“The mon is in great pain, Sorcha,” Margaret said. “’Tis unkind of you to insult him.”
“He deserves such insults.”
“Heed me, woman,” Ruari began.
“Hush, fool. Ye can bemoan my impudence later. Bite on this,” she commanded even as she stuck a thick piece of leather between his teeth. “Ye have three deep gashes that need stitching—the one on your right arm, the one on your belly that nearly cost ye your innards, and the one on your left leg. Either ye were attacked by a veritable horde of Englishmen or ye were too stupid to fall after receiving your first serious wound.”
“’Tis a miracle he has not already bled his life away,” murmured Margaret.
Sorcha thought so, too, but said nothing, concentrating on closing the worst of his injuries. She closed her ears to the sounds of pain he could not fully stifle. Although she detested adding to the man’s agony, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had no choice. The moment she tied off the last stitch, she looked at his face. His eyes were so glazed with pain they had lost all color, as had his face, and she knew he was barely conscious. She urged Margaret to go and finish tending the youth’s minor hurts, and bandaged Ruari herself.
Now that she had finished the more onerous task of treating his injuries, she found herself taking an unsettling interest in his battered form. He was a big man, tall and strong, yet not bulky. His was the lean, hard strength of a wild animal. His skin was smooth, taut, and several shades darker than her own, almost as if he had allowed the summer sun to touch every inch of his body. As she wrapped clean strips of linen around his wounds, she found it difficult to resist the urge to smooth her hand over his skin to see if it felt as good as it looked. There was no hair on his broad chest. Tiny dark curls started just below his navel, ran in a straight line to his groin to provide a soft protection for his manhood, and diminished to a light coating on his long, well-shaped legs. He was, she decided, an exceptionally fine figure of a man.
Inwardly cursing her own weakness, she quickly finished bandaging him and covered him with her cloak. It was fortunate that his wits were dulled by pain or he would have noticed her ogling him like some greedy whore. She brushed the sweat-dampened black hair off his face, realized she was lingering over the chore and flushed guiltily. Sorcha wondered what ailed her as she tugged the piece of leather from between his still-clenched teeth.
“Are ye done mauling me, woman?” Ruari asked, astonished at how weak his voice was.
“Aye,” Sorcha replied. “Ye may yet live.”
“He is going to be all right?” asked the youth as Margaret helped him over to the fire.
“’Tis in God’s hands,” Sorcha murmured as she began to prepare a meal of oatmeal and barley bread. “Howbeit, he survived for many an hour with no aid. A mon that stubborn should do weel once he is clean and mended.”
“And still awake?” The youth cast a nervous glance toward Ruari then paled.
“Aye,” Ruari said, his voice strengthening as his pain eased.
“’Tis glad I am that ye have survived.”
“Ye willnae be so glad when I regain my strength, laddie.”
“Now, Cousin…”
“Cousin?” Sorcha asked, looking from the youth to Ruari and back again.
“I am Beatham Kerr,” the lad replied. “Sir Ruari’s cousin.”
“Who was supposed to stay at Gartmhor,” Ruari grumbled.
“But, Cousin,” Beatham protested, “how am I to become a knight if I am always left behind with the women and children?”
“There is many a mon guarding the walls of Gartmhor who wouldnae appreciate ye calling them women or bairns.”
“I am twenty now, Ruari. I shouldnae be coddled so.”
“Asking ye to see to the protection of my keep isnae coddling ye.”
“Enough,” Sorcha snapped as she moved to Ruari’s side. “Neither of ye are weel enough for this childish squabbling.” She ignored both men’s glares as she helped Ruari raise himself up enough to sip from the wineskin she held to his lips.
“’Tisnae wine,” Ruari complained.
“Nay, ’tis a fine cider. I have little stomach or head for wine and I hadnae anticipated entertaining guests.”
“Ye are verra sharp of tongue, wench.”
“So I have been told. Ye must rest. That is a fact whether I tell ye sweetly or tartly. We have a long way to go on the morrow over rough ground and mayhaps farther still on the next day. That will depend on how much ye slow us down.”
“We have traveled a fair distance already.”
“Aye, though not as far as I would have liked.”
“Ye must live verra near to the border with the English.”
“Sometimes too near, but Dunweare is a hard keep to take, as ye will soon see. ’Twas built for defense.” She shook her head as she returned to the fire and the food she was preparing. “And now ye have me talking with you as if we are but guests at some banquet. Ye need to lie quietly, fool.”
“And while we speak of fools, which one of your kinsmen allowed two wee lasses to travel o’er this dangerous land to a battle?” Ruari winced as he tried to move into a more comfortable position only to restir the worst of his pain.
“We are hardly sweet, helpless lasses. Margaret and I can fend for ourselves. We left Dunweare not long after my headstrong brother did. We wished to be close at hand if he should need some help. Since he slipped away alone, we felt that was verra possible. At times my brother forgets his responsibilities.”
“There is naught wrong with fighting the English. Your brother could bring great honor to your clan.”
“At times, sir, a clan may need the mon far more than it needs honor. Now, be silent. I dinnae ken where ye get the strength to talk or why ye should be so eager to do so.”
“I think ’twas all those hours of lying on the field alone, unable to help myself and with little hope of anyone coming to my aid.” Ruari spoke in little more than a whisper, then closed his eyes, startled that he had spoken so honestly. He decided Sorcha was right. He badly needed to rest.
“Here now, isnae that just like a mon. He pesters a lass until she fair wants to scream, but just when she needs him awake, he sleeps.”
The soft, husky voice, so close to his ear, as well as her words brought a swift halt to Ruari’s descent into sleep. Her remarks carried a distinctly sexual meaning to his mind, but he sternly scolded himself for such thoughts. Then he opened his eyes and met her gaze. The glint of mischief was clear in her dark eyes, and he frowned.
“Ye should choose your words with more care, lassie,” he warned. “Someone could mishear them.”
“Nay, I think not. I fear I have the habit of speaking most plainly. Margaret, prop this fool up so that I may try to put some food in his belly.”
Although Margaret’s softly rounded form was a pleasure to lean against and the plain fare Sorcha fed him was remarkably tasty, Ruari found that he lacked the strength and wit to appreciate either very much. A fierce will to live had kept him clutching at life and consciousness. Until his wounds had been tended, he realized he had feared slipping into unconsciousness, had feared that blackness would lead to the neverending oblivion of death. Now that someone had taken care of his needs, his battered body called out for sleep. He began to find even the simple chore of eating too