For a moment, she thought it hadn't worked, that Aidan would simply drag her away, perhaps even tying and gagging her when she protested. Instead, with a barely audible growl, he nodded. He didn't look happy, but she decided that she could worry about that later.
"Tell me how I can help."
"Good. Thank you. Help me pull his cloak away. I think there's a wound under there from the staining here and on the ground."
As Aidan tugged the man's cloak away, it occurred to Margaret how fine the wool was and how even the blue dye. It was a good-looking garment, belonging to a wealthy man, and a part of her wondered if they were buying more trouble.
When the cloak was removed, it revealed not just a wound but also the cause of the man's distress. An arrow stuck into the man's chest, high up enough that Margaret guessed it must have clipped his collarbone. When she touched the swollen flesh around the shaft, the man grunted and flailed, lashing out quickly enough that she was knocked back on her rear.
Aidan swore, and then pinned the man to the ground, glancing at her.
"There are spoons in my bag. Do you know how to use them?"
Margaret went slightly pale, but she nodded. Trust Aidan to travel with doctoring equipment. He didn't trust the peace at all, and judging from the man on the ground, he was right not to do so.
It seemed to take Margaret forever to get back to the horse and find the spoons Aidan was speaking of. As she rushed back to the clearing, the spoons felt brutal and terribly heavy in her hands.
The spoons were part of every field doctor's bag. This pair was made of steel, two long spoons with deep bowls crossed and hinged together with a small bolt. When operated correctly, they could be inserted into an arrow wound, closed around the arrowhead, and then pulled back out without more trauma done to the body. It was a savage instrument in some ways, but far better than pulling the wounding arrow out with a pair of blacksmith's tongs or, even worse, by hand.
"You'll have to do it," Aidan said when she returned. “He must be held still, and I cannot do that and pry the damned thing out."
The man was still unconscious, but the tension in his body told Margaret that he was closer to the land of the living than the land of the dead. He might not wish to be after she had been at the arrow protruding from his body, but they could all worry about that later.
Margaret and her mother had never been the most welcome people with Clan MacKinnon, but they had done their part when there were wounds to tend and cuts to bandage. She was a child of war almost as much as Aidan was in her way, and wounds, while terrible, did not make her pull away. Still, it had been a long time since she had tended a man who was wild with pain, and she took a deep breath to steady her hands as Aidan nearly lay on top of the man to keep him still for her.
She saw with a wince that the arrow must have been in for a while. The man hadn't had a chance to do anything so foolish as to try to tear it out or to break off the shaft, but the flesh was swollen. She could not count on the wound helping her in any way to remove the arrow.
"Margaret, if you cannot..."
She ignored him, angling the spoons the way her mother had taught her and pressing them into the man's flesh, alongside the shaft of the arrow, letting the shaft guide her. The spoons were small, but they looked enormous as she used them, and she had to tell herself she was made of sterner stuff than this. She was stronger than anyone had ever thought her. She would not be sick until this was all over. She would not faint. She would do this.
The moment she started to put pressure on the man's wound, he made a muffled sound, thrashing in Aidan's grasp. He nearly got an arm free, and Aidan pinned it again.
"Hurry," Aidan snapped.
Margaret wanted to tell him she couldn't, not if she wanted to do the least damage possible.
She finally felt the catch that told her she could enclose the arrowhead, but that meant pressing the spoons open. The man cried out in pain, but Margaret gritted her teeth and kept going. It would have been more merciful to do nothing if she was going to stop now.
It seemed to take an eternity to enclose the arrowhead and then to start drawing it out. The man thrashed in Aidan's grasp, but she ignored it, working as best she could to draw the arrow out.
Suddenly, somehow sooner than she expected, the spoons and the arrow popped free, releasing a bright gout of fresh blood, but that was to be expected. Margaret was relieved it was bright and red rather than black, signifying infection.
"It's fine," she said, glancing at Aidan with triumph. "It's out."
She expected Aidan to say something cutting to her, something furious or cruel or spiteful. She was shocked when she saw a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.
'You did well," he said.
Warmth welled up in her at his simple words.
Before she could really bask in them, however, the man rose up with a roar, thrashing around him. This time, Aidan wasn't able to restrain him. His fist came up in a wild swing, and Margaret was too surprised and simply too exhausted to dodge. His fist caught her square on the side of her face, sending a bright shoal of sparks across her vision. Then there was a burst of pain that sent her down, down into the darkness.
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chapter 16
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One moment, Aidan was watching with a strange sense of intense pride as Margaret drew the arrow out of the prone man's form. The next, he realized with horror that he had not been anywhere near watchful enough, and the man rose up like a bad dream and struck Margaret on the face, throwing her back.
Aidan roared, beyond caring who heard him, and with a terrible strength, threw the man back, all but leaping over him to go to Margaret. He had more than a passing urge to throw at least a punch toward the man for his violence, but the only thing that mattered was taking care of Margaret.
"Margaret... Margaret, please... are you all right?"
