“Where is Mistress Rhian?” he asked when the fellow, of middle years and careworn, came bustling in.
“Busy elsewhere.”
“Aye, so.” Leith’s thoughts raced. “But ’tis she has been treating me.”
“I will be treating ye now.”
The man was brisk and hurried, and employed very little of what Leith would term mercy in his treatment. He changed the bandaging without care, offered Leith a draught, and shoved a bundle into his hands.
“Clothing.”
Had Rhian sent it? She’d said she would. Despite the gift, despair settled upon him.
“I advise ye do no’ move about more than ye can help.” The healer cast a disdainful look around the pen. “’Tis a grave wound, that. Ye maun let it heal.”
Aye, so, but how to heal his heart?
The healer went out, and Leith donned his clothing. Soon after, another rattle of the door announced the arrival of rations, brought by a scowling guard instead of Rhian.
He lay back upon the pallet, having no appetite to eat, and thought of her.In the afternoon, she will come.
Only she did not, and the time dragged unbearably. Having long finished the contents of the flask Farlan had left with him, he struggled under the weight of his pain.
Perhaps he should have accepted the draught the brusque healer offered.
When what he guessed must be late afternoon arrived with no sign of Rhian, he told himself he must accept the truth. She had made up her mind. She wanted naught more to do with him. That kiss—that kiss must have frightened her.
Och, and he never should have kissed her. Though, to be truthful, they had kissed each other.
Ah, but his Rhian—and he had no doubt to the bottom of his soul she was meant to be his—was a woman of wisdom. She’d witnessed all that had passed between her sister the chief, and Farlan. She did not want that for herself.
Only a madwoman would.
He could not blame her, nay. But he needed a chance to talk to her, to convince her—
Of what? That he, and what he sensed existed between them, was worth her tearing up her life by the roots?
What was he, by any road? No great prize. He was the kind of man with whom women liked to flirt. They sought his smiles and, aye, sometimes his kisses. They liked for him to make them laugh. None of them took him seriously. He’d never even been near the prospect of a serious relationship.
How could he persuade this beautiful, great-hearted woman to take him seriously? He did not know, but if he did not have a chance to see her soon, he would go out of his blessed mind.
When the light began to fade, indicating evening fell in the world beyond his pen, he went and pounded on the inside of his door. Guards stood out there on duty. He could hear them, but they did not respond. He pounded again. He shouted. He kicked the door.
Eventually it opened a crack. A guard with a face like a thundercloud peered in. “Wha’ do ye want, MacLeod?”
“I need the healer, Mistress Rhian.”
The man’s hard gaze flicked over him. “Are ye dyin’?”
Likely not, but his wound had started bleeding again with his movements. “Aye. I think I’m dyin’. I need for her to come.” He needed her to touch him again, lay her cool hand on his chest. Gaze into his eyes. His merciful angel.
The door of the pen slammed shut. Leith did not know whether or not the guard took a message.
He waited. He paced, and bled.
Rhian did not come. An unbearable despair settled on his heart.
The pain—both that of his heart and the agony in his arm—drove him to his pallet, where he lay trying to think. His right arm still hung useless. He wondered if he’d ever hold a sword again.
