by Emma Prince
“I’m sorry to hurt you,” Vivienne breathed, handing back the skin.
“Nay, lass, ye didnae,” he lied. “It’s just a bloody shame to waste such fine whisky.”
She exhaled a weak chuckle, but then sobered as she fixed him with a tense gaze. “What now?”
“Ye willnae be able to pull it out without the arrowhead doing far more damage. Ye’ll have to push it through.”
Confusion and disbelief widened her dark eyes. “But—”
Taking her wrist, he guided the point of the dagger to the front of his shoulder. Holding her there for a moment, he splashed more whisky over his unbroken skin and the tip of the blade, muttering about the proper uses for good Highland whisky.
He could feel her hand shaking beneath his. “It’s all right, lass,” he rasped, giving her a reassuring squeeze. Then without preamble, he plunged the dagger into his shoulder, giving it a twist for good measure.
Her horrified gasp reached him distantly through the ringing in his ears. He withdrew the dagger and released her trembling hand. She stared at her fingertips, which were tinged red with his blood, before lifting wide, midnight eyes to him.
“Now,” he said through gritted teeth, “push it out.”
Shifting the bloodied dagger to her other hand, she reached out tentatively and touched the wound on his back. He locked his jaw to prevent from growling.
She drew a deep breath, and suddenly he was engulfed in pain again as she pushed against the sawed-off end of the arrow shaft.
The damn thing was buried so deep that in a single heartbeat the arrowhead was already emerging, slick and bloody, from the cut he’d made in the front. When the tip thrust out of his skin, he snatched it and yanked it free in one swift motion.
He gulped lungfuls of air as his head swam, darkness encroaching on his vision. “Now the whisky again,” he ground out, handing her the skin.
When she poured more of the spirit into the open wound, both front and back, he roared in agony. He slumped forward in his chair for a long moment afterwards.
“Now I need to stitch you up, oui?” Vivienne asked.
“Aye.”
He didn’t have the wherewithal to say more, but luckily she seemed to know what to do now. She rummaged through her saddlebags until she came across a mending kit with needle and thread. After quickly dipping the needle into the whisky, she threaded it and held it poised over his shoulder.
“Do the front first,” he managed. His last shreds of control were slipping, and he feared if she started with the raw, angry wound on his back, unconsciousness would claim him before he could get to the bed.
Vivienne drew in another steeling breath, moving around to eye the cut on the front of his shoulder. “It is no different than the needlework I’ve done all my life,” she murmured to herself.
Kieran grunted. “Aye, but remember that I am no’ some scrap of silk for ye to embroider.”
He earned a smile for his gruff comment, which distracted him from most of the pain as she carefully stitched closed the exit wound. Still, as she tied off the last stitch, he was so woozy that he felt like he’d drunk the entire skin of whisky. If only.
“Ye’d best help me to the bed before ye finish,” he said. “Unless ye want to drag me there.”
He pushed himself up with a hand on the table, then leaned against her as he stumbled toward the bed. He eyed the ragged, damp straw mattress dubiously, then decided even fevered and injured, it would be better to sleep on the bare wooden slats beneath.
He grabbed the mattress with one hand and tugged it free of the bedstead, dropping it on the floor. Vivienne hurried to their bags once more, removing several extra lengths of plaid. She laid one over the bedstead’s slats and piled the others at the bottom to be used as blankets.
There was no more putting it off now. She took up the needle once more and he turned to give her the back of his shoulder. As she carefully closed the raw, burning wound, his vision began to blur.
He fought against the darkness, unwilling to leave Vivienne alone in this isolated wilderness to fend for herself, but it was a losing battle. As she tied the last stitch and pinched off the remaining thread, he collapsed onto the bed.
His last thought before unconsciousness swallowed him was that he was supposed to be looking after her, but he was damn lucky she was looking after him, too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Kieran’s big, powerful body folded like a rag doll onto the bed, Vivienne feared the worst.
She pressed a hand to his damp brow. His fever raged, but his pulse still beat strongly at the base of his throat. She rolled him onto his good shoulder and pulled one of his plaids over his bare chest, tucking another one under his head.
Fear began to squeeze her throat and compress her chest as she stared down at him, but she couldn’t succumb to it. There were so many things to do, and Kieran would be awake and on the mend in no time. She couldn’t let him down by wallowing in doubt and distress.
The dilapidated hut needed a great deal of work, but the steadfast, unwavering horse that had carried them here deserved her attention first.
She went outside to find him munching on the overgrown weeds that filled the cleared section of forest. Taking his bridle with a soothing word, she guided him across the clearing toward a small wooden barn tucked against the tree line. Just as Kieran had said, a stream ran behind the barn. She let the animal drink while she washed the blood from her hands, trying to ignore their shaking as she did.
Then she led him back toward the barn, letting him chew on the tall grasses again while she struggled to remove his heavy leather saddle. She dragged the saddle to the barn and pulled back the door, peering inside.
The faint, familiar scents of hay and manure still lingered in the barn, but the small handful of stalls had been swept clean as if someone had cleared out long ago, never to return. She retrieved the stallion and guided him into one of the stalls, leaving him to rest after their trying journey.
