“But,” she protested, “he is mine.”
“If he survives the night, you can see him in the morn.”
“Why would you keep me from him?”
He pointed to the ruin. “You already have a patient. Since you insisted on tending him, go tend him. I will inform you of the hound’s progress.”
“Daniel is fine. I wish to see Gorm.”
“Go.” His already fierce face took on a darker cast. “Do not test my temper over this.”
The fear that had consumed her when she first met MacCurran resurfaced in a flash. Her heartbeat fluttered like a startled bird in her chest, and she had a very intense urge to run. But she did not. MacCurran had sworn that he would never strike her, or any woman, even in anger. And despite her renewed conviction that he was involved with her brother’s death, she still believed that to be true. She had no idea why she believed it, but she did.
“I do not wish him to die without a familiar face to comfort him,” she said quietly.
The grim look on his face eased a mite. “I understand, but I cannot allow you to see him now. To ease your fears, I will check on him. Now go.”
Isabail hesitated.
“Go,” he repeated.
Reluctantly, she went. She returned to the inner close, but did not give up her hope of seeing Gorm. There was no reason for MacCurran to refuse her request to comfort the dog in his last hour. He was simply being cruel. Punishing her for her bitter words of condemnation.
But he underestimated her determination.
MacCurran had promised to check on Gorm. That meant he would visit the dog, hopefully in short order. Isabail grabbed one multihued blanket from her bed and wrapped it about her waist, hiding the pale blue skirts of her gown. Then she took a second blanket and wrapped it about her head and shoulders. Anyone close to her would know immediately that it was she, but it was not intended to be a perfect disguise. Just enough of a veil to encourage the MacCurran’s glance to slide past her.
Now toasty warm, she joined the other women in front of the central fire pit.
And waited for the MacCurran to enter the close.
* * *
As Aiden entered Ana’s hut, she looked up. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know. “The hound died,” he determined grimly.
“Nay,” she protested, pointing to the piled blankets in the corner. “But neither does he show signs of recovery. I’ve tended the wounds and healed his hurts, but he lies still and unmoving.”
Aiden crossed the room and stared down upon the animal. Blood still crusted the dog’s blue-gray coat in several spots, but he could no longer see any open gashes. Linen bandages covered sections of its belly and legs. “Its breaths are deeper.”
“Aye.”
“Surely it just needs to eat.”
Ana shook her head. “I’ve attempted to feed him, but he will not take food.”
“Water?”
“Nothing.” She handed Aiden a small wooden bowl and a spoon. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck.”
Aiden stared at the bowl of broth. He had far more pressing things to see to, like training the men, checking on the patrols, and solving disputes between members of his clan. But he did not want to return to Isabail with the news that her hound had passed. Nor could he send her here to Ana, the woman who had been tried and convicted of poisoning her brother. She would be furious to discover he’d sought the healer’s help at all.
He crouched beside the dog.
Its head lay at the far side, close to the wall, making spooning anything into its maw near impossible. Aiden placed the bowl on the floor and scooped up the dog, once again amazed by its size. “How did you get the beast from your table to the floor?”
“Niall,” she said, smiling.
Aiden repositioned the dog, then sat on the ground next to its large head. He reached for the bowl, then halted. The dog had lifted its head and laid it on Aiden’s thigh. All without opening an eye.
