Page 4 of Sutherland's Secret
He didn’t want to be too forward, but he needed to find out more about her, and since she wasn’t talking, he needed to do some searching. With a whispered apology, he searched the tattered remains of her gown, looking for any indication of her identity. Saints, but she was a wee bit of a thing. Obviously wherever she had been, she had not been fed or given any care whatsoever.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled up the skirt, silently apologizing to her but knowing that women usually had pockets tied to their underclothing. He sucked in a breath when he saw her legs and thighs. At some point she had lost or removed her stockings and garters, for her legs were bare, and there was not a spot on her that did not sport a bruise. Some were as large as his hand, others as small as the tip of his finger. Christ almighty. He prayed to God they were not handprints.
Her feet were swollen and caked with blood. If she’d had shoes, they were long gone; it appeared she’d walked a fair bit of distance without them. Her petticoats were nothing but tattered scraps of fabric tied at her waist, as filthy and disgusting as her gown. There were no pockets to look through. At one time the fabric of her gown had been of good quality, so he doubted that she hadn’t had any pockets. Mayhap she’d been robbed and left on the side of the road. But that didn’t explain the scars on her wrists and ankles and her apparent starvation. Though he couldn’t imagine any reason for the English to imprison one of their women, he’d long since stopped questioning their actions.
He rearranged what was left of her petticoats and gown over her legs, took off his cloak, and covered her, making sure to tuck her cold hands beneath it. Even though he didn’t think she would make it through the night, he grabbed the blanket from behind his saddle and tore a few strips off it. Using water from the brook, he bathed the caked blood from her feet, revealing so many cuts that he cringed. Gently he wrapped her feet with the strips of blanket. Was she English? Or a Scottish lass in English clothing?
Despite the fact that they were almost dangerously close to the fire, she began shivering. He felt her head for fever. It was warm, but he wasn’t a healer; he didn’t know if it was warm from fever or the fire.
He lifted her onto his lap and tucked her against him. Like a newborn kitten, she turned her head toward him and, with a small sigh, settled into his heat. He frowned down at her. He could not become attached to her. Given the extent of her malnourishment and her injuries, she didn’t have long for this world. He was simply here so she would not die alone.
With one hand he turned the spit, and with the other hand he held the woman. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten since earlier that morning.
He tried to turn his thoughts toward Graham’s gathering but found himself staring down at the woman, wondering who she was and where she’d come from. Did she have family? Would they mourn her? Were they looking for her?
All his questions led down one path. If he was discovered with her, he was as good as dead. And then what would happen to his people?
Lachlan was right. He should have left her on the side of the road. Mayhap the English would have found her and taken her with them.
Saints above. All of this thinking was doing him no good. He’d taken her with him, and now he had to follow this through to the end.
He ate one-handed and kept his eye on the woman, hoping that the scent of roasting meat would stir her hunger and awaken her. But no such thing happened.
He lay on the ground in front of the fire and tucked her in to his body. Her feet came to his mid-shin, and her head fit comfortably under his chin. If he ignored her powerful odor, he was quite comfortable. When was the last time he’d held a lass in his arms?
It had been his wife, and he was not inclined to think upon that, so he quickly shut his mind to it.
He awoke suddenly when a knee slammed into his groin and intense pain shot through his body and stole his breath. “Saints above,” he gasped, grabbing for his manly bits.
The lass was thrashing and moaning. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Shhh, wee’un,” he whispered into her ear.
She cried out, pushing against his arms, but she was so weak that he barely felt her attempts. He wasn’t about to let her go for fear of her rolling right into the hot coals of the fire.
“Na biodh sgàth ort.”Do not be afraid. “Ye are safe.”
She twisted beneath him and made animal-like whimpers and grunts as she attempted to fight him off.
And then he realized she wasn’t trying to escape him but was in the throes of a nightmare. He could see her eyes rolling around behind her closed lids. Her mouth was open as if in a scream, but no sound emerged. He held her, tucking her hands against his chest and rocking her, whispering over and over,“Na biodh sgàth ort.”
Eventually she either wore herself out or his words penetrated her fear, for she stopped thrashing. But it near broke his heart to see the tears streaming from her eyes, making tracks in the dirt on her face.
“Who are ye?” he whispered, but she had calmed down and was no more conscious than she had been all day.
Brice’s heart settled back into a normal rhythm, his groin pain simmered to a dull ache, and he eventually fell back to sleep. When he awoke at dawn, her cheek was pressed against his heart, and her hand was resting on his stomach, perilously close to his abused manhood. He jumped up, wrapped her in his cloak and the blanket, and saw about the business of breaking camp.
He rode all day, stopping only when nature’s urges could not be ignored. His arm ached from holding her, and he found himself periodically switching her position for more comfort. He stopped long after night fell and set up camp again. He still had hare left over from the night before, so he ate that cold.
He’d thought she would have passed on by now and was surprised that not only was she still breathing, she was breathing easier. She’d not woken, had only moaned once or twice. Yesterday she had been still as death. Today her body twitched occasionally, as if she were coming awake slowly. It gave him hope that she would survive. It also gave him anxiety that she would survive. What the devil was he to do with her if she did?
Once he finished eating, he soaked some of the meat in a cup of water. He warmed the concoction, fished the meat out of the cup, ate it, then held the cup to her lips. “Come, wee’un, drink just a bit.”
She pressed her lips together and his heart leaped. Could she hear him?
“None of that, stubborn one. Drink.”
She turned her head away and he found himself smiling. He followed with the cup and managed to get a drop or two into her mouth. She swallowed. He tried again and again until she drank half the cup. All the while he talked to her, some in Gaelic, some in English, hoping she would understand at least one of those languages.
They settled down for the night, but a few hours later she woke him with her cries and thrashing. He soothed her as he had the night before, holding her close and murmuring to her.
