The Laird laidGabriella down with surprising gentleness. Mistress Agnes moved forward, her hands already reaching for her face.
“What happened to this poor lass?”she asked, tilting her head so she could examine a cut on her cheek.
“She was held captive,”the Laird replied, his voice tight. “Starved. Hunted.”
The healer’s expression darkened.“Hunted? What the devil’s game is that, huntin’ humans? I hope ye gave them what they deserve.”
“Nae yet,but I will. This lass is one of four we rescued today.”
Gabriella’s mindstruggled to make sense of his words. This wasn’t a man who’d participated in a hunt for sport. Did he really mean it then, when he said he wanted to help her?
“She needs food.Proper rest. And these wounds need tendin’.” Mistress Agnes was already reaching for a bowl of water.
The Laird stood back,his large frame filling the room as the healer began to clean her injuries. Gabriella flinched when the cloth touched a particularly raw scrape on her arm.
“Gently,”he growled, his eyes fixed on the healer’s hands.
“I ken me business, Me Laird,”she replied tartly, though her touch did soften. “Ye neednae hover like a maither hen.”
Gabriella almost smiled at that.She couldn’t imagine anybody, even an older woman, speaking so bluntly to the master of the castle. It didn’t fit with anything she’d learned of lairds in her years at the tavern. Or the air of strength and authority she’d noticed in him.
As the healer worked,Gabriella studied him from beneath lowered lashes. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes dark with barely contained fury as each new injury was revealed. But that fury wasn’t directed at her. Instead, he seemed… protective.
Mistress Agnes clucked her tongue.“Starved half to death, ye are. Look at yer arms, naught but bone.” She shot the Laird a pointed look, then glanced back at Gabriella. “When did ye last eat?”
“Yesterday. I had some bread,”Gabriella admitted haltingly.
“I’ll havea meal prepared for her. But she’ll have broth first. Strong food would make her sick.”
Gabriella glanced up,surprised. Most men she’d known wouldn’t begin to care about such things.
“The lass has cuts everywhere,”the healer continued, examining her feet. “And these ankles—rubbed raw from rope.” She looked up at Gabriella with kind eyes. “Who did this to ye, child?”
The Laird spokebefore Gabriella could gather the strength to answer. “She doesnae need to relive it now. Just tend to her wounds.”
“What’s yer name, lass?”Mistress Agnes asked as she cleaned a particularly nasty cut on Gabriella’s thigh.
“Gabriella,”Gabriella whispered, wincing slightly. “Gabriella Patterson.”
The Laird,who had been pacing near the doorway, stopped when she said her name.
“Ye can leave now, Me Laird.”Mistress Agnes’s tone was firm. “I need to check the rest of her, and she’ll want privacy.”
To Gabriella’s surprise,he nodded. “I’ll have a chamber prepared.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “And Mistress Agnes… she’s to have the best care.”
The healer snorted.“As if I’d give any less.”
When he was gone,she helped Gabriella remove her filthy dress, covering her with a large wrap. Her practiced hands were quick and clinical as she examined the rest of her body. Gabriella tried not to flinch, tried not to remember other hands that had been far less gentle.
“Ye’re lucky, lass,”the healer whispered. “Nay broken bones, though ye’re bruised somethin’ fierce.”
Lucky.
The word felt soinappropriate that Gabriella nearly laughed.
“Why is he doin’this?” she whispered. “Why bring me to a healer?”
Mistress Agnes’s eyebrows rose.“Because ye need healin’.”