Now it was time to tackle the hut itself. She started with the outside, propping the skewed shutter into place by wedging a rock between it and the windowsill. There was nothing she’d be able do about the leaking roof, so she went inside to face what she could.
She rummaged through the cupboards, finding them mostly empty except for a hodgepodge assortment of clay bowls, a few cups, and two iron pots. She positioned one of the pots over the puddle, hoping the water that had already dripped inside would dry and the pot would catch any new leaks.
She also found a bucket, which she carried back to the stream and filled. Once she’d tottered back to the hut and set the water aside, it was time to tackle their bags.
Unpacking gave her a chance to inventory all they possessed. Besides, she had to believe that they would be staying here indefinitely—that they were safe here. And that Kieran would wake soon and be pleased to find that she’d gotten them settled.
Luckily, the cook at Scone Palace had sent them off with more than enough food. Vivienne stashed the satchel full of oatcakes, dried meat, apples, a wrapped wheel of hard cheese, and a few autumn root vegetables in one of the cupboards. Then she folded their few items of clothing and tucked them, along with all the other items in the bags, into a lower cabinet.
From the crack in the shutters, she could tell that it was growing dark outside. She could gather a bundle of dry twigs or mayhap stalks of tall grasses to make a broom to clear out the leaves and debris in the corners, but that would have to wait until daylight.
As would seeing about a fire. It had been years since she’d lain and lit her own fire, but she knew enough to be wary of the clearly neglected hearth. If there was a bird’s nest or squirrel’s den blocking the chimney, she just might manage to kill them both from the smoke alone if she attempted to light a fire there.
Which meant she’d done all that she could for now. Her gaze landed on Kieran, and the fear she’d been so valiantly holding at bay suddenly seized her by the throat.
Never had she been so profoundly on her own. Even when society had turned its back on her for her indiscretion with Guy, she’d still had her father to help her find her way back. But now she was completely alone in the middle of the Highland wilds, with no one to watch over her.
Non, that wasn’t true, for even with him lying unconscious before her, she could still hear Kieran’s gruff command that she keep hold of her composure, could imagine those steely blue eyes leveling her with a piercing stare. Perhaps she was capable of far more, even on her own, than she’d ever imagined.
Still, she had been strong for so long. She was tired, and so very scared for Kieran. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, watching him draw the slow breaths of deep slumber. When the first tears pricked her eyes, she gave over to them, sinking down beside him.
Please let him heal, she prayed as she dragged another plaid over them both and muffled her sobs with her hand. Please.
* * * *
The moment the light from the torch flickered behind his eyelids, William de Soules jerked up from his cot and bolted to the bars to wait for Bevin’s arrival.
With his transfer to Dumbarton Castle’s dungeon coming in a matter of hours, he’d feared Bevin wouldn’t return in time. But now that the hulking brute lumbered toward him, William’s heart leapt in giddy anticipation.
“What news?” he whispered the moment Bevin reached his cell. “Is the bitch dead?”
Foreboding stole up William’s spine when Bevin hesitated, his eyes fixed on the damp stone floor.
“Nay, sire.”
It took all his control not to howl in rage and frustration. Only the knowledge that Agnes of Strathearn would be roused in the next cell kept him from screaming.
“What. Happened.”
Bevin’s coarse brow lifted pleadingly. “I did as ye said, sire. I hired mercenaries—the best to be had on such short notice. We tracked them outside of Scone and attacked. But the Highlander prevented us from getting to the woman. He took an arrow, but they rode off before we could finish them.”
“How could ye let them escape?” William hissed. “Did ye track them?”
“Aye, sire, but their horses separated, and we lost them as they entered the Highlands. We havenae given up,” Bevin added hurriedly. “Two of the men are still searching. The other two returned with me.”
William sagged against the bars, the air whooshing from his lungs. What could he possibly hope would happen even if the mercenaries did manage to find MacAdams and Vivienne now? The Highlander had already bested them once—and that had been against five men, not two.
He’d been so close to victory against the French whore. St. Giles should have been able to kill her, but even after his failure, William had been given a second chance. She’d been only a few paces above him in the palace, Devil take it!
And now she’d slipped through his grasp yet again. She was somewhere in the Highlands with that barbarian MacAdams, and William would be sent to Dumbarton come morning, left to rot far away from Scone…
A mad idea began to form in the dark corners of his mind. He straightened, clutching the bars to keep himself upright as his thoughts swirled wildly.
“…would ye have us do, sire?” Bevin was asking. “If the others find her—”
“Shut yer mouth, ye fool,” he breathed, “and let me think.”
Aye, aye, the pieces were beginning to come together. If he wanted something done right, he could no longer entrust it to others. He had to do it himself.
“The guards informed me no’ long ago that I would be transferred to Dumbarton Castle’s dungeon for the rest of my days come morning,” William said. “Which means ye only have a few hours to gather all the men ye can.”
“I dinnae underst—”
William reached through the bars and closed his hand over Bevin’s throat, squeezing until the big brute wheezed. “This isnae complicated,” he said through clenched teeth. “Find all those who remain loyal to me and follow my escort when we leave Scone.”
