A Highlander's Need

by Aileen Adams

  “Stay awake, Fergus.” She led the mare to the other side of the road and tied it off, then ran back to him. “Come, we must find somewhere you can rest.”

  He felt himself dying. Fading away. He opened his mouth to tell her he did not regret saving her from the cutthroats even if it did kill him.

  Because he loved her.

  Instead, he fell, unconscious before hitting the ground.

  26

  “Fergus. Fergus, help me. Please, wake up!”

  It was no use. He was too weak, had lost too much blood.

  Moira looked around as though there was something nearby that might make everything better. There were too many conflicting, panicked, horrified thoughts racing through her head to tell one from another.

  It sounded like screaming.

  “Fergus, I need you to help me move you.” She chose a tree against which to lean him. There was no shade or shelter there on the ground, and she could hardly leave him in the middle of the road.

  Besides, there was a storm brewing. She could hear the wind picking up, could feel the temperature drop.

  There could be no leaving him exposed to the rain and wind.

  She gripped him under each arm, bent at the waist, and let out a roar as she pulled harder than she ever had in her life.

  He moved, but only slightly. She pulled again. Again. Each time, she made a little progress.

  It seemed as though she ought to be making more for all the effort it took, but he was larger even than the stag she’d dragged home after the hunt. Her shoulders and arms felt as though they might tear at any moment, but she pushed the pain aside as she had in the past.

  This was Fergus.

  She loved Fergus.

  “Any help you can grant me,” she groaned, gritting her teeth as she covered the last feet before reaching an overhang of pine branches.

  He opened his eyes, the lids fluttering as she sat him against the trunk. “What?” he muttered. “What are ye doin’?”

  “I’m trying to save your life.” She would have wept were there any time to spare. He’d left a trail of blood in his wake, marking the length over which she’d dragged him after he fell in the road.

  It was a nightmare of blood. More than she’d ever seen.

  “You shall be fine,” she murmured as she worked at tearing his trousers away from the long, deep wound to his inner thigh. “Just fine, do you hear me?”

  She looked up into his pale face, her heart all but ceasing to beat when she found his eyes closed again.

  “Fergus!” When she clutched his face, the blood on her hands stained his cheeks. “I need you to wake up. I need you to stay awake.”

  He stirred, muttering so softly she could hardly hear over the screaming in her head.

  “Come, now,” she replied, raising her voice to an unnatural level that it might jar him out of sleep. “You can do better than that, lad. Tell me how I frustrate you, how stubborn I am. Tell me you wish you hadn’t taken the chance of saving me from those animals. Just tell me something!”

  No matter how tight she cinched the belt, blood continued to ooze from the gaping wound. How was she to close it? How would she stop the bleeding?

  “Fergus, please. Please, do not leave me.” She pressed her lips to his forehead in a brief, hard kiss before tending to his faithful horse. The gelding had lingered, watching as she’d struggled, and had not wandered away.

  All the while, she watched him. So long as his chest continued to rise and fall, all would be well.

  She needed to believe it.

  Her mended kirtle sat in a pack behind her saddle. It would have to serve as rags, she decided as she tore the garment into strips. The thought of having only seen to its mending days earlier brought her dangerously close to laughing.

  If she started to laugh, she might never stop. She might simply lose her mind.

  There was a stream just beyond where she’d dragged Fergus, and there she filled a leather flagon before soaking some of the strips of cloth to wash him.

  “Fergus, drink this.” She guided the spout to his mouth and lifted the bag until water flowed out and down his throat. He sputtered at first but swallowed some of it back. A good sign.

  She could not leave the wound open. Anything might get into it and infect him—that was, if he did not bleed to death first. It seemed as though the flow had slowed, but it had yet to stop.

  It would not stop on its own.

  There had to be something she could do to make it stop before he died.

  “Lass?” He opened his eyes, finding hers in the darkness beneath the tree.

  “Fergus, I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her chin quivering. “We are too far from the village to ride. It would take too long. But I am not a healer. I have no tools or healing potions. I have nothing with which to sew the wound.”

  He nodded, swallowing hard. “Water.” She helped him drink more, and this seemed to bolster him.

  He took her hand in one of his. It was covered in dried blood.

  She leaned in to hear what he might say, her ear all but against his mouth.

  “Fire,” he whispered. “Burn it closed.”

  Her eyes opened wide, her stomach turning at the thought. Burning him. Causing more pain.

  Was there no other way?

  There was not. She knew it.

  And it was up to her to be strong for him. She would have to do it and do it fast.

  “All right, then.” She pulled back, holding his face in both hands. “I will do it. You will be well.”

  He managed a weak smile. “You do not need to… pretend…”

  “I am not pretending.” She touched her forehead to his, staring into his half-lidded eyes. “I mean what I say.”

  She was quick to build a fire, watching the sky as she did. The clouds seemed darker all the time, and a blast of chill air made her shiver. Would that the rain held off until she did what was needed.

  What to do? What next?

  Help me, please. She knew not to whom she spoke, only that she needed help from whoever might be able to offer it.

