“Ye are bold for a man laid out on a table,” she remarked, her tone filled with mirth.
“Aye,” he blinked, trying to focus. “But near death, a man may say whatever he likes.”
He could have sworn her mouth twitched, though barely.
“Or perhaps,” she said, “he loses what little sense he had to begin with.”
Lachlan laughed, though slowly, as if he couldn’t quite remember the reflex. “Then stay and keep me from getting worse.”
“Ye are trouble,” she said, but she did not move away.
6
Isabel had not expected Lachlan MacLeod to survive. Exhaustion ran deep in her veins, and her hands would not stop trembling. She’d been up nearly all night, helping tend the wounded along with the other women in the hall.
And she kept coming back to Lachlan MacLeod. The memory of his lips on hers superseded the memory of his blood, hot and slick pouring over her fingers as she’d tended to his wound. Either he was too stubborn to die, or by some divine miracle, he might just survive.
“What say ye, Freckles?” She placed a bit of rabbit into her ferret’s tiny paws and watched her gobble up the morsel. “Will ye nip him again?”
Freckles licked her paws clean, and then rubbed them over her face, before giving a squeak.
Isabel was still stunned she’d been able to staunch the bleeding enough to sew Lachlan up and pack the wound with a poultice. The shoulder wound on the other hand, had been a clean removal and easy to tend, the only uncomplicated part about her giant patient.
Still, his body heated with fever as the wound worked to heal itself, fighting against a mortal injury. What a cruel irony that the first kiss she’d ever gotten had been from a man flirting with death. A fever eating away at his ability to think, not that he was likely to have thoughts beyond, kill the enemy, and collect the goods.
The bigger, and perhaps more poignant question was, why had she allowed him to kiss her? Fatigue of course was to blame for more than puffiness under the eyes, but of stupid impulses too. She pressed her fingers to her lips, the memory of his mouth crashing against her, however brief and slightly painful, still a traitorous warmth curled low in her core. Nonsense. Foolishness. My gods, enough!
There were at least a dozen ways in which she’d imagined her first kiss. This was not one of them. Despite that, it was one she’d remember.
Isabel pressed her hand to his chest, which rose steadily, if not slowly. She wiped a cool cloth across his brow one more time and attempted to stifle a yawn that would not be suppressed.
Saints, but she needed to go to sleep. Needed to rest if she was going to be any good for helping anyone else.
“I think ’tis time for bed, Freckles, unless there is any news ye’d like to ferret out.” She chuckled at her own pun.
Even an hour’s rest would be enough to rejuvenate her for the next round of wound checks, and to keep her from making more bad puns. And while she did head toward the stairs, her bedchamber was not her ultimate destination.
Uncle Robbie had returned with several wounds. More than he admitted to. And though she’d stitched what she could, he ushered her away and shut himself into his solar with a half dozen warriors, the door closed tight against any questions or prying ears. That worried her more than any hidden injuries.
Isabel started up the stairs, Freckles weaving around her feet that felt heavier against the stones, as though someone had sewn rocks into the hem of her gown. Elsa hurried after her with a tray of cheese, bread and ale, murmuring something about food, but Isabel barely heard her. The castle pressed in around them. Low voices, the sharp scent of healing herbs and blood. The occasional cry that slipped through the stone corridors before growing quiet. Everywhere she looked, men lay broken, and those still standing all carried the same haunted look.
The English had not come knocking on the door, yet. Likely because they were licking their own wounds and taking stock of their victory.
Longshanks did not retreat. That was a fact drilled into their awareness since the start of this war several years ago. The English king regrouped, recharged and then hit the Scots where it hurt. With him this close to the border, it was only a matter of time before he returned his attention to her uncle.
Uncle Robbie was not yet king of Scotland. King John, who’d worn the crown, had abdicated after the English invaded and was imprisoned in the Tower of London. Having done such a cowardly thing meant her uncle, who was a descendant of King David, had stepped up to carry the weight of a kingdom. Trying to restore the country back to the Scots. Bleeding for freedom. No one brought up old King John, a sore subject obviously.
That gave her pause. Was it possible that English coin Freckles had found somehow had come from King John, left behind in a hurry?
As she neared the solar, the door stood slightly ajar. Isabel slowed so that those inside wouldn’t hear her footsteps. And her maid, who’d not been paying attention, hit her back with the rim of her tray, dropping a hunk of cheese on the floor that Freckles was all too eager to snatch. Isabel looked behind her, taking in the shock of horror on Elsa’s poor, exhausted face and decided not to admonish her. They were all so tired and anxious.
Instead, she returned her attention to her uncle who sat slumped in a chair, one leg stretched stiffly before him, his hand pressed to the bridge of his nose in pained contemplation. For a moment, he looked older than he had that morning.
“Isabel,” he called, his voice edged with roughness, but also resignation. “Come in.”
Caught in her snooping, Isabel sighed heavily and pushed open the door the rest of the way.
“Uncle.” She dipped into a curtsy; more habit than formality.
