Highlander Most Wanted (15 page)

“Bowen, are you feeling any pain?” she asked.

“He’s remained unconscious, mistress,” the warrior explained.

Genevieve turned her gaze on the warrior. “Aye, I know it. I’m trying to determine if he’s aware of anything happening around him.”

The warrior fell silent, abashed by her response.

She took the cloth that lay on Bowen’s chest and gently wiped at the blood still seeping from the wound. Upon further inspection, she found a long gash in his upper arm, though it wasn’t as deep or flayed open as the one on his chest.

Remembering the chain mail covering Bowen’s chest, she realized that the sword must have sliced through armor and flesh. Thank God he’d been somewhat protected. With a cut this deep, the blow would most certainly have been fatal were it not for the protective covering that was sliced through.

“Has the wound been washed?” she asked, taking note of the dry cloth stained only with blood.

The warrior looked uncomfortable. “Nay, mistress. We were concerned only with halting the bleeding.”

She nodded. “ ’Tis good, that. But fetch me water from the basin so that I may cleanse it before we set needle to flesh. It will help to remove any dirt or part of the armor that is embedded.”

Looking relieved to be assigned a duty other than standing within Genevieve’s view, the warrior hastened to fetch the pitcher by the window.

A moment later, he returned with a fresh cloth. He plunged it inside the clay jug and wrung it out, extending it toward Genevieve.

“By what name are you called, warrior?” she asked as she carefully began to cleanse the inside of the wound.

“Geoffrey, mistress.”

“My thanks for your aid, Geoffrey.”

He looked surprised by her thank-you, and he nodded solemnly.

Before long, Brodie returned with one of the Armstrong warriors. They both carried supplies in their hands, and Geoffrey scrambled to make way for them.

“I brought needle and strong thread, suitable for
stitching. Deaglan prepared a dram for Brodie, so that he’s not combative when you apply the needle.”

Genevieve sent Brodie a grateful look. She knew well the threat a man could pose when he was in his right head. One delirious with pain and only half conscious wasn’t someone she wanted to risk placing herself in the path of.

She rose to allow the two men access to Bowen and hovered on the perimeter while they coaxed the potion down Bowen’s throat.

When Brodie was satisfied that Bowen had taken all that he would, he took a step back and directed his attention to Genevieve.

“Give it a few moments to take effect before you set yourself to your task. Geoffrey, Deaglan, and I will remain to ensure that Bowen is still for the entirety of you tending the wound.”

“You are kind,” Genevieve said quietly.

Brodie stared at her a long moment. “And you are unused to such, are you not?”

She flushed and turned away, refusing to voice her agreement, though he well knew the answer to his own question.

“I know that Bowen champions you,” Brodie continued. “You needn’t worry that while he is recovering I’ll allow any harm to come to you.”

Guilt gripped her chest, tightening until it was hard to breathe. Bowen must not have discussed his concerns with Brodie, or the Armstrong warrior would not be so gallant toward her. What would he do once he learned the terrible truth that Bowen had discovered just minutes before the attack?

“Thank you,” she managed to choke out, praying that her guilt wasn’t clearly written on her face.

He gestured for her to take her seat next to Bowen, but cautioned her to wait a moment longer, until he was
certain Bowen had succumbed to the effects of the potion.

She settled down, wondering how she’d ever control the shaking of her hands. Fear, such a constant companion, had risen sharply at the thought of discovery. Brodie Armstrong would loathe the very sight of her. He’d likely think she deserved whatever fate befell her at the hands of the McHughs—if he didn’t decide to exact justice for his sister on his own.

She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap, concentrating her entire will on calming her scattered nerves.

After a time, Bowen quieted and ceased his restless fidgeting and turning. His breathing became shallow and his head lolled to the side, his body going lax.

Brodie leaned over, pushing at Bowen, attempting to rouse a response, and when Bowen remained still and silent he nodded at Genevieve.

She sucked in a deep breath and took up the needle and thread held out to her by Deaglan. After making certain a sturdy knot was at the end of the thread, she tentatively put the needle to the middle of the wound and pinched the flesh together with her free hand.

Warily, she watched for any reaction from Bowen and then, holding her breath, she plunged the needle into his flesh, pushing it through to the other side of the wound.

She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t so much as flinch.

Leaning forward, she focused intently on her task, setting stitches close together to effectively seal the wound. She barely even breathed the entire time she sewed together one side. By the time she reached the edge, sweat rolled down her temples and dampened the tendrils of hair at her nape.

She tied off the knot at the end, making several loops
so it would hold, and then she rethreaded the needle to begin again where she’d started at the center.

It was long, painstaking work. Not a word was spoken as she diligently concentrated on each stitch. Blood oozed from the end as she neared the other edge, and Brodie reached over to dab it away so she could quickly seal the rest.

When she finished, she sat back with a deep sigh. Her shoulders ached from the effort and her neck was stiff. Her fingers shook as she finished tying the last knot. Then she severed the thread, the arduous task at last completed.

“ ’Tis a fine job you’ve done, mistress,” Deaglan praised.

She nodded, too tired to speak. For a long moment, she stared at Bowen’s still closed eyes, and then she finally turned to Brodie.

“I’ll have need of binding to wrap his arm. ’Tis not deep enough to require stitching, but if ’tis not bound tightly enough, the flesh will not heal properly.”

Brodie quickly handed her several long strips of linen, and Geoffrey lifted Bowen’s arm so she could wind them around the wound.

When the bandaging had been completed, Genevieve sat back with a satisfied sigh. “ ’Tis done. Now it is up to him to heal. Perhaps ’tis best to prepare more of the dram so that he can rest comfortably in the coming hours.”

