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"What shall we do with him?" her brother asked, gesturing to the man he, Ian, Gawain, and Aidan stood over.
"Throw him in the dungeon," Kade said coldly.
He started to swing away again with her, but paused when Will said, "Well, I suppose we could do that, but why you would want to hang a corpse in chains I do not know."
Averill took a closer look at the fallen man even as Kade did. Her eyes widened when she saw that Will and Gawain had turned Domnall over to reveal his own knife protruding from his chest. He had apparently landed on it when he fell.
"Then do whatever ye wish with him. I doona care," Kade said with indifference, and turned away again. This time he carried her out of the room without being called back.
"I am fine. You need not carry me," Averill murmured, as he carried her along the hall toward their room.
"Yer bleedin'," he said grimly.
"What?" she asked with surprise.
"Yer neck."
She felt worriedly at her throat and winced at the tenderness there and the length of the slice in her throat. It was long, but Averill had no idea whether it was from when she'd hit Domnall over the head the first time, or from when he'd been dragging her around before that. She didn't think it was very deep, though. At least she hoped not.
"'Tis all right," Averill said reassuringly. "It hardly hurts."
Kade ignored that and roared, "Bess," as he carried her past the stairs.
"Husband, I am fine. Really," she insisted, tempted to smile at his concern.
This had no more effect than her earlier reassurance, and he continued on to their room. Once there, Kade carried her to the bed then paused. Rather than set her down on it, he turned and settled to sit on the edge of it himself, still holding her in his arms. He then kissed her with a barely restrained violence that rather took her breath away.
"Yer ne'er to scare me like that again," Kade growled when he finally lifted his head. "I thought I'd lost ye."
Averill stared at him, a bit stunned by the depth of emotion she saw in his eyes, then glanced to the door as Bess bustled into the room.
"You called for me, my--" Her voice died as she spotted Averill. The maid blanched at the blood Averill could now feel dripping down her throat, then turned and rushed back out into the hall, shouting for water and linens. Bess was back in the room in a trice and detouring for the chest where Averill kept her bag of medicinals. She paused long enough to retrieve what she thought she would need from the bag and moved over to stand before Averill and Kade.
"What happened?" Bess asked as she placed two fingers under Averill's chin and tilted her head up to better see the wound.
"Domnall cut her," Kade snarled, sounding like he'd like to kill the man, already dead or not.
"I hope you beat him for it," Bess said grimly as she leaned closer.
"Nay," Kade said, sounding unhappy, then added, "Averill killed him."
"I did not," she gasped, jerking her face from Bess's hand to glare at her husband. "I merely hit him with the shield. He fell on his own knife and killed himself."
"Oh," he said, then his lips spread in a slow grin. "Laddie, you, and Morag are proving handy with shields. I'm thinkin' we should hang some on every wall o' the keep. If we're ever invaded, ye can beat 'em back fer us."
"Morag used a tray," Averill reminded him, relieved to see some of the grimness slipping away.
"A shield is heavier," he pointed out. "And had there been one in our room that night, she'd ha'e no' spilled yer meal."
"Aye," Averill agreed. "Shields it is."
They smiled at each other and glanced toward the door as a rustling announced the arrival of Morag. She carried a bowl of water and the linen Bess had shouted for, and Bess took both with relief and quickly set about cleaning Averill's neck.
"'Twill need stitches," Bess decided as soon as she'd cleaned the blood away.
"Nay," Averill gasped, lowering her head with alarm.
"'Tis bleeding badly, Avy," Will said, making his presence known, and she turned to find that they had a good-sized audience by then. Will, Laddie, Aidan, Gawain, and Ian stood watching with solemn expressions, each nodding as she glanced at them.
Morag was still hovering nearby, and Lily and Annie were entering the room even then.
Averill bit her lip and glanced to Kade.
"'Tis a nasty cut, wife, and in an awkward spot. Every time ye turn yer head, 'twill reopen. 'Twould be better were i
t sewn up," he said with regret, then glanced to the maids, and ordered, "Fetch her some whiskey."
"I shall get the needle," Bess announced, moving away even as Morag headed out to get the requested whiskey.
"But..." Averill began with something close to panic. She paused, however, before blurting the rest of what she wanted to say, that she didn't wish to have stitches. Averill had stitched up countless injuries since her mother had taught her to tend the ailing and injured, but had only ever needed them once herself, and that was for a cut on the palm of her hand as a child. It had only been two very tiny stitches, but in her recollection it had hurt like the devil to get them, and she knew this was a much larger cut and very much feared it was going to hurt even worse. Rather than blurt her desire not to have them, she tried, "But, husband, surely do we put some ointment on it and bandage it up, 'twill close on its own. I will just not turn my head for a while. I am sure 'tis not as deep as all that and will heal quickly."
"Ye canno' see it, wife. 'Tis no' shallow."
"But--" Averill paused as a small hand slid into hers. Turning, she found herself peering at Laddie as he squeezed her fingers reassuringly with his much smaller ones.
"I'll hold yer hand through it, me lady," the boy offered, solemnly. "'Twill no' be so bad, and ye can squeeze me as hard as ye like if it hurts. Me ma always held mine for me while me scrapes and cuts were tended, and it helps do ye close yer eyes tight and squeeze real hard on someone's fingers."
Touched, Averill let her breath out on a small puff and squeezed his hand gently in gratitude. "Thank you, Laddie. And I shall return the favor do you ever need it."
He smiled at the words, then glanced around as Morag reentered, a pitcher of whiskey in hand.
Averill grimaced at the sight. She'd never cared much for the drink, and it did seem ironic that she was now going to drink some when she had worked so hard to stop her father-in-law and Gawain from drinking it. But she had called for it often enough in the past for men she was about to take the needle or knife to, and suspected she would be grateful for the effects of the liquid fire once Bess's needle began pushing into her skin.
Straightening her shoulders at the very thought, Averill held her hand out for the pitcher.
