by Ruth Langan
“Aye. It will be a treacherous journey.” Colin struggled to pull a tattered tunic over his head. Megan saw him wince as the rough fabric tore at his raw flesh. She let her food fall to the grass.
“Let me look at your back.”
“Nay.”
He pulled away but was not quick enough. Lifting the cloth, she let out a gasp.
“God in heaven. These wounds are festering. You cannot ignore them.”
“We have no time. I cannot cause any further delay.”
“If you do not take the time to let these wounds heal, you will soon be unable to even sit a horse. Now lie still.”
Megan walked to the water’s edge and began picking herbs, flowers and roots. Then she located a flat rock and a smaller stone. Kneeling, she began sorting through the herbs and pounding them into a paste.
When the horses were saddled and ready, Kieran returned to the clearing. For a moment he was taken aback by the sight that greeted him. Megan was tenderly applying a salve to his brother’s wounds. What was more amazing, Colin was offering no objection.
Leaning against the trunk of a gnarled old tree, Kieran stayed out of sight, watching and listening.
“Where did you learn the craft of healing, Megan?” Colin asked.
“I cannot remember.”
Hearing the thread of fear in her voice, the young man’s tone soothed. “Do not fret. It will come back to you.”
Kieran saw the set of her jaw as she muttered, “Aye. It must. I cannot bear not knowing who I am.”
She completed her ministrations, then helped him with his tunic. “Can you stand?”
Leaning heavily on her arm, Colin managed to get to his feet. Megan saw the effort it cost him. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. His jaw was clenched. His eyes mirrored his pain.
“You are not ready to ride,” Megan said softly.
“I will ride,” Colin said fiercely. “And if I cannot sit a horse, I will order Kieran to tie me to my mount. We can tarry here no longer.”
Both of them looked up as Kieran approached.
“Are you ready, Colin?”
“Aye.”
Megan glanced at the frail, sandy-haired youth, whose handsome face, though hidden beneath a growth of red-brown beard, had a look of innocence about it. Then she compared him with the man beside him, who towered head and shoulders above any man she had ever met. His face was covered by a growth of dark beard.
Upon close inspection, she realized that the brothers shared the same startling dark eyes ringed with deep slate, and the same full lips. But apart from those similarities, they were very different. Kieran carried himself like a warrior. His instincts were those of a soldier. His voice rang with authority. It was obvious that he was a man accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question. Colin appeared to be a gentle youth, with quiet voice and almost shy demeanor. From his speech she knew him to be an educated man.
Kieran helped his brother into the saddle. With quick, impatient gestures he lifted Megan onto the back of the second horse. At that simple touch, both of them felt the pull. And both fought to ignore it. Kieran pulled himself up behind her and caught up the reins.
As the horses moved out, Megan held herself stiffly in Kieran’s arms. It had been his arms holding her on the long trek here. She breathed in the musky scent of him and knew. He had held her as tenderly as a mother holds a bairn, and she had clung to him like some helpless maiden and had even buried her lips against his throat. Her cheeks colored at the memory.
Seated behind her, Kieran fought his own demons. Damn her for being so soft and inviting. Now, throughout the long journey, he would have to double his efforts to feel nothing. His home, his family, his very life were in peril. He could not afford to be distracted by this stranger.
They rode for hours, keeping to the cover of the forests. And though Megan had thought Colin too weak to sit a horse, he surprised her. Kieran, too, was amazed that his brother found the strength to cover such a distance. When at last they halted, Kieran helped Megan down and hurried to his brother’s side.
Weariness was etched on Colin’s features. When his feet touched the earth, he slumped to his knees.
“We will stay the night here.” Kieran caught up the reins of the horses and led them toward a small river.
When he returned, Megan had already spread a cloak beneath a tree and was helping Colin to lie down.
Kieran tore a strip of fowl from the bone and tried to hand it to his brother, but Colin waved his hand feebly.
“Nay. I am too weary.”
“You must keep up your strength.”
When Colin shook his head, Megan took the food from Kieran’s hands and placed it in the lad’s mouth. Without protest, Colin chewed. The action was repeated several times until he held up a hand in protest.
“No more.”
“Roll to your stomach,” Megan commanded. “And lift your tunic. Your wounds need tending.”
Kieran smiled as the lad obeyed. Perhaps, he mused as he busied himself preparing a fire, the lass would prove useful on the journey. With that infuriatingly commanding tone, she would be difficult to refuse.
When Colin was asleep, Kieran handed Megan some food and leaned against the trunk of a fallen tree.
She watched him as she bit into the cold fowl. Throughout the day they had spoken only when necessary. “Where will this journey take us?”
“My land lies across the North Channel.”
As yet, that meant nothing to her. “Is it a great distance?”
“Aye.”
“And what about my land? My people?”
He had anticipated her questions and had put her off as long as he could.
“I regret that you must leave this place. I realize that at any moment your memory may return. But my brother and I cannot stay.”
“You are being hunted.” She watched his eyes carefully.
“You are escaped criminals?”
So she had heard much more than he had thought. “Aye. We escaped from Fleet Prison in London.”
“Have you committed terrible crimes?”
