Page 71 of Taming the Highland Misfits
“Shut up, Aidan!” Freya growled, glaring at him threateningly. “You have done enough damage for one day.” She turned back to Alex. “Now, come with me to the healer.”
“It looks worse than it is,” Alex said stubbornly. “Please do not make such a fuss. I am fine.” He began to walk away, but after only a few steps he started to wobble, and Freya went up to him and took his arm.
“Give up the fight, Alex,” she urged irritably. “That wound needs attention.”
By that time a few of the other members of the guard had noticed the commotion and had come to lend their assistance. Freya smiled at them gratefully. “You are just in time to save your captain from himself.”
“Look at a’ that blood, Captain!” one of the youngest men said. “Should we take him tae see Mistress McColl?”
Aileen McColl was the healer who worked for the Laird and the village; she stayed at the castle, however, where she had a special suite of her own. There she not only lived, but also had a small infirmary and a special room where she made her potions and salves. There was a physician nearby, but most people preferred Aileen; she knew everything about everyone and seemed to be able to cure all but the most dangerous and deadly conditions.
“Please do, but be very careful,” Freya told them, then watched as the two men put their shoulders under Alex’s armpits and began to lead him away. He struggled for a moment, then seemed to think better of it and allowed himself to be helped along to the healer’s chambers.
Freya whipped around to her brother, her face crimson with rage. “I will see you later,” she growled, “and if you have done Alex any serious harm, I will make you pay for it!”
Aidan had recovered himself a little by this time, and he frowned at his sister. “Do not make promises you can’t keep, Freya,” he warned, then turned on his heel and walked away.
Freya had never hated anyone as much as she hated her brother at that moment, but she had other, more important things to think about now. She turned and hurried after Alex.
4
The healer took one look at Alex and shook her head. She had been engaged in making some kind of potion which looked and smelled so disgusting that Freya instinctively screwed her face up in distaste. However, she was so worried about Alex that she put it out of her mind and went to his side, her eyes widening as she saw the amount of blood emanating from the wound. Yet she so desperately needed to be close to him that she pushed herself too close and intruded on Aileen McColl’s space.
“Mistress, can ye move back a wee bit?” Aileen asked irritably. No one else would have dared speak to Freya that way, but Aileen’s skills were a sought-after commodity, which gave her a great deal of licence to express herself freely. No one could replace her.
Freya had often thought that she would like to follow Aileen’s path and be a healer and herbalist, but everything she did looked so impossibly complicated! As well as that, she simply could not stand the sight of blood. She also had little patience when it came to dealing with people except those she liked and loved. Freya knew that if love could heal wounds, then Alex would have recovered by then.
Reluctantly, Freya did as she had been bidden, but her eyes did not leave Alex for a moment. She saw him smiling at her, but she had the impression that it was a little forced; he was moaning a little as the healer prodded the wound. That was natural, of course, because any wound, even the shallowest and least serious, like a pinprick, was painful.
Freya looked over the healer’s shoulder, and looked away quickly. The injury was in a tender part of his flesh between his hips and his ribs, and looked huge to her untrained eyes. The flow of blood had slowed, but it was everywhere, and Alex’s kilt was soaked in it. It looked as though a bright red flower had bloomed in the middle of his stomach.
“Is it serious?” she asked anxiously. He smiled at her but a twinge of pain crossed his face. Aileen gently continued to probe the wound with her fingers, frowning as she did so, her expression so fierce with concentration that for a moment Freya feared the worst.
Aileen did not look at Freya as she answered her question. “It looks much worse than it is, Mistress,” she said at last. “It is no’ a deep wound, but it will have tae be stitched. If no’ it will leave a bad scar.”
“I can live with a scar,” Alex grunted. “You don’t have to stitch it.” In truth, he was in so much pain already that he did not want to submit himself to any more. He knew it was only a flesh wound and he did not want to lose face in front of Freya.
“It might help tae stop infection as well,” Aileen told them. “That is a risk as well.”
He sighed. “Get on with it then, if you must,” he said impatiently. He grinned at Freya. “What a fuss over a wee scratch. I have had worse while I was practising.”
“I think you’re trying to pretend you are not hurting,” Freya observed. “I know you better than most people, Master MacNeill. Scream if you need to.”
“I will not need to,” he assured her.
She reflected that life was easier for women in some ways; men were expected to be as tough as saddle leather, but they had their weak spots too, and could not always hide them.
Freya looked up at Aileen, who instructed her to go around the other side of the bed. She smeared the wound with some ointment which she said would dull the pain a little, then threaded a wooden needle with catgut. Alex looked up at her and smiled again, just as Aileen inserted her needle into his flesh. He winced but carried on looking at Freya, and she grasped his hand, which tightened painfully around hers. Freya began to talk about small, inconsequential things; the servants’ gossip, the wedding of two of her friends, the romance between Bearnard and the pretty girl he was courting. He listened, apparently intently, and inserted a comment here and there, smiling occasionally.
It was a small wound, thankfully, and needed only a few stitches, but Freya could see by Alex’s face and feel by the pressure of his hand around hers that he was hurting, despite the salve. She glanced at Aileen from time to time and received little nods of reassurance.
Freya’s hand was hurting with the pressure of Alex’s tight grip, but she pressed her lips together and endured it until Aileen had finished.
“A’ done,” she announced, smiling. She poured a little wine on the cut then bandaged it. “Ye can rest here for a while. I will bring ye some poppy milk tae ease the pain, but it will likely make ye fall asleep.”
“No poppy milk,” Alex said firmly. “I have better things to do than lie here all day. I must tell my second-in-command to take my place, just for a wee while. I don’t know what all the fuss is about!” His voice was impatient.
“I will do it,” Freya volunteered. “Lie there and be still, Alex. Listen to Aileen—she is a good woman who knows what she is about.” She stood up then bent down and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “And if you cannot listen to Aileen, then listen to me, since I know you better than anyone else. Stay here please, and I will ask Aileen for some willow bark tea. That should help a bit with the pain and not send you to sleep.”
