She wasn’t one to shy away from wounds or blood and she’d seen her fair share from passers-by she’d assisted and the odd injury sustained by Rory and Moira, but seeing a grown man’s face left unrecognisable, and the man himself insensible after being battered by another, made her stomach roil and turn.
‘How could someone do this to you?’ she whispered.
Moira walked into the room carrying cloths, and a bowl of water emitting faint wisps of steam. She stood beside Keila and stared down at the stranger. ‘My question would be, what did he do to deserve such a beating?’
Censure and suspicion threaded her words. Moira’s heart had been broken many years ago and her opinion of any man, even now, reflected her distrust and pain.
Keila stared at the prone stranger and her feelings of sadness reached out toward him, but also to her friend beside her. Keila hoped that someday Moira would see and feel the goodness in men instead of always expecting the worst from them.
‘We will never know if we don’t help him,’ Keila said, slowly moving closer to the pallet. Aside from the rise and fall of his broad chest, there was no sign of movement, not even a twitch of a thick finger. ‘I don’t know how you and Rory moved him without his help.’
‘It wasn’t easy and the moving wasn’t pretty, but we managed.’
Keila stopped beside his shoulder and bending slightly, appraised the one side of his face she could see. Trails of dried blood mixed with dirt smeared the flesh. ‘I’m sure he’d thank the two of you, if he were able.’
‘He can thank us later, when we’ve seen to him and we’re certain he’s nae up to nae good.’
Keila turned and looked at Moira. ‘Ready?’
Moira responded with a decisive nod.
***
Keila drew her forearm across her brow to wipe a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes and released a long sigh. She stared down at the battered face of the stranger and wondered if their morning’s work would be for naught. Not once in the time they’d rolled, washed, stripped, stitched, shoved and bandaged the large form overflowing the pallet had he moaned, grunted, groaned or opened a swollen eye. The last likely because he couldn’t.
A neat row of ten stitches now marked the tanned skin like a sliver of the moon beside his right eye. Stitches she’d remove in a sennight. If he was still here. If he survived. Both eyes were puffed up and dark bruises were starting to discolour the bronze hue of his skin. His top lip was split and broken in two places and once she’d cleaned away the dried blood and dirt, she’d discovered a bowed dip in the centre. His lower lip was swollen on the right side, making his face appear uneven, and the whiskers shadowing his strong jawline washed up darker than the hair on his head. Even if she did know who he was, the beating had left him unrecognisable.
The clothes he’d worn had been smeared with dust, just as his palms and face and knees had been, and she’d found several old scars, long ago healed. But his knuckles bore only a single graze and nowhere else had she found any other signs to show he’d fought back, as she’d seen on other men she’d tended after they’d used their hands and fists as weapons. It was difficult to imagine someone of such strength and power being brought so low, and she believed there had to have been more than one attacker. Had the stranger been drunk on ale or had he been taken by surprise?
Keila’s gaze wandered over the man’s face and she silently wondered how someone could inflict such harm on another. It really was beyond her ken. She just hoped he survived the wounds she could see, and the discolouration beginning to show on his bared chest, back and on each side of his stomach didn’t herald any fatal damage within.
Whatever the outcome, she’d done her best for him.
Footsteps sounded on the stone floor and Rory entered the room carrying a tray. She smiled at the elderly man and was rewarded with a weathered smile in return.
‘How’s the lad faring, lass?’
The query reminded Keila that despite Rory describing the injured stranger as a lad, she should have expected to find a fully grown man. He did still refer to both Moira and herself as lasses, and she was a grown woman of two and twenty and Moira was twice older.
‘There’s been nae change or movement, but I like to think he’s more comfortable.’
‘Give him time, he’ll come around.’
She appreciated his positive thinking, so opposite of Moira’s dire outlook. ‘I’m hoping so, Rory.’
‘Here’s the cup of water ye wanted, as well as something for ye to break yer fast, even though half the day is gone.’ Rory set the tray down on a small, square table beside where Keila was sitting. ‘Ye’ve done what ye can for the lad, now take care of yerself.’