“Aye, I’ll see it done,” Deaglan said.

“Now, ’tis time for you to rest, Genevieve,” Brodie said. “I’ll escort you to your chamber and post a man outside if it makes you feel more secure.”

She hesitated, glancing back at Bowen. She had no right to ask what she was about to, but that did not deter her.

“I would prefer to remain here if ’tis permissible. I
would see him through the night and ensure that he does naught to tear his stitching. If he takes a fever, he’ll need constant care.”

Brodie frowned a moment, as he and the other warriors exchanged glances. Then, as if reaching a decision, he nodded.

“Aye, if that is your wish, then you may remain in Bowen’s chamber. Deaglan and Geoffrey will remain close in case you have need of anything. You only have to call out. I’ll oft check in on his progress, but now I have matters of the clan to attend to. There are dead to bury and traitors to ferret out.”

She glanced up in alarm. “There are more?”

“I know not,” Brodie said grimly. “You spoke of one who tried to plunge his dirk into Bowen’s back. If there was one, there may well be others.”

She nodded her understanding even as dread gripped her heart. McHugh Keep was already hostile enough for her. She’d named Bowen’s betrayer, and if more were uncovered, she’d likely receive the blame for the consequences.

It was late into the night and Genevieve sat awkwardly by Bowen’s bed. She had rearranged herself countless times in the wooden chair where she’d taken position for the past hours, and still her muscles ached and stiffness had worked its way into her back and neck until they were screaming in protest.

And yet she hadn’t moved. She kept watch as Bowen slept, silently transfixed by the image he posed on the bed. She drank in the sight of him, allowing her gaze to boldly roam over his torso and up to his perfect, unmarred features.

Here was a man, though scarred in body, whose face was utterly unblemished by so much as a mark. No crooked nose. No bump to signify a break during battle. The rest of his body was weathered, yet still beautiful in its imperfection, but his face was simply perfect.

Never before had she come into contact with a man to rival Bowen Montgomery in looks, and she’d seen many a fair face at court. She’d seen men who’d never seen the light of battle and had never sullied their hands in such a fashion.

Bowen’s hands and fingers were rough and callused. He was well used to hard work and fighting. He was a man unafraid to do labor, and yet, at a glance, he looked
superior to those men who’d never stepped onto a battlefield.

But it wasn’t his looks that compelled her. It wasn’t his face that fascinated her. Perhaps it was his gentleness from the onset. Before he’d learned of her sinful deed. She didn’t expect him to ever understand her motivation. How could he? She’d been responsible for much wrong done to his kin and clan. He was ever loyal to his brother. That much was evident in his every word and action, and just as evident was the fact that the same loyalty extended to his sister by marriage.

He stirred for the first time since he’d received the first draft. He turned his face, a low moan escaping his dry lips. Instinctively, she lay her hand on his face in a soothing manner, and as she stroked, she murmured in a low voice that all was well and for him to rest.

She had no idea if he was cognizant of her words or if they had any impact, but he stilled nonetheless and settled back into sleep, his breathing slowing as his body relaxed.

Leaning forward in her chair, she grew bolder, sliding her fingers toward the thick long hair that hung past his shoulders. He was so beautiful it was hard not to touch him, and what harm would it do? No one was there to look on. Bowen would never remember that she’d offered him comfort while he rested.

It brought her solace she couldn’t explain. Simply being able to touch someone without being forced. To offer something of herself that wasn’t demanded of her. Having a deeper contact with another human being after being treated little better than an animal for so many months.

As soon as her hand left his face, he stirred again, a frown marring his face. His brow drew into a wrinkled line and he mumbled something indecipherable. She hesitated, her hand still in the air, and he turned his head
first one way and then the other. His breathing sped up, and he seemed to grow more agitated by the second.

Taking a chance, she laid her hand on his forehead again, smoothing the lines away with gentle fingers. He instantly relaxed, and his breathing slowed.

’Twas like soothing a savage beast. He seemed to like her touch, though she was sure any who touched him would receive the same response. It was fanciful of her to think even for an instant that he would welcome her hand if he knew who offered him solace.

But for now she could pretend and enjoy a fleeting moment of peace.

She leaned forward in her chair, seeking to alleviate the awkwardness of her position. Her limbs ached and the muscles in her back protested every movement.

Leaving her hand in place, she gingerly stood, biting back the moan that threatened to escape when her body creaked and spasmed. So many hours in one position on a hard chair had taken its toll.

She glanced around, but seeing no remedy, she grappled with herself over whether to be so presumptuous as to take position next to Bowen on the bed. What if he awakened and found her there? What would his reaction be? Would he even remember that she’d saved him, or would his sole memory be of his confrontation with her on the banks of the river?

She perched on the edge of the bed, facing Bowen and sliding her bottom just so that she could enjoy the softness of the bed. She bumped up against his side and held her breath, praying she wouldn’t awaken him from his slumber.

When he didn’t move, she relaxed and then fidgeted until she found a comfortable position. Then she resumed stroking his forehead, every once in a while straying to his hair to delve into its thickness.

He gave a deep sigh and mumbled once again before
turning into her palm, nuzzling against the inside of her hand.

The simple action invoked a powerful response within her, one she hadn’t thought she was capable of after a year in Ian McHugh’s hands.

She began to imagine how it would be to have a warrior such as Bowen Montgomery touch her in the way she was touching him. With such aching gentleness. With respect for her pleasure and wishes. Would he be content with simply holding her and stroking her in a comforting manner, or would he be intent solely on his own pleasure?