“I would suppose that depends upon whose version you hear, my lady. The English would say we are enemies of the Crown. I would tell you that we fight for the freedom of our people. And you…” He filled the dipper and drank. “I know not what you would call us.”
“Have you taken the life of another?”
“Aye.”
“That is a most serious business, the taking of a life.” She felt a moment of panic, wondering if she might be guilty of the same crime.
“Aye.” She saw the fire in his eyes. And the truth. He did not deny. Neither did he offer excuses.
He filled the dipper with fresh water and handed it to her. “I must see to the horses.” He strode quickly away.
Megan lifted the dipper to her lips and drank. Then, with a glance at the sleeping Colin, she turned toward the river. While Kieran was busy with the horses, she intended to pick more herbs and roots for a salve.
For long minutes she searched the riverbank, singling out those herbs and plants that held healing power. When she had gathered enough for several days, she set them on a rock.
The water beckoned her. With a quick glance around to determine that she was truly alone, she stripped away her dirty gown and scrubbed it, then hung it on the branch of a tree to dry. She pulled off her kid slippers, untied the ribbons of her chemise and watched as it dropped to her feet in the grass. She took a tentative step into the water. It felt cool and wonderful against her fevered flesh.
Oh, it was good to wash away the dried blood that crusted her wounds. She lifted her hands to her hair and scrubbed the strands until all traces of blood were gone. Then, ducking beneath the water, she came up feeling gloriously clean.
She touched a hand to the lump at the back of her head. The swelling had subsided considerably, though the pain was still there. She cautioned herself to be patient. Soon enough the pain would be
gone. And, she hoped, her memory would return.
She peered at her reflection in the water. Through the ripples she saw a small, oval face and wide eyes. She traced a finger across her small nose and high cheekbones, then pulled her long hair away from her face for further study. Regret poured through her. It was the face of a stranger.
She ducked beneath the waves and swam hard and fast to vent her frustration. When at last she surfaced, she swam in a leisurely fashion from one bank of the narrow river to the other. It pleased her that she could swim. She smiled, wondering what other talents she possessed. For now, until her memory returned, she was a blank parchment, with nothing written on it. There was so much to learn about herself. But she would learn. She was determined to learn all she could about this woman called Megan.
From his position down the river, Kieran watered the horses, then tied them. His gaze was drawn to the figure in the water. She tossed her head, sending a spray of water into the air. Her hair settled on the waves like a veil of spun gold. Kieran watched as she strode from the water and pulled on a drift of ivory chemise. In profile her youthful body was perfect. And enticing. His gaze slid from her high, firm breasts to a waist so narrow his hands could surely span it. He felt the familiar churning deep inside as she draped a warm cloak around herself.
Kneeling, Megan proceeded to grind the herbs and roots into fresh salve, which she placed in a small square of fabric.
When she walked away, Kieran removed his clothes and walked into the river. There was nothing better than a swim in the cold waters of the river to restore his common sense.
A short time later, when he returned to the clearing, he found Megan kneeling beside the sleeping figure of his brother, applying the salve to his wounded back.
She stood. “His wounds are beginning to heal. But it will take a long time. They are deep. And they have been allowed to fester.”
“Aye.” As he began to pull on his shirt, Megan touched a hand to his arm.
Instantly she regretted her impulsiveness. The heat was like a lightning bolt, jarring her.
Kieran, too, felt it. And struggled not to.
“I…” Megan touched a tongue to her lips. “I could not help seeing the marks upon your back. Let me apply my ointment.”
She was already regretting this. But there was no turning back.
“There is no need.”
He turned away and she saw the raw, torn flesh before he could pull on his garment.
“Kneel down, Kieran. Even in this dim evening light I can see the signs of infection.”
Reluctantly he knelt in the grass, and Megan began to spread the ointment over his wounds.
She started at the base of his neck and spread her hands open, moving them in slow, circular motions until the ointment was on each shoulder. How wide his shoulders. How muscular his arms. It was odd that she had such thoughts with Kieran. There had been nothing like this while she applied the salve to Colin’s back. She felt her mouth go dry and forced herself to swallow.
She moved her hands lower and spread the ointment on a patchwork of raised scars that marred his flesh.
“Were these all inflicted in prison?”
“Aye.” He found it annoying to have to reply.
How long it had been since a woman had touched him? He had forgotten the wonder of it. Though her hands were small, they were surprisingly strong. As they pressed, kneaded, soothed, a sigh was dragged from deep inside him.
“Anyone who could inflict such horrible pain on another is not a man,” she said, her voice low with anger. “He is an animal who deserves no mercy. Is this why you escaped from prison?”
Kieran was silent for so long that Megan began to think he had not heard her. But then his voice came, and she recognized the hard edge of fury. “Nay. I could take the beatings. But I knew that Colin could take no more. Especially when our jailer confessed that we were to be beaten until we died.”
“God in heaven. What was your crime?” Megan was unaware that her hands had stilled.
“Having the name O’Mara.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will.” He turned to face her. A mistake, he realized immediately. But it was too late. Now that he could see those eyes, reflecting the gold of the moonlight, he was held by a force much stronger than his own will. “When you see what is happening in my land, you will understand why being an O’Mara is a crime the English will not tolerate.”