‘My thanks, Rory.’ She reached forward and squeezed his hand, before lifting the steaming bowl of oats from the tray. ‘I hope you gave Moira the same instructions.’
‘I’m nae a fool, lass.’ The grin he wore inspired hers. ‘I just happened to leave a bowl of oats on the table by the kitchen hearth. If Moira believes the oats are mine, she’ll have already eaten the lot.’
Keila chuckled at Rory’s wit and his understanding of Moira, as he gave her a wink and left the room. A flood of warmth filled her chest. She was so pleased today was one of Rory’s good days. For his sake and hers.
Her relief faded as she stared at the injured man while she ate her honey-sweetened oats. She didn’t know who the stranger was or who had beaten him. Whoever it was could return to finish what they’d started; and by taking him in and tending his wounds, she could be putting all their lives in danger. There was also the possibility that the man himself could prove to be the villain Moira expected him to be.
She set her empty bowl on the tray and lifted her chin. Her market day preparations would have to wait. The large and powerful slumbering stranger might be wounded, but not knowing if he was a decent man, or if he’d done something ill enough to give another a reason to attack him, made it difficult to leave him unattended in her home. He was her responsibility now and it was up to her to care for him and guard him at the same time. Her safety and that of the people she loved might well depend on it.
Chapter 2
A dull feeling of heaviness weighed down upon Adair, over him, around him, inside him. Every part of him ached, from the soles of his bare feet to the top of his head. Christ … his head. Where was Demon? Had he been hurt too? Throbbing, dark pain spiked beside his right eye. Why couldn’t he see? Why wouldn’t his eyes open? There. Faint slits of weak light. Too hard. Herbs. Fading. Pain. Darkness …
***
Keila jumped where she slept in her chair and rushed from sleep to wakefulness. She blinked and glanced about at her surroundings and remembered where she was and why. From the healing room doorway, where she’d moved her chair, she scanned the small chamber using the dim light from the three candles she’d left burning throughout the night. No light showed about the room’s closed shutter, proving it was still dark outside. Nothing moved and the only sound to be heard was the slow and deep breaths drawn in and released by the slumbering stranger. He still lived. A wash of relief eased the tightness in her chest. A healing sleep, she hoped. He might end up being the villain Moira believed, but no man deserved to endure the pain he must be feeling.
She drew her own long breath and sent searching fingers to the right side of her chair’s cushion, where she was rewarded by the feel of steel encased in leather. Pleased her dagger was where she’d placed it, Keila rose from her chair, stretched and then took a few steps toward the occupied pallet.
She studied the injured man’s face in the weak light, and while part of her was relieved he slumbered on, another part of her wanted to shake him awake so she could finally learn who he was and what had happened to him. Until she had such answers, she couldn’t relax or lower her guard around him.
Her gaze ran the shadowed length of him, which took some time. Tall and well built, he was to her mind perfectly proportioned. The thin candlelight flickered over his naked
torso left bare by the woollen blanket that covered him from the waist down. Moira had seen more of him than she had. The older woman’s reasoning, Keila’s innocence. A justified excuse, but it didn’t calm the curiosity that had come with swift glimpses of the man’s bared thighs and hips. Nor how he’d earned the timeworn scars marking his right side and upper chest. Or the calluses marking his palms.
A slight movement caught her eye and her gaze darted to the second finger of his right hand, resting atop the blanket. But as she continued to watch, it was his thumb that twitched several times before settling back into place.
Keila searched his battered face and found no sign that he had woken. But with his eyes so swollen, would she be able to tell if he was awake? His second finger danced once more upon his hip and she wondered what memories, dreams or thoughts caused such minor yet agitated movements.
She stepped closer, and leaning forward, whispered, ‘You’re safe here now. Nae one will harm you.’ The urge to reinforce her claims was strong. She reached out to calm his agitated fingers.
‘You’d best keep your distance, Keila.’