He thought she might have been knocked unconscious by the blow, but then her eyes fluttered open, wide and beautiful. If the situation wasn’t so horrible, he would very much have liked to kiss her.
"Aidan, the man..."
"To blazes with the man," Aidan stormed, but then there was a groan from behind them.
Margaret struggled to go to the wounded man, and Aidan resisted the urge to shake her. That was probably less than clever for someone who had just been dealt a heavy blow to the head, however, and he restrained himself from pressing her back to lie down on the ground.
"I will tend to him. Stay down, all right?"
"Does tending to him involve hitting him or anything like that?"
Aidan hid a grin. If she was aware enough to be teasing him, surely that meant that she couldn't be so very wounded.
When he was sure that Margaret would stay where he had put her, he turned back to the cause of all of this. The man had levered himself into a sitting position and was touching the wound, where the bleeding had already slowed to a trickle.
"Keep your fingers out of it," he said shortly. "And don't even look at the girl. If I even see you blinking at her, I'll put that arrow back where it came from."
Margaret yelped a protest at that, but Aidan ignored her as he went back to his horse, bringing Bram into the clearing with them. It was a tight fit, but Bram was a Highlander as well and used to rough circumstances. The gelding lowered his head to crop at the grass peaceably as Aidan removed the waterskin from the pack.
As he washed out the man's wound with their water, Aidan eyed the wounded man warily. He was tall, less heavy than Aidan, but strong. It might have been something approaching an even match if the man hadn't been wounded, but Aidan could tell that the arrow was actually not all that high on the list of the man's worries. He was as scarred as any soldier that Aidan had ever seen, and there was something gaunt about him, as if he had been starved recently. More interesting were the raw, almost healed bands around his wrists, and Aidan wondered if there would be similar bands around
his ankles.
The man, now that he was more lucid, had the good grace to look slightly abashed at what he had done, taking the pain of having his wound washed out.
"I am sorry, mistress," he said to Margaret, who had sat up but at least stayed where she was put. "If I had known what you were about, I would never have struck you."
English, Aidan thought with a snort, but Margaret was already answering.
"It's fine, it doesn't even hurt all that much," Margaret answered.
"I am relieved to hear it and grateful for your ministrations."
"If you are grateful for our help, tell us who shot you and whether they are going to be angry that we didn't leave you to die."
Aidan made sure to tell the man with his tone that the being left to die part was still very negotiable.
To his surprise, he got a wry smile for his efforts. The wounded man was blond and fair like so many of the English seemed to be, blue eyed and with a strong jaw that gave him a determined look. He looked like a man who was used to privations, and against his will, that did make Aidan a little more kindly disposed to him.
"I believe I have lost my pursuers. I went so fast I didn't bother with the arrow, and I know I have gone far. If they have not found me now, they may not."
"And are they chasing a poacher, a thief, a murderer? What are you?"
Aidan knew that the cloak, as well as the fine sword hung at the man's side, said that he was well-off, no murderer or gallowglass come by night, but he did take a rather ugly satisfaction in lowering the man's rank, even if it was just verbally.
"I’m an honest man. I fought for my king and my country, and when I wanted to return home to my family, I found that my family was gone, all dead."
Margaret gasped, and Aidan scowled at how she had scooted herself closer.
"All dead? How wretched!"
Aidan scowled. "If you want to feel sorry for someone, Meggie, mind you which king he fought for and that Longshanks had Scottish crofts put to the sword and fire. How many Highlanders did you kill?"
"As many Englishmen as you did, I might guess," the man calmly answered. "Are you going to kill me for what we were all made to do during the war?"
"Some of us were forced harder than others," Aidan retorted, but there was a ring of truth to the man's words. "Tell us what you are called."
The man hesitated.
"Nicholas Bluett," he finally offered.
Margaret laughed.
"Oh, my goodness, do you expect us to believe you? You actually looked at your cloak before you said that."
The man had the grace to look abashed at that.
Aidan shrugged.
"Leave off, Meggie. If he doesn't want to give his name, he likely has a good reason, and if we don't know it, we cannot betray him all unknowing. Also, if we don't know his name, we are going to be less inclined to want to keep him around."
To Aidan's surprise, the wounded man smiled at that. When he smiled, his face became more animated, and it made him look younger. Aidan wasn't sure how much he liked how Margaret grinned back, but he held his peace.
"All right. We have established that I am a fraud. What shall I call the two of you?"
"Nothing, for we are leaving soon," Aidan offered shortly, but of course, there was Margaret.
"I am Meggie, and this is Aidan. We are going north."
Aidan threw his hands up in disgust, but Nicholas was already nodding.
"That's where I am going as well. I would offer to come with you, but I am afraid with my wound, I may not be able to travel as fast as you would prefer. Instead, I will ask you the tremendous favor of helping me get to an abbey I know a short distance from here."
"Will they help you?" asked Aidan, for the abbeys of England were notoriously tight-fisted about the help they would give the poor outside their gates.
He wondered if Nicholas would take offense at that, but instead, a bitter ghost of a smile drifted across his face.
