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Aulay shifted in his sleep and winced, waking up as his neck gave a twinge of pain. Damn, he'd fallen asleep again, he realized with a grimace, and opened his eyes only to freeze as he saw that Jetta's eyes too were open. The thought made him frown to himself. He had no idea of the woman's real name, but he and his brothers had been calling her Jetta since shortly after finding her. He was the one who had suggested the name. It was her beautiful jet-black hair that had decided him on it, and the name suited her despite the fact that she only had that long beautiful hair on the sides and top of her head now. They'd shaved away every last strand on the back of her head to clean her wounds.
She was awake now, though, and he would soon learn what her real name was, Aulay told himself as he sat up straight. So long as she didn't simply start shrieking the minute she saw his face. That possibility made him glance to her face again. Frowning slightly, he wondered how long she'd been awake. Had she looked at him? Had she noticed his terrible scar? Probably, he decided. It was hard to miss. The damn thing was all he saw when he looked in the polished silver mirror in the castle's master bedroom. And it was all anyone else saw too. He knew that for a certainty. His scar had been known to make women and children scream or weep. Although the screaming had mostly happened when he was first injured. The reactions recently had been much more discreet, a lip curled with disgust, a shudder of revulsion, or simply turning away and avoiding looking at him at all.
"Are you my husband?" she asked in a husky voice, and Aulay blinked and glanced to the woman with surprise.
"What?"
"Well, only a husband or brother would be allowed in my room," she explained, and then raised an eyebrow in question. "You are not my brother?"
"Good God, nay," Aulay said at once. He'd been watching over the woman for three weeks now, tending her, constantly dribbling broth down her throat, and helping to turn her in the bed daily to prevent bedsores. During that time, none of his feelings could be called anything close to brotherly.
"Then you are my husband," she deduced with a smile, and Aulay stared at her blankly. It was not the reaction he would have expected. His own betrothed had refused to marry him, forfeiting a very rich bride price and walking away rather than spend her days "having to look at his disgusting face for a lifetime," as she had put it. But this woman actually smiled at the thought that he was her husband, he noted with amazement.
"Have I been ill?"
Aulay noted that she looked curious and a little fretful, but not unduly alarmed. Nodding, he finally said, "Aye. Ye've been ill for three weeks now."
Her eyes widened. "Three weeks? What with?" she asked with a frown, and then guessed, "Fevers? There must have been fevers, I do not remember being ill and that only happens with fevers."
"Nay. Ye hit yer head and have been in a deep sleep since."
"Hit my head?" she asked, eyes widening. "Is that why I do not remember?"
Aulay frowned and sat forward in his chair. "What exactly do ye no' remember, lass?"
"Anything," she said almost plaintively, rising up in the bed. "I do not remember you, this room, or even my name. I--" Pausing, she shook her head helplessly, and then winced and squeezed her eyes closed as if in pain.
"Are ye all right?" Aulay stood at once, and moved closer to the bed to lean over her. "Is yer head paining ye?"
"A bit," she said weakly, and with, he was sure, little veracity. It obviously hurt more than just a bit.
"Here ye are, m'laird."
Aulay straightened abruptly and turned toward the door to see Mavis bustling into the room. A short, round woman with dark hair streaked liberally with gray, she carried a tray in hand and was chattering cheerfully away as she walked.
"I've brought some more broth fer our young Jetta. I made it from the quail ye caught yesterday. Ye just--Oh!" The woman paused abruptly, eyes widening as she saw that Jetta was sitting up. Sounding nonplussed, she said, "She's awake."
"Aye." Aulay smiled faintly at the woman's wide-eyed expression. It had been at Rory's suggestion that the maid be brought out to the lodge. She had helped them care for the lass. There were just some things a man had no business tending to when it came to women and Mavis had tended those matters alone.
"Thank ye fer the broth, Mavis," he said now.
"Ye're welcome, m'laird, o' course. Shall I fetch Master Rory?" the older woman asked, eyeing Jetta's still wincing face with concern as she hurried to set down the tray.
"Aye. Please." Aulay watched her rush from the room, and then turned back to Jetta, and frowned. Her eyes were still closed, but she was holding her head now. It seemed to him that rather than easing, her pain was increasing. Feeling helpless, he watched for a moment, and then turned and walked swiftly to the table where Mavis had set the tray. There were broth and a glass of cider on the tray, but Aulay's interest was the skin of uisge beatha that lay on the table next to it. Grabbing that, he returned to the bed.
"Here, lass," he murmured, settling on the bed next to her and quickly opening the skin. "Try this. Mayhap 'twill help."
Jetta moaned, but didn't open her eyes or even lift her head.
"Lass," he began, but paused and glanced toward the door at the sound of pounding feet coming up the stairs.
"Mavis said Jetta is awake," Rory said, rushing into the room a moment later.
"Aye." Aulay stood with relief, and gestured to her as she let her hands fall away from her head. "But she's in pain. Make it stop."
Rory's eyebrows rose at the demand, but he moved quickly to the bedside and leaned over their patient. It was only then that Aulay saw that she'd fallen back on the bed and appeared to once again be in her deep sleep.
"She was awake," he assured his brother with a frown.
"Did she say anything?" Rory asked, lifting her eyelids to peer at her eyes.
"Aye," Aulay murmured, wondering what he was looking for, or what he could learn from her eyes. "She does no' remember aught."
Rory glanced at him with surprise. "Nothing?"
"No' even her name," he rumbled.
"Hmm." Rory turned back to continue examining her, but said, "Perhaps no' so surprising. The back o' her head took a beating. In truth, I did no' think she'd even wake."
"Will she get her memories back, do ye think?" Aulay asked, his gaze sliding over her sleeping face.
Rory straightened and considered her for a moment, but then shook his head. "'Tis hard to say. She may, but she may not. Head wounds are a tricky business. She is lucky to be alive."
