Page 54 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

It didn’t appear to be half so soothing to Alistair. “Ye’re sure? There’s nae break?”

Catriona glared at him. “An’ who’s the healer here, me or ye? O’ course I’m sure! Now, get me the water and bandages!” She waved a hand at him. “Go on, or I’ll put somethin’ in yer mead tae mak’ ye feel ye need a chamber pot fer the next day or so.”

Alistair went, and Catriona went to the other side of the cottage and began to mix together herbs for a poultice. Niamh relaxed at the scent, for it was one she’d used herself. Then Catriona mixed a small packet of valerian and hops. “This will help ye sleep, so mind ye drink it in a cup o’ mulled wine or hot tea afore bed.”

“I will.” Normally, Niamh didn’t like to use such herbs, but she knew she’d get no rest if she didn’t take something. The nightmares would surely come, if she tried to sleep without Catriona’s potion.

Alistair came back with the water and set it to heating. Catriona watched it, then tipped a little over the poultice and applied it, steaming hot, to Niamh’s ankle. Niamh sighed, feeling the relief within moments. Catriona wrapped the bandage firmly, then stood. “Leave that on a while, and I’ll change it out fer a fresh bandage afore ye need tae sleep. Fer now, best ye go tae yer rooms and rest. Ye’ve had a hard day.”

Niamh nodded. “There’s some herbs fer the Samhain smoking on Alistair’s horse…”

“And someone will bring them tae me.” Catriona finally smiled. “Dinnae fret about that. If ye’re concerned about somethin’ tae dae, taemorrow I’ll bring ye some o’ yer other work tae dae.”

“I… all right…” Niamh took a breath, then started to stand.

Alistair was there before she could get even halfway to her feet. “Catriona said nae tae put weight on that fer a day. I’ll tak’ ye up and call fer supper fer ye.”

Niamh blinked as he carried her inside the castle proper. “What o’ ye? Dae ye nae need tae eat as well?”

Alistair’s expression turned grim. “Nae now. First… I’ve a man tae get some answers from.”

Niamh swallowed hard, and wondered why that sentence filled her with such foreboding.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

He’d thought the worst of his anger had cooled there on the battlefield, but as Alistair made his way from the chambers he shared with Niamh to the dungeon, he could feel his blood boiling once more.

Niamh had been hurt. Maybe not severely, but hurt nonetheless. What would have happened, if he hadn’t seen those tracks? What if he and Ewan had arrived later, or not at all? The thought of what might have been made his stomach clench and his vision turn red with rage.

He slammed his way into the interrogation room with enough violence that Ewan and the prisoner both flinched. “What has he said?”

“Naething.” Ewan’s expression was grim. “He says there’s naething tae say.”

“And?” He knew that expression.

“He’s lying.” Ewan pointed to the man’s clothing and gear. “His clothing’s meant tae look ragged, but ‘tis nae patched the way it would be if it were as worn as it appears. And his weapons are in good condition. Nay brigand or bandit carries such weapons, fer all we were meant tae think them poorly made. I took this off him too.”

Ewan handed over a coin, a copper stamped not with the King’s symbol, but with another. After a moment, Alistair recognized it. He whirled to look at the man, a renewed rush of fury surging through his veins. “Ye’re a sell-sword.”

The man looked at him through a half-swollen eye and sneered. “An’ if I am?”

“Why’d ye go after me wife?”

“Who?” The man had the gall to try and look as if he had no idea what Alistair might be referring to. Or who.

“Me wife!” With a snarl of rage, Alistair seized a leather strap off the nearest table and whipped it into the man’s exposed side. The man gave a choked cry as a long red welt appeared. “Why did ye hunt her?”

There was no answer, and Alistair lashed out again, then again, raising welts on the man’s frame, and choking cries with each blow. After half a dozen blows, he stopped, chest heaving, and tossed down the strap to stalk forward and seize the man’s chin. “Why did ye go after me wife, sell-sword?”

“Went… after…Niamh MacDuff nee Cameron. ‘Twas the target, the lass with hair the color o’ autumn leaves, eyes the color o’ spring grass, and a Lowland accent tae her words. ‘Twas… orders.”

“Whose?”

The man heaved in a rough breath, then shook his head, as much as he could in Alistair’s punishing grip. “Cannae… say…”

Alistair’s free hand lashed out, to seize one bound hand. “Ye will say.”

The mercenary remained silent. Alistair clenched his jaw and then, with ruthless efficiency, snapped two of the man’s fingers like deadwood.