Page 14 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
She hadn’t expected him to know any of that. He was a fighting man, not a healer, so his depth of knowledge came as something more than a shock. She cleared her throat and patted her long, golden locks as she gathered herself.
“Where did ye come tae learn about healin’ and herbal properties?” she asked.
“I beat a man until he told me everythin’ he kent about it.”
She gaped at him, horrified for a moment. It was only when she saw the mischievous glitter in his eyes that she realized he was again jesting with her. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Be a gentleman,” she said. “Tell me true. How’d ye learn about it?”
“First—I am nae a gentleman. Now, fer the herbs, I was taught when I was young,” he said. “Me faither believed every laird should ken how tae help in times of trouble, be it by pickin’ up a blade or tendin’ tae the wounded. He always told me the best lairds were those who were of the most use tae their people in whatever form the people needed his help.”
Isolde sat back and studied him for a moment, once again struck by how different he was from her father. As the laird, her father believed in iron fisted control. He took what he wanted, when he wanted, and killed those who got in his way. She could never imagine her father leaving coin for somebody’s clothing, nor bandaging somebody who’d been wounded—not even his only daughter.
The differences between Struan and her father, specifically in how they viewed their roles as lairds of their respective clans, couldn’t have been starker. And for Isolde, the contrast seemed provoking. Her father and the people within his circle calledStruan Cameron a savage, a man unworthy to sit in his laird’s chair. But the image she was getting from observing him told her they couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Thank ye,” she said softly, gesturing to her bandaged arm.
He nodded but said nothing as he set about trying to start the fire. He’d found some flint in her pack and was working hard to get the wood he’d gathered to light. But it wasn’t catching. Mud was still caked on the branches he’d collected, and they were still wet to the touch.
“Bleedin’ hell,” he muttered.
“What is it?”
“The wood’s too wet tae catch All of it here’s bound tae be after that storm we had,” he said. “There’s naethin’ we can dae about it.” He stuffed the flint back into her pack and set it aside.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her they’d had very little to eat that day. She rifled through it and pulled out some of the paper packages she’d filched from the kitchens over the past days. Flattening her lap, she spread the paper out and broke up some cheese and cured meat inside, then added some dry oat cakes.
“Ye should eat,” she said.
“I’m fine,” he replied.
She turned to him, her lips curled into a frown. “Fer bein’ a laird so concerned with the well bein’ of his people, ye’re sure nae concerned with ye’re own well bein’.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
“Ye’ve nae eaten all day. Same as me,” she argued. “Ye’ve got tae be hungry.”
His eyes dropped to the paltry feast in her lap and Isolde saw the hunger flash through them. But he turned away, his jaw clenched. She knew she needed to appeal to him a different way.
“If ye dinnae take care of yerself, how are ye goin’ tae save yer braither?” she asked.
“I’ll hunt tomorrow. Maybe get us some fresh meat.”
She sighed dramatically and threw her hands up. “Are ye always so bleedin’ stubborn?”
“Nae always.”
“Daesnae look like it from where I sit.”
He shrugged but said nothing.
Isolde stared at him for a long moment, not understanding why he wouldn’t accept something as simple as food from her. Why he wouldn’t allow her to return the kindness he’d offered her.
Unless he thinks I…
“I’ve nae poisoned the food if that’s what ye’re worried about,” she said.
“Why would I be worried about that?”