She stilled at Moira’s warning, but the urge to touch the stranger didn’t lessen. Keila peered down at his twitching hand and covered it with her own. His flesh was warm, but not feverishly so. A good sign. ‘He’s unsettled,’ she said, searching his face while her palm rested on the back of his hand. His fingers stilled with her touch. ‘I just want to reassure him.’
Moira stepped up beside her. ‘I found coin inside his vest.’
Her friend’s discovery had Keila’s gaze searching the stranger’s misshapen features anew. ‘Definitely nae a robbery, then.’
‘Nae.’
‘I still need to reassure him.’
‘And you have, from what I can see.’ Keila kept her hand over his. ‘Saint Morulag save me. You’re a stubborn lass.’
Keila glanced over her shoulder at her friend. ‘I learned from the best.’
‘Just have a care not to let him hurt you.’
She looked at the man’s face once more and straightened, before finally lifting her hand free.
Keila grasped the older woman’s cool fingers that seemed so frail compared to the stranger’s. She really had been blessed the day Moira had been named her carer. How she wished the Countess had lived longer so that Keila could have thanked her. But she’d died when Keila was sixteen and it was only after her death that Moira had told Keila about the unusual start to her life. But she’d never told her why Euphemia Ross hadn’t ever allowed Keila to see her. And Keila was too frightened to ask. ‘Thank you for looking out for me.’
‘Someone has to.’ She squeezed Keila’s fingers in return. ‘And I am blessed to be that someone. Now, did you manage to get any sleep?’
Keila smiled at Moira’s slip into her mother-like role. ‘Enough.’
She hoped Moira didn’t hear the tension that had crept into her voice. This coming market day was their best opportunity to sell the most goods they could since before last winter, and with only three of them to prepare the goods, there was no time for idleness or guarding injured strangers when she had so much else to do.
Moira’s gaze brushed the man on the pallet. ‘It’s almost dawn and Rory should be here soon. I’ll prepare something to break our fast and send him in to take a turn watching over our guest.’
***
By noon it was clear Rory wasn’t coming. Keila’s throat ached for him. He couldn’t seem to control his good days and bad, but she selfishly wished it hadn’t been today. Her throat thickened as she paced to and fro in front of the doorway to the healing room. She had pots to fill with the unguent she’d made two days before.
‘Demon.’
Keila stilled and studied the battered face of the man who had spoken. Were his eyes open? She was too far away to tell. On silent toes, she crept toward the pallet and stopped. Her skin prickled and her gaze dropped to his mouth.
‘Demon,’ his voice rasped again.
Keila’s hand flew to her chest. She’d been so careful not to hurt him while she’d tended his injuries. Was he now insulting her after all she’d done to help him?
She peered down at him through narrowed eyes. ‘I’ll fatten the other side of your lip if you keep calling me such names.’ His swollen eyes still looked closed, but she was certain his mouth curved upward a little. ‘And you’d be wise to stop smiling, else your lip will start bleeding again.’
His lips parted as he attempted to speak again, but his voice sounded like a fallen sun-dried leaf she’d stepped on. She straightened, and with a pointed look at him, she walked to the small table by her chair and poured a cup of water from the jug. Not once did she turn away from him.
He was awake yet hadn’t attacked her. Either because he didn’t mean her harm or due to him being too weak to overpower her. Whatever the reason, she’d ensure nothing stood between her and the doorway. He didn’t move. Had he fallen back to sleep?
She approached his pallet, and keeping an arm’s length between her feet and the pallet, leaned toward him. ‘Here’s some water.’ She held the cup higher before his eyes and witnessed his lips part a fraction in readiness to take a drink. ‘Start with a sip,’ she said, taking a small step closer and holding the wooden cup to his mouth.
His head lifted from the bolster. ‘Poison?’
He sipped and swallowed before she could answer and she watched his tongue run the inside length of his upper and then his lower lip. ‘You’d be done for if it was.’
A short sigh escaped his open mouth as his head eased back to the pillow. ‘My thanks.’
