"Niall, hold yourself away from the rocks," she called down. He tried to get his feet between the cliff face and his battered body, but he was too tired, too dizzy. Almost instinctively, he curled his body away from the stone. He dangled, felt the tension in the length of hemp. He could not drive from his mind the strange litany.I should be dead. I should be dead.
Niall groaned as his body swung against a stone. Felt unconsciousness clawing him down deeper into the darkness.
"Niall, you are almost safe. Give me your hand!"
He reached upward, clasped the slender warmth of Caitlin's fingers. With astonishing strength, she gave one last tug. His belly struck the turf as she collapsed, her breath rasping, her legs tangled with his.
Niall rolled to his back, forced his heavy lids open, glimpsed swirling stars, writhing trees. Caitlin, her whole body trembling, spoke low to his horse. His horse, linked to him by the life-saving rope.
With all his strength, Niall raised his head, stared at the woman whose face glowed otherworldly in the moonlight. He fought to squeeze out one word, a faint rasp as he drifted into darkness.
"Why?"
Caitlin stareddown into Niall's face, stained red with the light of the rising sun. She had tended his wounds as best she could. Was all but certain he would soon awaken. Every instinct within her screamed that she should ride away as fast as she could, leaving him without a horse to give chase. She had done what she could to save him. Gotten him off the ledge. Surely, not even the mother abbess could ask more of her.
Yet she sat, arms curled tight about her bent legs, her chin resting atop her knees. What was it she had heard Sister Luca say when schooling other nuns in the healing arts? It was not the wounds on the body that were most dangerous. It was the injuries deep within, where the healer could not see.
Why should it matter to her what befell this man now? He had tried to kill her! He deservedher hatred, did he not? Because of him, she would never see the world quite the same way again. It would always be a darker, more menacing place. Yet every time she tried to leave, she: heard the faint rasp of his question.
Why?
How could she begin to answer? She had no reasonable explanation even for herself. She only knew she had no choice.
Caitlin started as Niall shifted, restless, his groan breaching parched lips. She took the horn cup, eased water down his throat. His lashes fluttered open, and she was stunned to see his eyes—not bleary but piercing, as if, even in unconsciousness, his spirit had grappled with questions. Demanded answers.
A shiver of fear raced down her spine, but she quelled it. He might be strong enough to open his eyes, but surely he was not strong enough to attempt to kill her. Not that he would, even if he had the strength. She had to believe that.
She hid her fear by speaking. "It seems your injuries are not so terrible after all. I think you will live."
He licked at his lips. Swallowed hard. "Because of... you."
She shrugged, said nothing, that green gazepiercing through her.
"Caitlin... you should have let me... die. Why did you... not let me... die? I am sworn to kill you." A choking cough racked him. "What the devil do we do... now?"
She stared down into that handsome face, contorted with anguish far deeper than his wounds.
What the devil do we now? His question echoed inside her.
"I do not know," she whispered as his eyes drifted shut.
Rain,soft, sweet-scented. Niall could hear it pattering above him. He wanted to run into the falling drops as he had as a hurting child, imagining that it could magically wash him as it did the leaves and blossoms, making him clean and new.
But nothing in heaven or hell could ever cleanse him of what he had done. What he had failed to do. Even worse than those warring emotions was the question that had torn at him even when he had lain unconscious. What could he do now?
He opened his eyes, saw a leafy roof above his head, a makeshift shelter of cut branches keeping out the worst of the dampness. Caitlin must have fashioned it. She had even managed to cook something over a smoky fire. He had vague memories of her hand pressing the cup to his lips, something hot and a little bitter sliding down his throat. Then sleep—out of the reach of the fire-hot pincers twisting deep in his flesh.
Could any torture she devised be worse than this? Kindness when he had been ready to kill her. Had they not taught her any sense at that infernal abbey?
And now, as he awakened again, he could see her huddled under the leafy shelter, her leine soiled and torn, her eyes too innocent, her spirit too bruised. She looked like a waif, lost and alone. And in a way, she was. Trapped by the teachings of the nuns who had raised her. Stranded between Conn's sentence of death and a life running from his wrath. No family to defend her. No place she could be safe. If she returned to the abbey, she would only bring disaster to those she loved. Even one as innocent as Caitlin must have come to that grim realization by now.
She glanced down at him, saw his eyes were opened. One soft palm pressed against his brow. "How are you faring?" she asked then dipped the cup into whatever brew she was cooking on the smoldering fire.
Bitterness and self-loathing rolled over Niall in a wave. "Be up... murdering young girls before morning."
Caitlin flinched, then forced her features into a calm mask. "Drink this." She pressed the cup to his lips. "This will help you rest."
Niall raised one hand, pushed the container away. "Rescued me. Now, what are you... going to do with me? Planning on drugged sleep for the next... forty years?"
