A torch burned inside the shed, casting some light. The man had been laid on a pile of sacks at the center of the place, so covered in blood that Rhian could not immediately get a good look at him.
Was it indeed him? The same man she’d bandaged out on the killing ground? A big man, this. Fair hair all tumbled and half drenched in red. Powerful arms were flung to either side.
She went closer, and conviction crept over her. He lay with his head turned and one cheek upward. But she knew that face. She’d seen it just last night out in the gloaming. And aye, there was the rent leather meant to cover his arm, all torn padding, and the sundered flesh beneath. And her own bandaging, now soaked through with blood.
Dismay gripped her. She muttered a curse and set her basket down so she would not drop it and soil everything inside.
Moira glanced at her. “What is it, sister?”
Rhian did not want to say. Those moments out in the dark had been apart from the ordinary. Almost magical. She need not share them, not when it would achieve nothing.
“Farlan is right. This looks verra bad.”
“Is he dying? Losing him would damage Rory MacLeod a great deal, or so Farlan says.”
“Aye?” And did theynotwant to damage Rory MacLeod? Was it not the goal of their every choice and action? Mayhap she would do best to let Leith MacLeod die.
Could she, though? Could she, having once looked into his eyes?
Merciful angel.
She swore she heard the words again, tumbling into her ear. The effect of them poured through her, triggering a storm of emotions. All the compassion she’d been keeping pent up this whole night long, so it would not get in her way and spoil her intentions.
To be sure, she could not let him die.
She bent over him, performing a swift assessment, not liking what she saw. He lay senseless, most likely having passed out from pain. He might, aye, have great strength and vitality, but she had no doubt most of it had drained away with his blood. If ever a man lay close to death, it was this one.
“Sister,” she whispered, “I can hold out little hope for his life.”
“Are ye sure ye can no’ save him? I ken fine there is magic in your hands.”
Rhian shook her head slowly. “It is Saerla who possesses all the magic.”
A commotion at the door heralded Alasdair, who came pushing in to the tiny place. So tall was he, his head nearly brushed the roof. He brought with him a heavy smell of sweat and blood.
“Well? Will he live?”
“I canna tell yet, Alasdair.”
His expression stark, Alasdair pulled a dirk from his side. “I ha’ been thinking about it. I am no’ sure, Moira, we want all this nonsense over again. Let me but finish him and save Mistress Rhian a deal o’ work. He is better dead.”
“Nay.” Moira imposed her body between Alasdair and the prone man.
Alasdair’s dark eyes glowed with wrath. “We will, mistress, ha’ no repeat o’ what took place last time.”
Last time.A MacLeod prisoner. A MacBeith sister who fell in love with him.
Nay,Rhian thought. They could not allow that to happen again.
She turned and faced Alasdair. “No need to employ your dirk. He has already lost most of the blood in his body.”
Alasdair swept the fallen warrior with a disparaging look. “Then let him lie, mistress, and finish bleeding out. Ye were right in what ye said before—there is no need for ye to waste yer time and yer mercy upon him.”
“Aye,” Rhian agreed. It was perhaps the kindest thing to do. Why claw the man back from the brink of death only to have him endure blindness, imprisonment, and perhaps questioning by ordeal? Farlan still recovered from the beating their men had given him. Because he was a MacLeod.
But the wordmercyechoed in her head.
She remembered the man’s gaze clinging to hers out there in the dark. His spirit reaching out to her in a manner she could not comprehend.
