Page 5 of The Guardian's Bride
“Edward of England would do away with the crowning right in Scotland if he could,” Sir Gilchrist said. “One way would be to eliminate the MacDuffs. The current earl is young, and livesin England as Edward’s ward, for the boy’s mother is Edward’s niece. That lad may never leave England, though he is one of the seven primary Scottish earls. His sister is Lady Isabella of Buchan.”
Rowena looked up. “The brave young countess who crowned Robert Bruce secretly? My brother mentioned it. But she was captured last autumn with Bruce’s queen and other kinswomen. A terrible situation.”
“Horrible,” Gilchrist agreed. “King Edward has accused Lady Isabella of treason for the act of crowning Bruce, and had her placed in an iron cage displayed at Berwick Castle as a cruel warning to Scots. If this man is kin to the earl and his sister, he might also be under threat from Edward.”
“He will need to stay here a while yet, so will be safe,” Rowena said. “His fever needs watching and his wounds are concerning. I do not know—if he will ever leave.”
As she spoke, she drew the blankets down to reveal his bare torso and the braies he wore, a simple linen undergarment. As she examined his thigh wound, the Seton brothers did not comment on propriety but continued to murmur between them.
His legs were long, keenly shaped, and powerfully muscled. The gash on the left leg angled downward between hip and knee, sparing his groin. Above the flimsy covering of the braies, his abdomen was taut; bronze and golden hair arrowed beneath the waist cord of the undergarment. He need not worry about his manhood if he recovered from his wounds, she thought, for the mound under the cloth appeared as virile as any part of him.
She glanced away, feeling a hot blush. As many males as she had seen in her healing work, this man had a curious effect on her, bringing flashes of unwarranted thoughts and sensations in her body. She blew out a breath as a quick yearning swept through her, just loneliness. She knew the feeling.
“There are no streaks in the skin,” she told the Setons. “That is in his favor.”
Then, with Gideon’s assistance, she cleaned the wounds anew, rinsing them in wine and honey and dousing them with strong spirit—uisge beathamade by the monks. The man nearly bolted from the bed. Grateful that his reflexes were so keen, she was equally glad to have help calming him. Then she slathered the stitching with the ointment she had prepared from honey, garlic, willow, and other herbs, and applied fresh poultices. “He will rest now,” Gideon said when the man subsided and seemed to doze. “You should too, Lady Rowena. You have hardly left his side.”
“I am fine. I will sit with him tonight until I know he is improving. You and Gilchrist should go to your beds too. Thank you for your help, truly.”
Sir Gilchrist nodded reluctantly and Brother Gideon promised to return to relieve her soon. She waved them away, smiling to hide her weariness. Turning to her patient, she sat quietly, but after a while began to feel sleepy in the silence. Propping her arm on the table by the bed, she rested her head.
Then she jarred awake, uncertain how long she had dozed. Aedan MacDuff growled a few blurred Gaelic words in his sleep. In flickering candlelight, she touched his flushed cheeks. His fever was high again. Dipping a cloth in cool water, she wiped his brow.
“What brought you here, so wounded and ill?” she murmured, frowning in concern. She knew the attack on Bruce’s ships two weeks past had been a disaster, with two of Bruce’s own brothers captured and executed already. Somehow this MacDuff had traveled across Scotland, severely wounded. Likely he was trying to get home to Fife. No wonder he was fevered and ill by the time he collapsed at Holyoak’s gates.
She bathed his forehead, drops sliding down his hot cheek. Earlier she had dosed him with an infusion of poppy and clove. She was exceedingly careful with doses of the potion called the “Great Rest,” a treatment for pain. It could bring sleep or silently kill.
Two jugs of water sat on a small table beside her. She dipped a cloth in one and drizzled water between his lips. He needed fluids, yet was too weak to sit up to drink. If he did not improve, she feared she lacked the skill to save him. Worried, frustrated, she pushed back tendrils of her dark hair slipping out of the braid beneath her widow’s veil. The loneliness sliced through her again, sharp and hurting.
Perhaps she kept thinking of John Sinclair tonight because she wanted to save this wounded Scot. The weeks she had had with John four, nearly five, years ago had been sweet. Then he had left for knight’s duty—and never came back. A month later, the child she had started was gone too. She breathed against the pain, shook her head.
Of all the wounded men she had helped since John’s death, this MacDuff brought back the yearning for a husband, a child, the life she had wanted. The pain was not sharp, but a deep pull, as if her spirit stretched for what she could neither reach nor see.
Stop,she told herself. Think. What else could she do for Sir Aedan MacDuff?
There was one remedy that she rarely resorted to trying. Touching the embroidered pouch looped to her belt, she felt the weight of the Rhymer’s stone there. Had the time come to use it? Thomas had said it could save a life.
MacDuff snored, a reassuring sound. Weary, Rowena set her elbow on the bed, chin in hand, arm resting on his solid, too-warm chest. She thought about all the ways to treat wounds she had learned from Una. She had tried everything she knew.
She slipped her hand into the drawstring pouch and felt the round shape of the crystal charm stone her great-grandfather had given her. Something told her it was needed now. Perhaps it was her fatigue and frustration insisting on it.
Pondering, she was startled by his sudden grip on her wrist, his hand hot.
“Lass,” he said hoarsely. “I need you.”
“Sir, be easy. All is well. I am here.”
“All is not very well. If I die, neither you nor I will be pleased.” A tiny smile moved his lips. He let go of her.
“You will not die. I will not let you.” She said it fiercely, felt it in her core, her soul. Something tugged deep in her chest. She would not give up on this man.
“I am cold.” His hands shook. “Sweetling. I am in your debt.”
The February chill drifted through the room; she felt it too. But braziers about the room radiated cozy heat, one of them nearby. Yet MacDuff was chilled and trembling with fever.
She fetched her cloak from a hook on the wall and returned to spread it over him. The dark blue wool, lined in a plaid of dark green and black, would provide extra warmth. Pulling it high on his chest, she smoothed his thick, messy hair, scented with lavender and garlic and man. His hand found hers, gripped it, gentle now.
“The world is spinning. Or am I?” His eyes rolled back, but he rallied.
