stack of linen.
He did as he was told—he’d met army commanders who did not inspire such rapid action—kneeling beside Ysmaine and dipping the linen into the fresh, cool water.
She opened her eyes at the first touch. They were no longer shining with fever, and it was clear that she was able to see him without struggle. “Quinn?”
“Aye, lass. Who did ye expect?”
“I… suppose I was dreaming…” she whispered, closing her eyes again as he stroked her forehead with the damp cloth. “I dreamed you were gone.”
“I would not leave ye. I told ye as much already, did I not?”
“You did?” She frowned, as though struggling to grasp the edges of a memory.
“Ye needn’t trouble yourself with it,” he chuckled. “Ye were not feeling like yourself.”
The healer unwrapped the blankets around Ysmaine’s legs. Quinn dared to look, then grunted in surprise. What had been an oozing, pus-filled wound, swollen and purple, had turned to something looking much more manageable. There was still a red, angry-looking line where the blade had pierced her, but the swelling and seepage had gone down
to nearly nothing.
“I can hardly believe it,” he murmured, shaking his head in wonder. “All of this in a matter of a few hours?”
The healer laughed, a good-natured sound without a hint of reproach. “Ye believe ye slept nothing more than a few hours, lad? It’s been nearly a day since ye came riding up to my gate.”
It could not be. And yet when he went to the door, opening it to look out on the road and down toward the village, he saw that it had to be true. The rain had long since stopped, and the sun had already begun baking away the mud, hardening it considerably.
He stepped out, looking to his right to find the pair of black geldings enjoying a bucket of oats, joined by a swaybacked sorrel mare he supposed belonged to the healer. They looked rested, even healthier, somehow. As though the healer had treated them, as well.
Impossible. Nothing more than a flight of fancy.
He had slept for so long, longer than he had at a stretch in as many years as he could remember. Had the woman given him something to make him sleep? Perhaps, he had been nearly beside himself with worry.
It was easier for the healer to treat Ysmaine while he was asleep, like as not.
He returned to the fire. “I will repay your kindness.”
“I expect ye will,” she murmured with a quirk of her lips. “But nothing more than what I’m truly owed. As I told ye, I have no use for a heavy purse.”
“You told her,” Ysmaine whispered with a knowing look.
“I had little choice. And I knew I could trust her, after seeing how well she helped ye.”
“You were weak,” the healer explained, washing her hands after applying a new bandage to the wound. “Tired. I imagine ye had little to eat and even less rest. There are blisters on your palms. You’ve been riding for a time, have yet not?”
“We have so far to go,” Ysmaine pointed out. “And the Marquis is expecting me.”
“I know, my dear.” She patted Ysmaine’s hand before pouring out a bowl of the same fragrant beef broth she’d shared with Quinn. “And in your haste, ye nearly died. If your companion had not ridden ye to me, there is no telling what might have happened.”
“Thank you,” Ysmaine murmured, sliding her hand into his.
He smiled and grasped her hand tight, then thought better of it, withdrawing his hand and putting it to work on wringing out the linen he’d used to bathe her forehead.
He had nearly forgotten the nature of their being involved with each other, hadn’t he? He’d come alarmingly close to feeling real affection for the lass. True, deep affection.
He knew that sort of affection, and he knew the trouble a man could find himself in as a result of it. Even if the lass were the sort he might be free to become entangled with—if she were not his captive, someone he expected to collect ransom on—he would keep her at arm’s length.
There were certain kinds of pain which did not fade thanks to a tincture in a bowl of broth.
Ysmaine’s eyes began to close, her face growing slack. “She will sleep now,” the healer predicted. “Sleep is the best thing for her, now that I’ve applied fresh poultice. She will heal better while her body is at rest.”
“When will she be fit to travel again?” Quinn asked, staring at Ysmaine’s peaceful expression. Her skin seemed to glow in the light from the fire, no longer flushed with fever or slick with sweat.
The woman thought about this, regarding him with a keen eye. “Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day.”
“Have ye any idea as to the distance between this village and Burghead?”
“That is where ye plan to find a ship to Cherbourg?”
When he looked at her in surprise, she merely smiled.
“She told me. Ye both have a way of revealing more than ye intend to. As I said, none of this is any of my concern. As far as anyone who asks questions is concerned, I never saw either of ye.”
“I hardly think anyone would come looking for us now, so many days after I met with the soldier,” Quinn reasoned. “There is nothing to fear.”
Even so, he was now concerned over the chances of the enemy catching up to him. What if that soldier had alerted others, perhaps rounded up a group of men to search for them? What if they found the healer, or spoke to one of the villagers who had witnessed Quinn’s wild ride through the rain?
“We shall take our leave at the first chance to do so,” he decided. “We can ill afford to spend more time here, as kind as you’ve been.”