“There is so much anger in you.”
“Aye.” But the anger was already being replaced with something else. Something far more dangerous. From the moment he had looked into those amber eyes, he had known it. Needs, desires long buried, now burst free.
He was determined not to give in to the feelings that churned inside him.
His gaze was arrested by the wound at Megan’s shoulder. “It is your turn, lass. Give me the salve and kneel.”
With a questioning look, she held out the square of fabric and knelt in front of him. Dipping his hand into the ointment, Kieran began to smooth it over her shoulder. Megan jumped as though burned, then forced herself to kneel perfectly still. But the man who knelt facing her was causing terrible havoc to her nerves.
“Lower your cloak, so I may spread this on your other wounds,” he ordered.
“Nay. They are healing nicely. I have no need of the balm.”
“You will do as I say, my lady. Or,” he added with a slow smile, “I will remove it for you.”
Very carefully Megan lowered her cloak and bent forward just enough to allow him to reach the wounds on her back.
Kieran knew this was a dangerous position. He needed only to lower his head and he would find her lips. He felt his stomach muscles contract and forced aside such thoughts. When he had finished, she pulled the cloak up quickly.
“Now lift your hair, my lady.”
Megan did as she was told, gathering her hair in both hands and lifting it away from her neck.
Kieran’s arms came around her as he spread the ointment on the swollen mass, gently probing as he did so.
Her breath was soft against his cheek. He struggled to ignore the invitation of her lips. “The blow to your head is improving. Can you feel it?”
“Aye.”
He breathed in the fresh, clean fragrance of her and struggled to keep his touch light. “Have you any other wounds, my lady?”
“Nay.” She lowered her hands. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and tumbled to her waist in a riot of damp curls.
Kieran studied her in the moonlight and thought her the most magnificent woman he had ever seen. For a moment he thought about drawing her into the circle of his arms and tasting her lips. She would taste of cool river water. Her lips would be soft, her mouth inviting. He clenched his hands at his sides to keep from reaching a hand to her.
“I will say good-night now. I would advise you to lie as close to the fire as possible. The breeze carries a hint of a cold night.”
“I will. Good night, Kieran.”
“Good night, my lady. Sleep well.”
Kieran rolled himself into a cloak on the opposite side of the fire and firmly closed his eyes. But an hour later, while Megan slept peacefully beside the fire, he was still awake, agonizing about the way she felt, the way she smelled. If he did not soon taste her lips, he would go mad thinking about her.
Chapter Four
The early morning sunlight could not pierce the dense forest. Beneath a canopy of vines and tangled underbrush Megan awoke very slowly and lay quietly, absorbing the warmth of the fire. She was grateful that someone had stirred the ashes and added fresh wood. Despite the heavy woolen cloak in which she was wrapped, she felt the damp chill of the forest.
“My name is Megan.” Those words had become a litany in her mind. She hugged them to her heart. They affirmed that she had once had a home and family who loved her. Reaching up through the cobwebs of her mind, she struggled to remember something, anything that would stir memories. But to her dismay, no
images formed. The words “father” and “mother” produced no pictures. Her home might have been a hovel or a castle. She had no recollection at all. She sat up, holding the cloak around her for warmth, and she bit her lip, deep in concentration as she tried to picture her childhood. A friend perhaps. A pet. But her mind remained blank. She had been born, it would seem, in Kieran O’Mara’s arms, nursing wounds from a battle they had fought together.
From his position on the other side of the fire Kieran watched the play of emotions on Megan’s face. He did not wish to intrude upon her private, troubled thoughts. Though she had made not a sound he knew everything she was feeling. Had he not experienced many of those same emotions in Fleet Prison? There his captors had stripped him of his identity, his dignity and his hope, along with his freedom.
“Good morrow, lass.” Colin awoke and sat up stiffly. “Has anything come back to you?”
“Nay.” Megan struggled to shake herself from her somber mood. She would do her grieving in solitude. “How are your wounds faring?”
“Much better. Thanks to your herbs and roots.”
Her smile returned. She had no idea what effect that smile had on men. But Colin did. As did Kieran, who sat watching them.
“Then you no longer object to my attempts at healing?”
“I am most grateful, my lady.” Colin threw off his cloak and reached for his tunic. Before he could pull it on, Megan crossed the space between them and knelt.
“You cannot dress until I apply my precious salve.”
“I suppose I must now endure this ritual every day?”
“And every single night.”
“Are you saying I must suffer this indignity until every wound has disappeared from my flesh?”
“Aye. Every single one, my lord. I have appointed myself your physician.”
“Physician? Or guardian angel?”
“Use whatever term you prefer.”
“It would do no good to argue, I suppose.”
“No good at all. Now roll over.”
As she began rubbing the ointment into his wounds, Colin gave a sigh of contentment. “If you did not have such wonderful hands, my dear physician, I would refuse to allow that bloody salve within smelling distance.” He gave another sigh of pleasure. “But since I must countenance all this, at least you could rub the rest of my back, as well.”