Bevin held up a hand in surrender. William released him, and the thick-skulled oaf rubbed his throat for a long moment before speaking.
“I-I have made inquiries, sire. Even before ye had me go after the woman, I have been searching, but…” Bevin swallowed hard. “But no one is willing to stand with ye.”
The words hit him like a kick to the gut. William exhaled sharply. Here he was, thinking himself a symbol of the uprising to unseat Robert the Bruce from the throne and restore order to Scotland under England’s control once more, when the truth was, even his lowest allies had abandoned him.
“They all saw what happened to the others,” Bevin went on. “If the Bruce was willing to hang nobles, imagine what he’d do to untitled men like me.” He licked his lips, his gaze imploring. “Please, sire, dinnae dwell on it. Ye still have me. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Aye, he had thick-headed, bumbling Bevin’s loyalty, but only because William held the man’s life in his hands with the secret he knew. If the brute hadn’t been a murdering rapist, he would desert William just like the others.
He gripped the bars until his knuckles blanched in the flickering torchlight. Nay, he would not give up now. He could not die in the pit of Dumbarton, abandoned and alone, and let the French bitch win.
His plan could still work, even without the support of his former allies.
“Use the rest of the coin,” he said quietly. “All of it. Hire as many mercenaries as ye can.”
Bevin nodded vigorously. “What shall I have them do, sire?”
“They are going to help me escape.”
Bevin’s eyes widened, but William went on, his tongue barely keeping up with the rush of his thoughts. “Aye, ye’ll attack the convoy taking me to Dumbarton. Then we’ll head north to find the two men tracking Vivienne.”
His heart hammered wildly against his ribs at the thought. Oh aye, he would get to hunt her down himself after all. He would be the one to take her life. But first, he would make her suffer as he had at her hand.
“If aught should happen to separate us when ye attack the convoy, we will meet on Ailsa Craig,” William went on. “Ye ken the island?”
Bevin nodded again.
“Good.”
With all that had gone wrong for him thus far, William would be a fool not to have a secondary plan, but he prayed he wouldn’t need it. Of course, his escape from the Bruce’s clutches would be a great coup, yet what he burned for more than anything was to have the French whore in his grasp.
“Good,” he murmured again to himself, anticipation squeezing his chest.
Vivienne would be his at last.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kieran was hot. But not the hazy, aching burn of a fever. It was more the toasty heat of several layers of wool.
And a warm body pressed against him.
He cracked an eye to find midday light streaming through a gap in the shutters. He lay on his side, with Vivienne’s golden head tucked beneath his chin. She curled into him, her legs intertwined with his and her hand tucked against his bare chest.
For a long moment, he didn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there. All he knew was that Vivienne was in his arms, her delicate scent of violets and woman’s skin enveloping him, her touch warm and soft.
Well, she was in one of his arms. He had a hand snaked underneath her and around her back, holding her close, but his top arm lay stiff and still against his side.
Recollection crashed over him like a breaking wave. The attack. Their flight into the Highlands. Her careful ministrations and his collapse into unconsciousness.
She must have crawled alongside him on the bedstead, exhaustion dragging her into a deep slumber. They’d been awake for two days, unable to do more than nod off briefly atop his stallion. And she’d been left with the burden of looking after him for the last… He had no idea how long he’d been out, but it must have been at least a full day judging by the light filtering into the
cottage.
He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her. He needed to get a better look at her, to reassure himself that she was well even though he’d failed to look after her in his injured, fever-addled state.
Her delicate features were smooth with the peace of sleep, yet he noticed dried tear tracks cutting through the smudges of dirt on her cheeks. He silently cursed himself for allowing her to come to any distress under his watch. Hell, they’d both been damn close to losing their lives to their attackers—they had to be de Soules’s lackeys, for who else would target her so single-mindedly? He could never let danger get so near again.
He must have tensed, for she stirred, her brows furrowing for a moment before she slowly blinked. The breath caught in his lungs as eyes darker and more dazzling than the finest sapphires met his.
“You are awake.” Her voice was thick with sleep and confusion. Then her eyes widened. She snatched her hand from between them and placed her palm against his forehead. “And the fever has broken.”
“A wonder what sleep—and whisky—will do,” he murmured, giving her a lopsided smile. “I feel much better.”
He rolled his shoulder experimentally, and though the skin felt tender where the arrow had pierced him and pinched from the stitches, it no longer throbbed with his pulse.
Vivienne lifted her head and peered at the shuttered window. “It is past midday!” she exclaimed, tossing back the plaids covering them.
He caught her waist with his good hand, stilling her. “Be easy. These last few days have been hell.” He lifted his fingers to the dried tear tracks on her cheeks and gently brushed them. “And ye have borne a great deal.”
Her eyes flashed with embarrassment and she scrubbed her palms over her face, wiping away the dirt and the remnants of her tears. “I…I was worried about you.”
Hell and damnation, he would be ruined if she kept looking shyly at him like that under her lashes. Her flaxen hair was tousled from sleep, her cheeks and lips rosy.