“Aye, I had expected as much,” the woman admitted, nodding to a small canvas sack on her work table. “I’ve already prepared more of the poultice for her, along with a tincture to keep pain at bay. She will feel it rather acutely when she rides.”
He frowned at this. “What if I rode with her? She might sit sideways in the saddle, in front of me. Would that help, do ye believe?”
Was it his imagination, or did the woman smile slightly as she turned away?
“Aye, I believe that will help keep the wound from opening again. As far as it helping other things…”
She did not finish her thought, and Quinn did not press her to do so.
17
She had dreamed so many things. Strange things, wondrous things, memories which had twisted themselves in her fever-laden mind until they’d become something else entirely.
She’d dreamed that it was her mother who smoothed the hair from her brow, who crooned soft, calming words to her which had somehow cut through the pain and confusion and the certainty that she was dying.
That her father had sworn vengeance on the man who’d hurt her. That he had promised to kill the bastard.
He had looked the same as she remembered him from her youth, young, vibrant, as large as a house, his red hair flaming around his head, looking like nothing so much as it did a burning crown. The scar which ran from his forehead down to his cheekbone had even been there. Every little detail.
And Mother. Her kind, sweet smile. The loving blue eyes which had crinkled up at the corners, the dimples in her cheeks. She’d been so clear, so real. As though the last few years hadn’t passed at all, as though Ysmaine had merely fallen asleep one day and dreamed of losing them both.
As though she were finally waking up to real life once again, and Mother might prepare a bowl of soup for her as had always been the case whenever Ysmaine was ill.
All had been peaceful, calm, leaving Ysmaine joyful beyond words at the unexpected return of the life she’d thought was over forever.
Until Father had returned, nearly tearing the door from the wall in his excitement. He had caught the rabid dog who’d hurt her and would bring him to justice with the blade of his sword. His eyes had blazed furious fire as he’d raged in the old way, bellowing at the top of his powerful lungs and unleashing epithets she had only heard him use in the direst of situations.
And then, he’d dragged in a man with dark hair which hung in his eyes as he lowered his head.
A man wearing a red tunic, torn and splattered with drying blood which Ysmaine had somehow known was his own. At whose side hung a sword with a jeweled hilt.
“This is the man,” Father had snarled, spitting upon Quinn’s bowed head. “He’s the one who dared place his hands upon my daughter and brought her to this state!”
She’d tried to sit up, though Mother’s hands had pressed against her shoulders to hold her down.
“No, no! It wasn’t his fault! He is not the man who wounded me!” she’d protested, nearly wild with fear for what might happen if her father had his way.
“I’ll hear nothing of it!” he had bellowed, taking Quinn by the back of the neck and jerking his head up so that she might see his face—what was left of it, rather, since it appeared as though one entire side had been kicked in. Blood obscured one swollen eye, his nose was a misshapen mess, his lovely mouth was split open and had probably borne the loss of several teeth.
“Why did you do this?” she’d demanded in a choked whisper.
Quinn looked as though he could
hardly stand on his feet, as though Connor’s grip on his neck was the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor in a blood-soaked heap.
“He is the man at fault.” Connor threw Quinn to the floor, causing Ysmaine to let out an anguished cry.
“He is not!” she’d screamed as the toe of Connor’s shoe had made contact with Quinn’s rib, making him curl into a protective ball with both arms crossed over his head. “It was not he who harmed me! You cannot do this! Please!”
Mother had merely held her back from throwing herself over Quinn’s broken body. “Your Father knows what is best, dear. We cannot hope to understand these things.”
“But I do understand! You are the ones who do not!” She had watched in horror and heartbreak as her father kicked and punched Quinn before withdrawing his sword.
She had screamed, a shrill, earsplitting scream which masked the sound of metal tearing through flesh. Even so, she’d been able to hear the sword’s progress through Quinn’s back.
The shock of cold water on her head had stirred her to wakefulness, and the sight of Quinn’s whole, uninjured face hovering over her had been enough to pull a broken sob from deep within her chest.
Since she had first woken after the fever broke, the nightmare kept coming back to her. That it was a nightmare at all defied understanding, for the dream had started off so wonderfully. She’d been with her parents again.
The very vivid image of Quinn’s destruction had turned it into something which chilled her to the bone. She could nearly smell his blood, could still hear his grunts of pain when Connor had struck him.
All of it so horrific, so very real.
Especially the pain Quinn’s pain had caused her.
She did not dare tell him of the dream, yet this did not stop her from remembering it each time she looked at him.
Or from wanting to run her hand over his hair and hold him close.
How unfortunate.
“I believe it’s best we should go. Now.” Quinn helped her to sit up.
“If that is what you feel is best.” She was quick to braid her hair, which had hung loose about her head while she’d slept and healed.
