“But…” she said again, stupidly. That would mean her leaving the haven of the copse, for Adair could not go. She looked from his green-specked eyes to the hound stretched on the ground. “Aye.” Aye, she would have to call upon every speck of courage. For them.
“What d’ye have for bandaging?”
“Naught. We have used it all.” The silent tears came again. She could not stop them.
“We will ha’ to use the blanket.”
It was all they had. “’Tis filthy.”
“So is our clothing. Go now. Take the water flask.”
He was thinking clearly. Giving her calm directions. Even though he had a cold iron arrowhead in his back.
Och, she had seen the damage such a projectile could do. Kerr had once taken an arrow in the calf of his leg while out hunting. While in the hands of the healers after, his screams could be heard all over the settlement.
He had hobbled for weeks. But aye, he had survived.
She drew a breath. Scrambled up. “Stay wi’ him.” To which of her loves did she speak?
She had to battle her way out of the thorny thicket, which made her wonder how they had slipped in when they had. Had Alba truly opened the arms of the bushes and allowed them passage?
Mayhap she had not abandoned them yet.
She found a stream tumbling down the slope and dissecting the march of the trees, clear, clean water, and she filled the flask. She stole a precious moment to stand listening. Each shadow, each flicker, might be the hunters come back again. But she heard nothing, saw no one.
She stumbled twice on her way back to the copse.
Wen lay where she had left him, so still she feared he was dead. Adair calmly worked at tearing strips from their blanket, which he must have got down from her pony. Her harp, usually wrapped in the blanket when they traveled, stood placed carefully to one side.
“Here, let me do that.” She took the knife from him. How could he even move for pain?
The man she loved was strong. Patient. Wise. All that would make her love him more, were her heart not already so full of love for him it might burst.
She must be as strong as he.
“The arrowhead will not pull out,” he told her when all stood ready. “We will have to cut it out.”
Take the knife to Wen’s flesh? She could not.
“Let me.” Adair’s hand trembled when he held it out for her to pass the knife back. “Ye lie across him to keep him still. Hold a hand on his muzzle. If he yipes…”
Aye. How far might such a sound carry in the quiet?
She threw her body across her hound, her cheek against his. She murmured to him.
He did yipe, though Adair did the deed as swiftly as he could. Bradana flinched at the sound and beseeched Wen to be still, then waited—waited for sounds of the hunters’ return.
Those sounds did not follow.
“Here. Ye bandage him.” Adair rocked back on his heels, gray-white in the queer light of the copse. His eyes refused to meet Bradana’s now.
He knows he will have to endure the same, Bradana thought.And ’twill be my hand on the knife.
She could not.She must.She could not leave that ugly barb in his flesh.
No easy task, bandaging a hound’s haunch. Wen lay panting deeply with his pain, not otherwise moving. When Bradana finished, she used some of the water left from cleaning the wound to wash her hands before turning to look at Adair.
“Help me get my tunic off,” he requested, already fumbling at the task.
