Page 4 of Beguiled By the Highlander
She leaned over him, scrutinizing his features, before pulling off one glove and tentatively placing a finger beneath his nose.
The icy weather snaked around her finger. But she scarcely felt it, for a faint whisper of warmth also dusted her skin.
“God’s teeth.” She wiped his hair back from his cheeks. “Can ye hear me, man?”
Patric placed his hand on the man’s chest and uttered a low curse. “Stand back. We need to get him inside the castle.”
This time she did as he bid, and after he pulled off the mantle and surcoat, she picked up the heavy, sodden garments. With obvious effort, Patric, who was one of the strongest warriors she knew, hefted the stranger over his shoulder and staggered across the beach.
There was no way he could get the stranger up to the castle without help. But typical man, he would never admit it. She grabbed his arm and yelled in his ear.
“Wait here before ye crack yer back. I’ll bring help.”
Patric muttered under his breath, but she didn’t wait to hear his inevitable affronted protests. With the dogs chasing circles around her, she hastened back to the castle and hailed the warriors who stood guard. Within moments, three of them left the courtyard to assist Patric.
Still clutching the stranger’s soaking clothes, she hurried to the great hall, where a young serving girl had just finished setting the fire. Isolde set two stools before the hearth and draped the clothes over them. Water pooled over the stone floor, and she sighed. In truth, the garments needed a good wash to rid them of the sea, and she glanced at the serving girl, who was gazing at her in avid curiosity as she petted the dogs.
Isolde peeled off her wet gloves and rubbed her hands together in the heat of the fire. “We have a guest,” she told the girl. “Ensure the fire is set in the solar, and we shall need hot broth.”
“Aye, milady.” She bobbed a curtsey before leaving the hall, and Isolde ineffectually tried drying her damp skirt in front of the fire before abandoning the task. Instead, she went back outside and peered anxiously into the darkness, although she had no idea why all her senses were on edge.
To be sure, it was unnerving to rescue an insensible stranger washed up on the beach, but there was no earthly reason why she was now standing in the cold, waiting for his safe arrival. Especially when he was in no fit state to appreciate her consideration.
In the distance, a pinprick of light came into view as the men, with a single lantern held aloft, returned. Quickly, she directed them to take him to the solar, since it was on the ground floor and easily accessible, unlike the bedchambers upstairs.
As she followed the men across the great hall, her grandmother appeared and came to her side. Clearly, her grandmother’s serving woman had informed her of events. “A stranger?” she said by way of greeting, before kissing Isolde’s cheek. “Still alive?”
“Tis a miracle, and that’s for sure. But perhaps ye’ll recognize him, Amma.”
They entered the solar, where he was lying on the floor before the fire. Several oil lamps lit the chamber, and for the first time she got a good look at her stranger from the sea.
The breath caught in her chest, an inexplicable constriction, as she gazed, entranced, at the vision before her. Even battered and grazed from the savagery of the storm-tossed sea, his starkly chiseled features were utterly compelling.
His torn shirt revealed tantalizing glimpses of his broad shoulders, and the drenched linen molded his impressive biceps like a second skin. Her mouth dried and she took a hasty step back, lest anyone—her grandmother, in particular—noticed her indefensible reaction to an unconscious man.
Heat blasted through her, burning her cheeks, but thankfully everyone was focused on their unexpected guest. She swung about and threw another slab of peat onto the fire, but the reprieve did little to calm her racing heart.
She took a deep breath. Whatever foolishness was gripping her, she would not allow it to distract her from her duty. She was the eldest daughter of Sgur Castle, and she would never give cause for anyone to question her integrity.
Carefully, she folded her cloak over a stool before placing her hood on top.
“I’ve never seen this man before,” her grandmother pronounced, and Isolde gave a silent sigh. She could procrastinate no longer.
“Whoever he is, we must tend the wound on his head,” she said, as she returned to her grandmother, who was on her knees beside the man. “And ensure he has no other injuries.”
“No bones appear to be broken.” Her grandmother stood and gave Isolde an inscrutable look. “Have the maids dry him while ye attend to his head.”
One of the maids brought warm water, and Isolde steadfastly kept her eyes on her task of cleaning the gash on his head, and not at his expanse of naked chest as the maids vigorously rubbed life back into his chilled body.
The wound did not look too bad and fortunately was no longer bleeding. Likely they could thank the sea water for that, otherwise the poor man would’ve been at the mercy of her sewing skills as she stitched his head together.
She rolled back on her knees and focused on his face as the maids finished their task and wrapped thick blankets around him. Now he was dry, they could move him into the box bed, but she had to confess she was a little concerned he was still insensible.
“Can ye hear me?” She leaned closer and frowned when her whisper elicited no response. Trepidation licked through her. Certainly, he wasn’t dead, but suppose he never awoke again?
It was foolish to think she could wake him from oblivion when the journey from the beach, and the less than gentle ministrations of the maids, hadn’t evoked even a groan from him. But she had to try.
She grasped his shoulder through the blanket and gave him a good shake. “Wake up. Ye’re safe now, but ye must open yer eyes.”