  She poured water over his leg and wiped away as much dried blood as possible, as gently as she could, that she might have a clearer view of the wound.

  His breathing was shallow, signaling the need to use haste. “Give me something to bite on,” he suggested, then watched as she removed a belt from a bag. She slid it between his teeth, and he bit down.

  “I am sorry for this.” She held her dirk over the fire as close as she dared, letting the flames lick both sides of the metal. This would both clean it and heat it enough to burn the wound closed.

  I can do this. I can do anything.

  But this was Fergus. This was different.

  She loved him.

  And his life depends upon this.

  This, along with the raindrops hitting the back of her neck, spurred her to action. “I think it is hot enough,” she decided. How could one tell without burning themselves?

  He grunted; she could not understand him with the belt between his teeth, but she thought he meant to assure that he was ready.

  She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to give away the horror of what she had to do as she pressed his leg to the ground with her free hand.

  Their eyes met just once, just for a fleeting moment, and he nodded.

  She nodded.

  Then touched the flat of the blade to the wound.

  He yelled once. Just once. A glance up at him showed the veins standing out on his neck, the sweat dripping down his face, the eyes squeezed tight against the pain.

  All she could do was lean all of her weight on his leg to keep it steady, and work faster.

  She did not dare breathe as she tapped the blade up and down the length of the wound—instinct warned her against using too much pressure or lingering too long in one place, as this would only burn him more deeply.

  She’d never forget the sound of his flesh sizzling with each touch of the
metal.

  It was over in a matter of seconds but might as well have been a lifetime.

  She sat back on her calves when it was over, her stomach churning, the smell of charred flesh lingering in her nose.

  “Fergus?” She stroked his sweat-slick cheek before easing the belt from his teeth. He had lost consciousness somewhere during the ordeal, but was still breathing.

  The rain picked up until it was a full-fledged storm, wet, wind-blown leaves sticking to her hair and arms. She pulled a blanket from one of the horses and draped it over Fergus, whose ragged breathing through clenched teeth told her he struggled with the pain of the burn.

  “Thank ye,” he grunted, forcing a smile which looked much more like a grimace. “Ye did well.”

  She did not feel as though she did. She felt as though she’d nearly gotten him killed—and might still, as there was no guarantee the wound would not reopen.

  “Remain as still as you can,” she advised, as it made the most sense. “If you need to move, tell me, and I will help you.”

  He raised a bloodstained hand, stroking back a strand of hair which had fallen loose thanks to the wind. “Ye have no idea how lovely ye are.”

  Her heart seized. “Now is not the time for soft talk, lad.” She laughed softly, patting his hand.

  “Now is the time.” He turned his hand, grasped her fingers. “There may be no other.”

  She shook her head as tears of exhaustion and grief stung behind her eyes. “No, I tell you. It is not. There will be more time for us. You can tell me I’m lovely, that I’m a finer rider than you, that my hunting skills are far better, and I am always right. Just not now.”

  The lines of pain on his brow smoothed when he chuckled, his eyes closing. “Ye are a handful, Moira Reid. And… I love ye for it.”

  His breathing continued, though not as harsh as it had been. His fingers loosened.

  She remained as she was, staring into his sleeping face.

  What had he just said?

  He could not mean it.

  Could he?

  Wind drove the rain beneath the overhanging branches, bringing her to her senses with the spray against her face. No time to dream of love and tenderness when there was still so much to do.

  She saw to the horses, watering and feeding them what she could. The grass had grown thick there, in the rich soil, so she had little worry for what they would eat if the feed bags ran empty.

  How long would that last?

  She washed her hands in the stream, battling the wind-blown rain and leaves to do so, then returned to Fergus with fresh water and washed him as best she could. The strips she’d torn from her kirtle served to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck, to scrub the blood from his hands and arms.

  She’d need to bandage his leg, somehow. Leaving the burn uncovered would certainly leave it vulnerable—though if she wrapped anything about his leg, might the burn not tear open once the bandage was removed?

  She knelt beside him, lifting the blanket as slowly as she could to avoid waking him. The wound was a nasty shade of red. The pain must have been excruciating, and she ran a gentle hand over his face while her heart seized for him.

  Even so, the bleeding had come to a stop. A good thing.

  She folded a second blanket and winced as she lifted the leg just enough to slide it underneath. He groaned, his eyes opening again.

  “I’m sorry, I merely wished to lift it off the ground,” she whispered, smoothing away the hair which had fallen over his forehead. “It seemed unsafe to have it there, with needles and soil beneath it.”

  He favored her with another grimace-smile. “Aye, ye have sharp instincts.” He floated away again into unconsciousness, leaving her alone.

  All alone.

  Exhaustion like none she’d ever known made its presence felt, now that the worst was over for the time being. Every muscle in her shoulders, arms and back wailed in agony after the exertion she’d put them through. Her neck ached, her head throbbed.

  The only thing Fergus could do then was rest. They would determine their next course of action together once he had regained a bit of his strength.

  She had never so needed to sleep, having sat up all night while her captors slept, fretting and fearing the worst.

