Oliver led the horses around to the lee side of the structure where an overhang offered some shelter from the sleet. All three animals were near collapse, steam rising from their heaving flanks. He removed their tack with practiced efficiency, rubbed them down as best he could with handfuls of hay he found stored beneath the overhang, and left them with a bucket the rain had already begun to fill. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.
When he entered the shelter, he found Megan had already coaxed a fire to life in the stone hearth. The flames were small and carefully contained. She’d understood without being told that the smoke would give them away. Webb sat propped against the wall nearby, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
“He’s coming down with a fever,” Megan said without preamble. She kneeled beside Webb with one hand on his forehead, already working on the blood-soaked bandage beneath his coat. In the firelight Oliver could see the competence in her movements. “The wound needs proper cleaning, or it will fester.”
Oliver shed his sodden coat and crouched beside her. “What do you need?”
“Hot water. Clean cloth. Whiskey to disinfect.” She glanced up at him. “I don’t suppose you packed a medical kit?”
“We have whiskey. I can boil water.”
“Then it will have to be enough.” She returned her attention to Webb, her fingers gentle as she peeled away the crusted bandage. “I brought some healing herbs in my satchel.” She glanced at Webb. “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry.”
Oliver watched her work as she heated water in a small pot over the fire, mixing in the herbs, tearing strips from her already ruined chemise to make fresh bandages. Her movements were sure and practiced. Not the fumbling attempts of someone playing at nursing, but the confidence of real experience.
When she poured the heated whiskey over onto Webb’s wound, the former sergeant came awake with a strangled curse, his good hand clenching into a fist. Oliver caught it.
“Easy, Webb. She’s helping.”
“Christ,” Webb gasped, his accent thickening with pain. “It feels like she’s killing me.”
“Would you prefer gangrene?” Megan’s voice was matter-of-fact, and Oliver saw the corner of Webb’s mouth twitch despite his discomfort.
She packed the wound with herbs and bound it with fresh bandages, her small hands working with surprising strength. When she finished, she sat back on her heels, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “That’s the best I can do. He needs rest, warmth, and food.”
Oliver had already moved to unpack what remained of their supplies. The rations were meagre, dried meat and hard cheese and the hare he’d shot at twilight the night before. He divided it into three portions, then redistributed it without comment, giving Megan and Webb the larger shares.
“That’s not fair,” Megan said.
“You’re half my size and he’s injured. Eat.”
She looked at the food in her hands, then at him, andsomething shifted in her expression. She ate in silence, small careful bites, making it last.
Webb drifted into feverish sleep. Oliver covered him with both remaining blankets, leaving himself and Megan with only their damp cloaks.
The fire crackled. Outside, the wind howled. Oliver should be planning their next move, calculating routes and risks.
Instead, he once again found himself watching Megan.
She’d moved to the far side of the fire, as far from him as the small space allowed, and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring into the flames. Her fair hair had come loose from its pins, hanging in wet tangles around her face. She looked nothing like the elegant captive he’d observed through his spyglass. She looked real. Exhausted. Frightened. And unbearably brave.
“You should sleep,” he said quietly.
Megan’s laugh was brittle. “Should I?”
“You’re safe here.”
“Am I?” She turned to look at him, and his chest tightened at the expression in her eyes. “I’ve been dragged through a freezing river. I’m being hunted by the most dangerous man in Wales. Forgive me if I don’t feel particularly safe.”
“I meant what I said at the lodge. I won’t hurt you.”
“The only man who has ever had power over me said something similar.” Her voice was soft. “Usually right before he hurt me.”
“I’m not Penharrow.”
“No?” Her eyes glittered in the firelight. “Then tell me, my lord. Why should I believe you’re any better? You want something from me.”
There it was. Oliver considered his answer. She deserved better than comfortable lies.
