“He is one o’ the people in the world closest to me. Ever since we were lads, it was so.” Farlan did not add that now the other person closest to him—Rory—might also be dead or dying, but she saw it in his face.
She touched his arm. “I am sorry. Ye had best come soon, if ye wish to say aught to him. In fact”—Rhian made her mind up swiftly—“I am bound there now, if ye want to come along wi’ me.”
“I will.”
It felt strange walking through the settlement in Farlan’s company. The sun had now risen on what looked to be a beautiful day. Clansfolk were everywhere, discussing what had occurred. They glared at Farlan with—not quite open hatred, but a wealth of enmity.
Imagine living so. Imagine living so for the sake of love.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“He has takena fever,” Rhian told Farlan as they went, “on top of that stubborn wound that refuses to close.” Refused in defiance of her best attempts to heal him.
Farlan slanted a look at her. “Why does it refuse to close, d’ye ken?”
She shook her head. “’Tis a dire wound, much torn when the sword went in and even more so when it came out again. And he will no’ stay still, so it opens again and again.”
They reached the cattle pen, and Farlan eyed it with disfavor. “I canna blame him for failing to keep still, trapped in this vile place. I was held here mysel’. I felt I would lose my mind wi’ the confinement.”
And now he slept in the chief’s bed.
Rhian scowled at the door that once more stood unguarded. “The men Alasdair assigned here abandoned their posts when the attack came. I hope—”
Fear had her moving through the door without finishing the thought. Farlan came behind her.
The interior of the pen lay dim, the light having guttered out. Rhian struck another with unsteady hands and looked at the man on the pallet.
He lay unmoving beneath the blankets. So still was he, his profile appeared carved from stone.
Farlan breathed, “By God! Is he gone?”
Rhian hurried to Leith and hunkered down, her heart pounding. It could all end here, whatever troublesome and inappropriate feelings she had for this man. Fate could take it from her hands.
But nay, for he still breathed. “Alive.” But terribly still, and burning with fever yet. The draught she’d tipped into him had done nothing. “At least no one attacked him.”
Farlan grunted. He stood watching compassionately while Rhian checked the wound, found it had once more bled through the bandages, and changed them with hands far clumsier than usual.
Not until she finished did he ask, “What can I do? What to help?”
“He is one o’ your closest friends, ye say.”
“Aye.” Farlan’s throat worked before he said, “I wish ye could ha’ known him.” He gestured at the prone form. “No’—no’ like this. Laughing all the time. He has a big, great laugh.”
Like Da,Rhian thought.
“Forever teasing and telling stories. He is the only man I know who can jest wi’ Rory, and get awa’ wi’ it.”
Rhian could see it, could imagine this man laughing, his eyes crinkling in a smile even before his lips did. The contrast with what lay before her pained her heart. She wanted to heal him. She did not know how.
“Your chief will be missing him,” she murmured.
“He will.” Farlan did not bother reminding Rhian that, in truth, Rory was no longer his chief. “Especially wi’—wi’ me being gone as well.”
“Aye.” If she had a lump of anger lodged beneath her heart, Rory must also. If he lived, that was.
“Speak to him,” she urged Farlan. “Perhaps if he hears your voice, it may encourage him.” She herself had bidden the man to hold on. Yet any fool could see he lay far distant.
Farlan lowered himself to the floor. He began speaking to Leith in a calm, steady voice.
