Elizabeth McBride (17 page)

No one spoke.

Harper Neill shuffled off the next morning. Drosten left
soon after. Off to check on the whereabouts of the Britons,
he told Mhoire. Alone, so as not to leave Dun Darach short
of soldiers and more vulnerable than it already was. He
ordered his men to help repair the wall. "I won't see youor anyone else-killed in my presence," he flung over his
shoulder to Mhoire as he mounted his horse. "Agreement
or no."

And still it rained. Mizzle changed to shower changed to
mist. Water streamed off the cliffs and plunged into the
fields, transforming them into great muddy puddles. Every
able person worked on the wall until their hands stiffened
into claws.

Irwin left at nightfall and took his men with him. Soaked
to the bone, Mhoire changed into another gown, dark blue,
with a low, fitted bodice and tight sleeves. She unbound
her hair and let it fall loose past her shoulders to dry. Why
should she care about the seemliness of her appearance?
All these men wanted from her was her land. If they didn't
care about her, she wouldn't care about them. She wouldn't
care that Drosten had been gone all day. Wouldn't care that
the weather was roiling. Wouldn't care that the sentries had
seen no sign of him.

But when he appeared at the door, her heart lurched in
her chest. His hair was plastered to his head, and his eyes were half-focused. She could tell by the way he clutched
at the doorpost that something was wrong.

She stood. "What is it?"

He shook his head like a dog, and beads of water flew
off his hair. "It's naught to do with you."

He was pale as a corpse.

"You're hurt."

He dropped his hand from the doorpost, straightened,
and swayed on his heels. "I'm fine."

"Come in and sit down."

"I'm not a mouse like your new friend Irwin. I don't
need to sit down."

Her eyes traveled the length of him and settled on the
pool of water at his feet. The pool that was turning red.
"Drosten, you are dripping blood all over the floor. If you
don't come in and sit down, I will go over there and push
you down."

He closed his eyes a moment and reached for the doorpost again. "I would very much like to see you try, mo
milidh-" And his legs began to buckle.

Brian and Alfred reached him before he hit the floor.
They dragged him to the fire.

"Take those wet clothes off him," Mhoire commanded.
"Grainne, get some blankets."

She averted her eyes while the men stripped him. "Look
for his wounds, and tell me where they are."

"Left arm's a bloody mess," Brian said. "Cuts across the
chest."

"Turn him over. Check the other side."

She heard a groan.

"Back's clean. More cuts on the legs. But the arm's the
worst of it."

"All right." Mhoire turned and cast her eyes over the
damage. Drosten's left arm was streaked with blood and
sweat. She peered more closely. The wound itself was
above the elbow, about two inches long and very deep. She
probed the edges, and Drosten opened his eyes.

"Who stabbed you?" she asked. "And don't tell me you fell off your horse because I know a stab wound when I
see it."

He raised his head a fraction and peered at the cut. "It's
not bad. Leave it be."

"Grainne," she called over her shoulder. "Bring me my
bag of medicines, hot water, and clean rags." She turned
back and pulled the blanket down to Drosten's waist. The
cuts on his chest were superficial. They could wait. She
tucked the blanket up around his torso, leaving the
wounded arm exposed. "Just lie there. I need to sew this
up.

Grainne returned with the herbs and Elanta carried the
water. "There are no rags," Grainne announced. "There's
no cloth to spare. We used it all for bedding."

"Tear up my night shift."

Drosten groaned. "I don't want your night shift."

She looked up at Brian and Alfred. "Do you have anything strong to give him to drink?"

"Ah, you don't want Drosten drinking, lady," Brian answered.

"Whyever not?"

The men exchanged looks. "He's not much of a drinker,"
Alfred explained. "So when he does drink, he gets, uh ...
peculiar."

"Peculiar?" Mhoire wrinkled her brow. "What does he
do? Stand on his head and sing?"

The men exchanged another look.

"Get the drink, Brian, and if he gets rowdy, you'll have
to hold him down for me. Or I'll sit on him."

Brian grinned and went for the flask.

A big, thirsty man can hold a lot of fluid, and the whiskey flowed easily down Drosten's throat. As she waited for
its pain-numbing effects to take hold, Mhoire sponged the
blood off his arm and bound a compress against the wound
to stop the flow. Then she cleaned the small cuts on his
chest and his thighs. He was docile now-half-asleep, she
hoped. She tried not to notice how magnificent he was, how
his muscles and sinews wrapped compactly around his bones, how straight his limbs were, how firm his trunk
under the soft, tawny hair that covered his chest. Her hands
traveled over him, padding him here and there, and he shivered under her touch. She felt his forehead, fearing fever,
but it was cool. Then she cupped her hands under his head,
and he opened his eyes.

"Are you trying to put me back together or tear me apart,
mo milidh?" he murmured drowsily.

"I was feeling for breaks in the bones. Now here-" Her
fingers gently probed his scalp and found a lump the size
of a walnut. "I thought I'd find this. You were hit on the
head, weren't you?" She looked down into his indigo eyes.
They were amused.

"How did you know that?"

"Because you look so stupid."

He closed his eyes and smiled. "More stupid than us'al,
you mean?"

His words were slurred. Good. She leaned back and
picked up her needle. "Was it the Britons?"

"Don't know. Forgot to ask where they came from."

