She stared at him. He’d responded in crusty Gaelic, and he’d mistaken her for her dead grandmother. She didn’t know whether she ought to feel offended or honored. Blinking away her surprise, she pressed her fingers to his neck and found his pulse weak and rapid.
“It’s Ceana MacNab, not Mary,” she snapped. “Mary is dead.” Her words sounded awfully similar to the way her grandmother might have spoken them.
She turned his head to the side in the event he vomited and unbuttoned her jacket to remove her arisaid. Her mind rapidly calculated his status: It was essential to keep him warm, to stop the bleeding, to encourage the flow of blood to his heart . . .
She shivered in her petticoat as she shook open her arisaid and spread it over him, then tucked her jacket on top. She could survive the cold, but he wouldn’t. Gathering an armful of bracken, she used it to raise his legs.
Reaching under the wool covering, she found the buttons of his coat. She unbuttoned it, then carefully peeled the heavy material back over his arm as he groaned in complaint. Blood stuck his linen shirt to his skin, but she’d take care of that later. The wound was clearly visible through the torn cloth, and she studied it, emitting a small sound of satisfaction. A musket ball had gone clean through him. It hadn’t shattered a bone, and the blood ran clean. He’d be good as new in no time at all. If she could rouse him and get him out of the forest before darkness came and he froze to death, that was. How on earth could she move him?
Gritting her teeth, she ripped the skirts of her petticoat. Using her dirk as a tool, it took her a few moments to fashion a bandage-cum-sling, which she wrapped around the wound and tied tightly at his neck.
“Can you walk?”
He’d drifted into oblivion, and she rapped on his good shoulder. “Can you walk?”
He kept his eyes shut. “Not a chance, Mary.”
“It’s Ceana,” she gritted out. “You must rise and walk.”
He released a shaky breath. “Stop, I pray you. Can’t you see I’m dying? Allow me to do it in peace, if you please.”
“Surely a man who’s capable of such a fine speech is capable of taking a few steps.”
She wasn’t going to share that he’d have to walk nearly a mile before they reached the nearest shelter—her cottage. If he knew that, she didn’t have a hope of his even trying.
He didn’t respond, and she wasn’t surprised. He’d lost too much blood and the flow of liquid remaining in his veins was too sluggish for him to see reason. Ceana rocked back on her heels, gazing at her surroundings. The brush grew thick in this area. She presumed he’d fallen from a horse, and if she was right, the animal might be nearby. She didn’t know the first thing about horses, but she might be able to lead it back and coax him onto it somehow.
Of course, whoever had shot him might be lurking about too.
Leaning forward over him, she vigorously rubbed his uninjured arm and his legs to encourage the flow of blood. Then she pressed her fingers to his neck again and found his pulse had slowed. Good.
“Very well, then.” She lowered her voice in the event his attacker was close. “I shall have to fetch someone to help.”
His good hand shot out, clutching her arm with far more strength than she’d expected him to have. “No! Don’t leave me.”
“Don’t be an idiot. We cannot stay here.”
“Why not?” he murmured. “Comfortable. Warm. Hurts to move.”
“Because,” she said with exaggerated patience, “it will be dark soon, and you’ll get cold, and we’ll both freeze to death.”
The fool still hadn’t opened his eyes, but his lips turned down. “I don’t want you to freeze. Too pretty.”
She cast her gaze heavenward. “Exactly. Now, I insist you save my precious life by leading me to shelter.”
His lips twisted. “You’re tricking me, Mary.”
“I’m not Mary.”
“Sure you are,” he mumbled. “Mary. Mary turned young and beautiful and haloed like an angel . . . Pretty Mary with creamy white breasts . . .”
Grinding her teeth, Ceana glanced down at her bosom, which was indeed brimming over the top of her petticoat, and yanked the material as high as she could as she looked over her shoulder.
Through the branches, the sun dipped low in the sky, sending streams of light all around them. No doubt it did have a halo effect on her appearance. But honestly! Could the man truly think he’d died and met a young version of her grandmother in heaven? She laughed out loud. Delirious fool. “Get up, you oaf.”