  The worst had not come to pass. He was alive, with her, and she was safe because he’d come to rescue her.

  The trick would be keeping him alive that she might spend the rest of her life thanking him for it.

  “I hope you do not mind,” she whispered, crawling beneath the blanket and curling herself around his right side, his uninjured side.

  She told herself he needed the extra warmth.

  Sleep overtook her before her head touched his shoulder, while the storm raged on above them.

  27

  The first thing Moira noted was silence.

  No rain. No wind. No noise from the horses.

  Her eyes still closed, she smiled. Blessed relief, to rest in the quiet. With a warm, firm shoulder beneath her head…

  It all came back.

  She sat up, eyes now open wide.

  Fergus smiled. “Awake, are ye?”

  Her heart hammered wildly. “I… how long did I sleep? Why are you awake?” She stammered.

  “I’m fairly certain we both slept through the day, lass.” He looked out, into the woods. “For ‘tis morning. I remember a storm, but that could not have been later than midday, for when I found ye it was early in the morning.”

  “You must be right.” She rubbed sleep from her eyes, cursing herself for her weakness. What if he’d taken a turn during the night and she’d slept through it?

  “Ye needed to rest, and so did I,” he reminded her with a rueful chuckle, as though he could sense her thoughts. “Ye did admirably well, lass.”

  “Did I?” Her eyes shifted down to where the blanket covered his legs.

  “Let us see, then.” He lowered it, revealing a burn which had scabbed over. The sight of it, the memory of what she’d done to cause it, turned Moira’s stomach and made her glad to be hungry.

  Anything she’d eaten would have come back up.

  “It looks fine,” Fergus assured her. “I’ve seen many such wounds burned closed on the battlefield, no time to stitch up with fighting raging all around,” he explained. “Sometimes, all a man could do was drag himself to the nearest fire and hope for the best.”

  It all sounded too horrible to be borne. She’d hardly made it through treating just one wound, just one man. What would it mean to see so many such men bleeding to death in front of her eyes?

  “What of the burn, now?” she asked, covering him again to keep anything from reaching his leg. “What shall we do?”

  He grimaced, dragging a hand over his rough, stubbled cheek. “You make a fair point. The burn might fester if anything got into it before it closed over.”

  “That was what I feared.” She got up, moving quickly in spite of stiffness and lingering pain.

  “Where are ye going?”

  “To the village. It is less than a day’s ride to and from, and that includes stops along the way.” She went to the stream, splashed her face, filled the flagon for him. There was dried meat left in his pack, and she brought it to him with the water.

  “Ye wish to ride to the village?” he asked.

  “I have to fetch supplies for you,” she explained. “Taking you on horseback would not be wise, for you might tear the burn open. But the longer the burn sits, the greater the chance of it making you ill. I cannot allow that, can I?”

  She crouched at his side. “I shall return as soon as I can. I promise. But you must make a promise to me.”

  He reached for her, taking the uninjured side of her face in his hand. She longed to lean into his touch, to close her eyes and allow for a moment of sweetness. Just one moment.

  The problem was, one moment would not be enough.

  “What can I promise ye, lass?”

  “That you will be here when I ret
urn.”

  He chuckled, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “It doesn’t appear as though I’ll be moving, lass.”

  She chewed her lip. “You know what I meant.”

  His eyes darkened. “Aye. And if ye think such a scratch as the one I suffered yesterday is enough to put me in the ground ye dinna know me a bit.”

  Even so, she leaned in and kissed him. His hand moved to the back of her head, holding her fast so his lips could move against hers, drawing a sigh from the back of her throat.

  Would that she could give in to him. That they might be together.

  With all her heart, she wished it.

  Even as she pulled away. “Now, now, lad. Save your energy.” She hoped her shaky laughter covered the note of longing in her voice.

  He laughed as well, though his laughter was weak. “I shall be here, waiting for ye.”

  “I will not be long.” She would hold fast to her vow if it killed her.

  The agony of leaving him alone, beneath the tree, made it difficult to breathe. She forced herself to untie the mare, to mount and press her legs to the beast’s sides before she lost her nerve.

  What if he died while she was gone?

  No, no, he lasted the night. He is strong. He will be alive when I return.

  If she said it enough times, it would be true. She repeated it again and again, chanting it in her head as she steered the mare out of the woods and onto the road. He will be alive when I return. He is strong.

  When she reached the road, looking to one side and the other, she could not find anything to mark the spot where he waited. Another kirtle would simply have to suffer. She reached down, tore a strip from the bottom and tied it to a branch.

  “Yah!” she bellowed, frightening the mare into taking off at a run. The sweet horse would need to keep running, and in the back of her mind, Moira wondered whether it could endure the strain.

  If she had to steal a fresh horse from the village, that was what she’d do.

  Sweat ran down her back before long, dripped into her eyes. The day was a hot one, the wetness in the air and on the ground after the previous day’s storm making it nearly unbearable. And yet she pushed the mare to greater speed, all but standing in the saddle though she knew it would only exhaust her to ride that hard.