"Aye, at least this one will. A monk who taught me when I was young lives there, and I think he will do it for pity. Even if he will not speak to me, I still have some money that might see them to it. Will you help me?"
Aidan was braced for Margaret to offer them up again, but instead, she looked at him expectantly. Something about the way she looked at him, as if completely confident he was going to do the right thing, made him feel a twinge in his heart that truly did not bear thinking about.
"Yes," Aidan said, giving in. "We'll get you well on the way to the abbey, and we'll leave you once we can see it. If they turn you away from the gate, that is no concern of ours. Is that clear to you?"
Nicholas grinned, more genuinely this time, and nodded. He started to speak, but Margaret threw herself into Aidan's arms, hugging him tight, her thanks for his decision wordless but entirely sincere.
Aidan almost flinched from her after all that had come before, but in the end, he settled a hand on her dark red head and sighed instead. He scowled to see Nicholas watching them with a mixture of amusement and longing.
"Your wife's a fine woman," Nicholas said, and it was on the tip of Aidan's tongue to tell him that Margaret was nothing of the sort. Then, more easily than he would have thought that he was able to, he only sighed and nodded.
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chapter 17
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Despite his protests, it was clear that Nicholas needed to ride rather than walk, and to spare Bram, who had already marched so far and so solidly for them, both Margaret and Aidan decided to walk instead. Nicholas protested this at first, but then the paleness of his face and the tremor in his hands convinced even him that chivalry would have to take a second priority to sense.
"I don't think I could have disappointed myself more," Nicholas muttered.
Margaret laughed.
"If this is the worst of your sins, I imagine you'll be just fine."
"And if you open your mouth to complain about it again, I swear to all the saints that I will knock you on the head so we can move on in peace," Aidan snapped.
Margaret held her tongue, because the last thing she wanted to do now was to get into another quarrel with Aidan, but she did find herself wondering why on earth he was so sour about Nicholas. She might have guessed that he had simply become a harder and colder person since she had last known him, but that didn't even make sense. With her, with other people on their journey, he was kind and generous. It was only with this one man that he seemed so very bitter.
At the very least, Nicholas didn't seem to take offense at that, only laughing at Aidan's words.
"All right, I give over, and I'll only say thank you for helping me on my way. The brothers should have me fighting fit in no time at all."
"You speak very fondly of the monk who taught you," Margaret said curiously. "Was he very much a part of your upbringing?"
"Brought me up more than my own father did, in truth, and there was a time when I did think of going for the church. I don't know if it would suit the man I am now, but it suited the boy I used to be."
Margaret smiled a little, thinking of how Nicholas must have looked as a boy, skinny instead of lean; shorter, but with the same fall of wheat-blond hair and those same intense gray eyes. He might have made a dedicated young novice even if he didn't stay.
"It was a monk who taught me to read as well. though he was an old stick of a thing. Strange ideas, too. He would teach anyone who came to him but throw them out if he thought they did not do him proper reverence and honor."
On the other side of Bram, she could almost feel Aidan stiffen, but this time, she shrugged it off. She had given no names, and she was only talking after all.
"Ah, yes? Brother Michael was a jolly older man, kinder than many thought he should be, and sometimes I would swear he was more interested in tales of knights and fair ladies from the past than he was of the Holy Writ. He taught both my sister and I our letters, but I don't know what happened after—"<
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Nicholas cut his words off with a shake of his head.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice clipped, "I am chattering like a jaybird, and it ill-suits us."
There was nothing inappropriate about what he was going to say, but Margaret could tell that something had changed in him. Nicholas was a man used to sitting straight in the saddle, a sure sign of a mounted knight, but now he was barely hanging on, and she didn't think that it was just because of his wound.
He looked as if he were a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, as if he were so tired that he didn't dare lie down, or he might risk never being able to rise again.
Margaret wondered who he had lost, or what part of himself he had lost to the last few years. It did not make him special; so many men and women had lost something in the seemingly endless war between England and Scotland, on both sides.
Impulsively, she reached up to take his hand where it rested on his thigh.
"Take heart," she said with a smile. "It will work out all right in the end."
He blinked as if surprised at her touch, but he squeezed her hand gently.
"Thank you, Meggie. I rather hope it works out all right before the end. As my father always said, we are dead a long time. The time I have to spend standing, I will fight for the way life should be."
He let her go, and they kept walking.
The abbey was not far off their path, on the narrow local roads rather than the broader roads that ran from town to town. It rose up out of the twilight, and despite Aidan's threat to dump Nicholas as soon as it came into sight, they walked him on Bram all the way to the gate. Margaret was rather glad. Despite how he had improved, Nicholas was paler than he should have been, and when he went to knock on the gate, he almost fell off the horse.
Shortly, however, the gate opened, and a white-haired old monk, short, round, and every bit as jolly as Nicholas had suggested appeared to embrace him and draw him inside.
"Thank you," Nicholas said with a grin. "I didn't deserve your help, but I am almighty grateful for it."
The Highlander’s Lost Bride (The Highlands Warring Clan Mactaggarts Book 2) Page 9