That made him open his eyes. “I’ve been called many things, but never an oaf.” His pupils contracted, and a crease appeared between his brows as he frowned at her. “Who are you?”
A flush of relief rushed through her at seeing him awake—truly awake this time, she thought.
“Ceana.” She cupped his face in her palm. His skin was warmer now—not so clammy. He’d come out of the worst of it. “Remember? I told you before.”
He gave a small shake of his head. “I was shot,” he murmured. “My shoulder . . .”
“I know. I’ve already bandaged it.”
He tore his gaze from her to glance at his arm, confirming it was, indeed, bandaged; then he looked back to her. “I thought . . . I thought you were—” Glancing at her chest, he broke off, and red crept into his cheeks. A good sign, for certain. “Forgive me. I think . . . I wasn’t a gentleman.”
“Nothing to forgive,” she said brusquely. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll”—he swallowed, and his face seemed to whiten even more—“try.”
She smiled. “Here, I’ll help you up. Then we’ll find a walking stick for you and get you home.”
“Home . . .” he repeated wistfully. Then his eyes widened and he lurched upward. The movement undoubtedly sent pain streaking through him, and he groaned. “Elizabeth!”
“Elizabeth?”
“Lady Elizabeth, my wife. Uh, my betrothed,” he amended. “We were attacked by highwaymen . . . They left her on the side of the path—”
“The highwaymen left her?”
“Yes. No.” He dropped his face into his uninjured hand. “I don’t know.”
Blood already seeped through the cloth wrapped around his arm. At this rate, she’d never get him home.
Alan would be at her house within half an hour. “Listen to me . . .” She took in a breath. “Who, exactly, are you?”
“Cam,” he said quietly, almost as if the truth of it embarrassed him.
The Earl of Camdonn. She should have known.
She stared at him for a long moment, too shaken to speak, as an unfamiliar, awed feeling settled within her. The earl didn’t meet her eyes, just stared off into the brush. So this was the infamous earl. The man who’d debauched Sorcha MacDonald, whom the locals never spoke of without sneering, who’d dueled with Alan. From the way the people talked about him, she’d expected a lecherous monster. What could provoke such viciousness? The Earl of Camdonn was the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on.
Ceana shook off the strange, fluttery feeling in her stomach, mentally slapping herself across the face. She was behaving like a simpleton maiden on the verge of swooning. Ridiculous. She didn’t know this man at all. Perhaps inside that beautiful shell he was a lecherous monster. After all, look at how he’d just spoken of her breasts.
She cleared her throat. “Listen to me. Alan MacDonald is due at my home in less than an hour. I’m sure he will do whatever is necessary to find the lass. You cannot do it. You’re near to fainting for lack of blood, and you must use all your remaining energy to walk to my cottage.”
His attention had seemed to wander at the beginning of her speech, but now his gaze sharpened on her. “Why are you naked?”
“I am not naked. You required my arisaid for warmth.”
He glanced down at the tartan fabric covering him; then his gaze snapped back to her. “Is Alan MacDonald visiting you? Will he be alone?”
She choked out a laugh. “Is
this an attempt to protect my virtue or his?”
His lips pressed into a firm, straight line. “Just tell me.”
They didn’t have the time for this nonsense. She released a harsh breath. “I don’t see how it is any of your concern, but he’s bringing me some herbs from his wife’s garden. Are you satisfied?”
“Will your husband be at home?”
It took her a moment to realize her jaw had dropped, and she snapped it shut. What kind of man asked a woman such questions moments after having met her?
“There is no husband at home. It is just me. If it interests you, I arrived at my grandmother’s house at the end of autumn, and the laird and his wife have been generous in welcoming me to the Glen.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Now, does that satisfy your rampant curiosity? Might we walk now?”
He gave her a soft smile. “I heard Mary MacNab had passed. She was your grandmother? I’m sorry.”
“Aye. Well, thank you.” A surprising, and unwelcome, surge of emotion crowded her throat, and she looked away.
