Page 77 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

James was eyeing him.

He turned away, scoured his mouth and jaw. “I am just out of sorts, lass,” he muttered.

“Yer crops. Oh God, Tormund,” she breathed erratically, her words wavering, and she reached out to touch his arm.

But just like that day when she’d tried to give him coin and he’d drawn that blade, she thought better of it and retracted her fingers in favor of wringing them in her talon and locket. What was on her fingers? Mud? His eyes roved over her more carefully now, landing on his sgian achlais at her waist. Marred in more unnatural shadows. The splotching of the same dark shadows stained her dress. His eyes narrowed as he inspected her clothing.

“Torm. Speak,” she said, her worry overriding her sense as she gripped his face to bring his eyes back to hers.

It was too much, her being worried for him when something was clearly wrong. He tugged his face loose again, peeled her hands from his skin, squared her shoulders, and inspected her visage and the sweat that had beaded her brow, then took her fingers in his grip, and sniffed them. Fire smoke. And a faint metallic tang…

They weren’t shadows upon her gown and skin. Nor were they soot. His blood boiled. That illness churning his stomach intensified.

Dried brown blood.

He yanked up her hands and pried them open. Shite! Her palms were scraped to pieces! Her nails and fingers coated in blood. Her skirts frayed and torn. Icy fury welled up inside him and began to pound in his chest like a battle drum. He ripped her skirts out of the way, only to see her perfect, smooth ankles, now cut and sliced, blood oozing from her boot.

She hadn’t sustained such injury from helping douse the flames.

“Who did this to ye, angel?” The deep, ominous sound rising from his chest evoked memories: anger as Owen perished. Desperation as his mother drowned. Terror as that knife descended to his chest. Panic as the monks wailed from inside the burning abbey. Wanting desperately to wrap them in protection to save them all. Such emotion was born from anguished love and aye, he was in love with Brighde MacDonald.

She shook her head, worrying her lip. “I’m fine—”

“Lass, he’ll answer to me, I swear it on my name,” he bit out through gritted teeth and took a tempering breath to calm the blaze as he scooped her off her feet and marched her to the nearest log positioned around their central fire pit, barking, “Niall, bring my medicinals and a torch!”

Her mouth dropped open at his cold declaration of justice, made in front of everyone.

“And to me.” James snarled beside him.

She bit that lip, shook her head, fighting to find the right words as Tormund set her down and knelt in front of her, stripping her boots free to see a gouge in her foot. Christ, he couldn’t bear to see her pure flesh marred by such an injury, one that would scar her, like he was.

“Ye did nay start this fire, brother, swear ye did nay,” she begged.

“I bloody swear it, Bridgy,” James gnashed, offense heavy in his voice. “Someone made it look like me.”

“So Tormund would blame ye, and fight ye… Just as ye blamed Owen and fought him…” she said, her attention trailing off to some detail in her mind. “Keep ye divided so ye’ll never be united.”

“I suspect it’s nay the first time the Demon and I have been pitted against each other,” James added.

“I nay ken who, though,” Tormund replied.

“But I think I do,” she whispered, eyes darting around as if taking in everyone nearby.

Niall dashed up with the leather saddle pack containing his medicinals, along with a wine flask, holding the torch aloft.

Tormund summoned someone to grab the nearest bucket, dunking her hands and scrubbing them to rid them of the blood. Of all the times he’d helped bandage an injury after a skirmish or stray nick during trainings, he’d never imagined he’d have to bandage a lass.

Her eyes lifted to his once more as he washed her feet next, then packed the injured one with a salve and bandaged it, conviction so strong in her bonny blues, it was clear a thousand puzzle pieces had just fallen into place in her mind, but what? And she still hadn’t divulged the name of the whoreson he needed to kill for injuring her so.

“Name, angel. I just need a name,” Tormund rumbled, refusing to let her avoid the matter, which for some reason seemed to be what she was doing.

She shook her head, lips trembling. “He tried to nab me. Just as he did my sister, and I was so frightened until I remembered yer blade, Tormund.” She strained a smile, as if appealing to his pride and hoping he’d bestow it. “I used it like ye made me promise, and wounded him, and thus, got away. I was saved because of ye—”

“Jesu,” breathed James, as if winded.

“A name,” Tormund demanded. She wasn’t saved because of him. She’d never have been in this position had he stayed away. Is the man who did this the one to do it to Marjorie, too?

Christ! He’d known she wouldn’t be safe if she aligned herself with him. He’d selfishly put her in danger, so desperate for her sunshine and, like a damned prophecy, his fears were coming true.