Page 12 of Hold Fast

“I was stitching battle wounds and helping with birthings at fifteen. Your sister probably did a fine job,” she shot back.

Color rose up the pale column of her neck until it reached her ears, no doubt angry that she had given herself away. Ewan took another careful step forward.

“Aye. Will I have the pleasure of being murdered today by the Cameron healer?”

“That all depends,” she replied icily.

Just then, a large, white greyhound burst through the trees, leaping in between Ewan and the healer, standing directly over the pile of weapons he’d tossed her way. The dog snarled viciously, hackles high. How the hell would he be able to protect the healer from a wild beast like this without his sword, he wondered, noting the gleaming, sharp teeth.

But as Ewan hazarded a glance at the woman, he noticed her staring at him, not the hound. For the first time, she looked afraid. But not of him. Good heavens. She was afraidhewould hurtthe dog.

What a bloody mess this has turned into, Ewan thought as slowly, inch by inch, he came back onto one knee. He held his arms out, palms up.

“Easy, now,” he crooned. “Settle yourself. I mean you nae harm. You have my word.”

The dog softened its snarl a bit, though the hackles remained lifted.

“That’s a good dog,” he continued in a soft, low burr. “I’ve come to ask your mistress for help. That is all. Will you come to me? You can smell me all you like and see that I am nae anyone to be afraid of.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the healer tighten her grip on the bowstring. Sniffing the air as it went, the white hound padded warily towards Ewan.

“Greer, nay!” she cried out, and Ewan heard the bowstring creak.

With great effort, he forced himself to focus on the dog, letting Greer sniff his hands. She circled him as he knelt in the leaves, snorting as she passed, pressing her nose into the side of his plaid, against his hip. No doubt she smelled Mathan on his clothing. Thank heavens he’d left the hound behind to comfort Catriona. Mathan wouldn’t hurt Greer, not without being commanded, but he would have added unnecessary complication to what was already an ungodly mess.

Circling back around him, Greer looked at Ewan for a long breath before pushing her delicate head against his chest.

“That’s a good girl, Greer, my sweet,” Ewan murmured as he scratched behind her ears. “What a beauty you are.”

The dog snorted contentedly and pushed harder, nearly taking him off balance.

A laugh burst forth from his mouth. Looking up at the healer, he called out, “As you can plainly see, I mean neither of you harm.”

The bow lowered an inch. And then another.

“How far is your brother? What clan?”

“I am Ewan MacDonald. My home lies a full day’s ride from here. I’ve ridden through the night to reach ye.” He looked at her pleadingly. “Please,” he said, “I need your help. Without you, I fear my brother will die.”

Ewan choked on those last words. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to even give them space, let alone voice. The awful truth threatened to crush him.

He was not accustomed to begging. A laird didn’t beg. He commanded. He instructed. He directed. He never begged. But he was desperate, more desperate than he’d ever been in his life. And if he must beg her, he would.

He looked into her eyes and let her see every raw, aching bit of his fear. Not of her bow, not of her dog, but of losing yet another person he loved. Shehadto come with him. Without her, Connor would be lost.

She pulled herself up taller, a vengeful goddess in the cold dawn. But then she lowered her bow, and Ewan’s sigh of relief was like a thunderclap in the silence.

CHAPTER6

Una replaced her arrow in the quiver at her hip, keeping her eyes on Ewan. Dark blond hair hung in loose, messy waves to his shoulders, the unruly locks shagging over his forehead. The heavy stubble of several days without shaving covered a strong jaw, and his nose appeared to have been broken at least once. His eyes were wreathed by the early wrinkles of a person who spent a great deal of time outside squinting at the sun.

He was filthy, a dirty leine shirt tucked into the MacDonald plaid, which was blue and green with red striping. The plaid was flecked with mud and—Jesu, was that blood?

Ewan sat back on his haunches, petting Greer and crooning soft words to her as she wiggled excitedly. Una could see muscles flexing under his shirt. He was strong, someone who used his body to earn his supper. Perhaps a guard for the MacDonald laird? Why else would he be riding a warhorse?

As she wrapped her fallen plaid tightly around her shoulders, she cursed silently. This was not the plan. She was meant to go to the Stewarts. She was to convince Laird Stewart to send for Blair. She wasnotmeant to be side-questing to a neighboring clan.

But she took in the heavy set of Ewan’s shoulders, the tense line of his jaw, the way his hands shook slightly as he rubbed Greer’s flanks. Connor. That was his brother’s name. A boy, he’d said. She couldn’t let a child die. Not when there was any possibility of saving him. Agatha would have blistered her ears for even considering it.