Reaching out with his good hand, he pressed his fingers against her cheek, turning her face back toward him. “We’ll return to your cottage to meet with Alan. He’ll have a horse. He’ll help me find Elizabeth. Much more expedient than me on foot and injured.”
She blew out a breath. Wasn’t all that what she’d been trying to tell him this entire time?
The earl frowned. “There’s no time to waste. We must hurry.”
CHAPTER THREE
When they finally descended the slope leading to Ceana’s cottage, the gloaming had arrived, sending streams of dusky light through the clouds to settle across the land. The earl took harsh, rasping breaths and was so white-faced she knew he remained upright only through sheer force of will.
A big black horse was tied to the tree nearest her cottage, and she saw movement near the corner of the building. “Ah, look. Alan has arrived.”
The earl remained quiet as they plodded steadily closer. He leaned heavily on her now, and sweat stuck her shift to her back, though the air grew cooler by the minute. When they were a few hundred yards from the cottage, he murmured, “I might not be able to hold on.”
“Oh, come! Not this nonsense about dying. I already told you your wound wasn’t serious—do you think I’d lie to you? Dragging you halfway through the forest is hard work. If you were going to die, I’d rather’ve left you where you were.”
“No,” he pushed out. “I just . . . I don’t think I’ll be able to maintain consciousness for much longer. It’s . . . it’s dragging me under. It’s like a game of tug-of-war I’m starting to”—he drew in a shaky breath—“lose.”
She softened, knowing he spoke the truth. If she’d ever seen anyone on the verge of fainting, it was him.
“It’s all right for you to sleep,” she soothed.
“Elizabeth . . .”
“Alan will find your Elizabeth for you. Come; it’s only a few more yards. My bed is soft and comfortable. We’ll lay you down . . .”
She continued to murmur encouragement as they stumbled within shouting range of her cottage.
“Alan!” she called. “Are you there? Help us!”
The earl stumbled. “Oh, hell.”
“Oh, hell!” she gasped in agreement. His knees buckled and her back bowed—she couldn’t support his weight.
“Cam!”
On hearing Alan’s gruff voice, Ceana breathed a sigh of relief so acute, tears pricked at her eyes. Her legs collapsed under the earl, but she couldn’t let him go down too hard, jar his arm, hit his head on a rock. Lord, she couldn’t fall on top of him. She gritted her teeth, groaning with the strain of holding him up. She couldn’t. She wasn’t strong enough.
Just as they crumpled, Alan lunged at them, catching the earl. Muscles bunched beneath his shirt as he disentangled Lord Camdonn from Ceana and gently eased him to the ground. Ceana collapsed onto her knees beside the earl, breathing heavily. His eyes had closed. His face again took on that quality of an angel in repose.
The laird thrust his plaid higher onto his shoulder. “What the hell happened?” he ground out, his blue eyes narrow as he stared down at his friend.
Ceana looked at him in surprise. She’d never heard Alan curse before. “He was shot. He said they were attacked by highwaymen.”
“Where is everyone else?”
Ceana shrugged. “I don’t know. He only mentioned Elizabeth.”
“Lady Elizabeth? What did he say?”
“He said they left her.”
A muscle twitched in Alan’s jaw. He removed his bonnet and rubbed a hand over his curly blond hair, his lips turning down. “She’s a young English lady. She won’t have the faintest idea what to do alone in the wilderness. I must go find her.”
“That’s what he said.” Her voice was soft. Gentle. It didn’t sound like her. Compassion for the earl flooded through her, and even for Alan she couldn’t muster her usual matter-of-fact tone. The earl had put enormous effort into walking here. She was no fool—as much as she’d prodded and cajoled him, it had taken every ounce of strength he could muster to come all this way after having lost so much blood. She’d been a healer all her life, and she had seen many people in various states of weakness. It took a powerful will to accomplish what he had—and all so he could get to her cottage in time to intercept Alan—to ask Alan to help him find his betrothed. His obvious love and concern for his Elizabeth made Ceana’s chest tighten.
Why? Was it admiration of him, or envy of his lady?