Gratitude laced the words and made her believe he was thanking her for more than just the drink. Keila tilted her head to one side. Despite his recent insults, he was well mannered, appeared to have a sense of mirth and had an air of confidence about him in spite of his circumstances. She straightened and retreated one step. ‘Who are you?’
***
The right side of Adair’s head pounded as he peered through his aching, swollen eyes at the blurred shape of the woman standing over him. He could tell it was a woman by the music in her voice. She’d even managed to make her threat to fatten the other side of his lip sound pretty, though he had no clue as to why she made the threat to begin with. She appeared to be caring for him, but he didn’t know who she was and or where he was and a heaviness he’d never experienced before was weighing on his thoughts and his eyelids, no matter how hard he fought to ward it off.
Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable, so open, so exposed. Never in his life had he been afraid. Except …
‘Who are you?’
Adair heard her repeated question, but she was fading from view. He didn’t know her. He couldn’t trust her. But he needed her to keep watching over him.
‘Don’t know …’
The sound of hoof beats thundered loud and clear from outside before the fog of darkness enveloped him once more.
***
‘The lass is busy preparing goods for market.’ Moira’s voice sounded through the open shutter as she spoke to the three mounted men.
Keila stepped back from the window as Leith of Drummin’s dark eyes shifted from Moira to the sitting chamber’s window. She’d weathered the weight of Leith’s onyx stare many times and his attention wasn’t something she longed for. He was in his thirtieth year, but the hardness tightening the skin about his mouth and deepening the black depths of his eyes made him look older. His brown hair brushed the top of his wide shoulders and his broad chest tested the fabric of the pristine white linen shirt beneath his leather vest. He was tall, but even though she hadn’t yet seen the injured stranger standing, something suggested Leith wasn’t as tall as the man sleeping beneath her roof.
She’d loathe to suffer Leith’s fury if he’d been wronged. Whispers and shouts of his relentless efforts to gain his father’s approval abounded. But nothing he’d done thus far had impressed the Earl of Buchan enough to claim his bastard son.
Keila had never met the earl, but Moira had resided beneath the same roof for many years leading up to Keila’s birth. Moira’s tales caused Keila to worry that Leith was becoming so desperate to gain what he wanted he’d match his father’s feats of terror and cruelty throughout the Highlands.
She looked over her shoulder and in through the healing room’s entrance. She hoped the stranger didn’t wake from the sleep he’d suddenly fallen back into while Leith was visiting. Leith wouldn’t care if the man didn’t know who he was. He’d demand to know anyway. Or did Leith already know the stranger was here and had come to find out more?
‘Too busy to stop what she’s doing and say hello to her neighbour?’ His voice was deep; but even words spraying flattery sounded cynical, due to an underlying edge of menace.
Keila turned back and worried her lower lip with her teeth. Should she speak with Leith or remain inside? Leith wore his usual serious expression, as did his two mounted companions who rarely left his side. Both men had dark hair, hardly ever spoke, but were powerfully built, and both usually wore a permanent sneer on their weathered faces. Her usual shudder at the sight of them was dismissed by Moira’s next words.
‘There are only three days until market and we’ve much to do,’ Moira said in a dismissive tone. ‘I bid you—’
Saints above. Keila strode to the door and stepped outside. ‘There is always much to do,’ Keila said, interrupting Moira and drawing Leith’s dark gaze from her friend to herself. ‘My thanks, Moira.’ She nodded and turned from her companion to their visitor. ‘’Tis good of you to call, Leith.’
‘You look as beautiful as always, Keila.’ She forced a smile while suffering his lengthy appraisal that, as always, lingered on her chest. ‘Is there anything I can do to assist you,’ he had a way of dragging out an offer to help, ‘in any way?’
Keila understood his offer concerned things other than preparing for market. She wanted to look away, to gaze upon anything other than the man standing before her. She forced her eyes to remain on his. ‘All is well, but as always, I appreciate your kind offer.’ His eyes darkened. ‘But if I ever do need assistance, I know where to find you.’
The Rogue Page 2