"Are they dead?"

He shook his head. "Nay, more's the pity." He yawned.
"Just damaged them enough that they ran away."

"You shouldn't travel alone."

He opened one eye and watched her thread the needle.
"I've had one battle today, mo milidh. Let's not have another."

The others gathered round as she made the first stitch.
She looked up to see how Drosten had taken it.

He was staring at her with dark, melting eyes.

"Does this hurt?" she asked. "Would you like more whiskey?"

"Don't need it," he murmured. "It's you who makes me
drunk."

She stilled, her hand with the needle mid-air. She
glanced at Alfred, who raised an eyebrow.

She took another stitch.

"Like that gown."

She stilled again, and saw where his eyes had traveled.
To her neckline, and the swell of her breasts, amply revealed as she crouched over him. "Keep your eyes closed.
You'll feel less pain."

"Umm. And less pleasure."

She heard smothered giggles behind her. She bit her lip
and took a few more stitches.

Each stitch brought her face closer to his.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

"Drosten, you are drunk."

"I told you-"

"I know. I make you drunk." She leaned back to get
more thread and heard a muffled laugh. She glanced up at
Brian and Alfred, who quickly composed their faces and
shrugged their shoulders.

She threaded the needle and bent over Drosten once
more. He was quiet for a while and let her concentrate on
her work, though his eyes never left her face. She stitched
as carefully and as quickly as she could. The skin around
the wound was red and inflamed, and each prick of her
needle must have felt like a hot iron. But he didn't flinch.

"Why's your hair down?" he murmured.

"It got wet today. I'm letting it dry."

"It's like a cloud. Lovely ... dark ... cloud."

She struggled to keep her voice light. "I didn't know you
were a poet."

"Me neither." He lifted his right hand and touched a lock
that was falling across her shoulder.

She didn't know what to make of him.

"I'll steep some willow tea to ease the pain."

He shook his head. "It's you who hurt me, mo milidh,"
he said, fingering her hair.

She bit her lip. "I know. The needle hurts."

"Not the needle."

She took a breath. Avoiding his eyes, she bent again to
her task.

"Don't marry him."

"Who?"

"You know who. Irwin, the mouse."

She slipped the needle into the skin. "I didn't say I was
going to marry him."

"You're thinking of it."

She didn't answer.

"He can't appreciate you. Doesn't know how."

She pinched the top of the wound together and made the
last stitch. "You and I weren't going to fight, remember?"

"Don't want to fight with you, mo milidh. Ever."

She cut the thread with her dagger and tied a knot. "Why
do you call me that? Mo milidh-'my warrior'?"

He smiled. "Because that's what you are. The best kind."
He fingered a dark tendril. "Full of passion. Courage."

She lowered her head. "Not courage."

His next words were so low she almost didn't hear them.
"Kiss me, mo milidh."

Drosten's pupils were dark, almost black.

"Drosten-"

"Kiss me."

Behind her, the others shuffled away.

She lowered her head. "Nay," she whispered. "You're
daft."

"I promise I won't pounce. Too besotted."

Her heart thumped. Then she lowered her head and
grazed his lips with hers. Near-blind with embarrassment,
she groped for her bag. Drawing it onto her lap, she fumbled within it. "I must make a ... a poultice for the wound."

When she dared steal a look at his face, he was asleep.

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I kissed her?" Drosten's mouth dropped open. It was
mid-morning. He had awakened a few minutes earlier to
an empty hall and an aching arm, and Grainne, poking him
in the ribs and insisting he sit up so she could inspect his
wound. Now she was peeling away the bandage, and none
too carefully.

"In truth, you made her kiss you."

He peered into the woman's face. "You are inventing
this tale."

Grainne peered back. "Why, in the name of Mary and
Joseph and all the saints, would I want to do that?"

Drosten lifted his shoulders in a mighty shrug. "I.. .
have no idea."

Grainne probed the wound lightly, her lips pursed. "I
don't tell tales."

"Then tell me this-"

"Don't raise your voice to me. You're not my clansman."

He lowered his voice. "Tell me this. How, when I can't
get that woman to do a single other thing that I ask, could
I get her to kiss me?"

"You were drunk."

That shut him up. Truth be told, his head was pounding.
It was like he had a cathedral full of bells inside it.

"And you begged."

Begged? Could he have gotten that drunk? "I never beg."

"You did last night."

He blinked a few times. Then he cleared his throat.
"What did I say?"

Grainne sniffed his wound. "No pus. You're lucky." She
reached for a small wooden bowl. "You told her she was
beautiful and courageous."

A flush stole up Drosten's neck. "She is beautiful and
courageous."

"Aye." Grainne pounded the concoction inside the bowl
with a wooden pestle. "And she doesn't need the likes of
you playing tricks on her and trying to lead her down a
path she doesn't want to go."

"Tricks!"

"Shh. Stop bellowing."

"There's no one here, woman! And I'm not bellowing!"

Grainne squinted at him. "And I suppose you weren't
using one of your warrior strategems on her last night, either."

Drosten filled his cheeks and exploded a breath. "How
could I use strategems when I was drunk!"

"So-" Grainne scooped out two fingers full of a yellow brown substance from her bowl and dabbed it on Drosten's
arm. "-so you wanted to kiss her for herself alone."

He didn't answer.