She brushed a knuckle over his cold cheek and stared down at him. She was all twisted up inside with some emotion she couldn’t comprehend. She pursed her lips, battling back the strange feeling. She saved lives all the time. This one was no different.
“Can you manage if I leave you with him?”
She glanced up at Alan. She’d been so lost in the unconscious earl, she’d forgotten all about the laird. “Of course. But you must help me bring him inside.”
Alan nodded tersely.
Together, she and Alan managed to carry Lord Camdonn into her cottage and settle him on the bed. Seeing its disarray, Ceana remembered Rob’s earlier visit. How Rob had smacked her behind. How she’d liked it . . .
The earl had turned clammy again. Pushing aside the memories of that afternoon, Ceana covered him with layers of plaids.
Alan clapped his bonnet on his head and buttoned his jacket. He took the torch she offered him and paused at the door. “I might not be back for some time, Ceana.” He glanced at the earl. “Will he be all right?”
She considered the man lying limply in her bed, his features ashen and drawn. “I’ll do my best.”
That seemed good enough for Alan. “Are you certain you don’t need anything?”
She gestured at the shelves of medicines above her worktable. “I’ve everything I need for him here.”
“You’ve done well, as always.” He paused, and then said in a low voice, “You have my thanks.”
“I’ve done no more than my profession requires of me.”
“I’ll return as soon as I can.”
The next time she tore her eyes away from the earl to glance at the door, Alan was gone.
Cam dreamed about the angel. “I’m not Mary MacNab,” she’d said in that cutting voice, sharp as a blade. “I’m Ceana.”
Pretty Ceana with her blond-streaked brown curls and clear gray-blue eyes. The eyes, the shape of the face. The voice. They’d all reminded him of the old woman. In his dream, Ceana spoke to him.
“I think you’re the angel, not I.” She stroked a soft finger down his nose. Over the bones of his cheeks. Across his jaw. Around the edges of his hair.
Only someone in his dreams would call him an angel. In real life, he was a pariah.
She peeled off his shirt, poked and prodded him, and gasped at the scar at his side.
“Alan’s work,” he whispered. “He saved me.”
She harrumphed. “Near killed you, more like.�
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“Too complicated . . .”
He opened his eyes, clutching her wrist in sudden fear. “Elizabeth!”
“Shh. They’re looking for her. They’ll find her.”
Ceana. She must be the old healer’s heir. He wondered if she was as talented at healing as her grandmother.
He drifted back into darkness.
When Cam opened his eyes again, time had passed, for she no longer stood at his side. Instead she stood at the foot of the bed, her heart-shaped face framed by wildly curly golden-streaked hair.
She was changing her clothes. She stripped off her torn petticoat and shimmied out of her shift. Her body glowed in the moonlight as she bent over to splash water over her face and chest. Large, high breasts, narrow waist, flared hips. She reminded him of a ripe fruit, of a plump, juicy pear. Surely she’d be just as sweet. His mouth watered, and long-denied lust surged through him.
And she called him the angel? The absurdity of it nearly made him laugh out loud.
She pulled a clean shift over her head and wrapped a cloak around that luscious, rounded figure. Cam’s heavy eyelids drooped as she returned to his side, reached under the blankets, and laced her fingers with his. Why did she hold his hand? How could she know how much the simple touch soothed him?
“Don’t let go,” he murmured. “It feels . . . safe.”
“Delirious fool,” she muttered, but she squeezed his fingers tighter.
She sounded like Mary. He chuckled and then allowed sweet oblivion to claim him again.
He awoke to sharp pain in his shoulder. His eyes snapped open to utter blackness, but he heard her. Ceana MacNab’s breaths came in long, deep draws. Hair tickled his lips, and with effort, Cam turned his heavy head. She sat on a tattered wicker chair beside the bed. She’d crossed her arms on the bed and rested her head on them. Her untamed mop of hair tumbled across the blankets. With a pang in his chest, Cam realized she lived in a one-room cottage, and he’d taken her only bed.
With his good arm, he reached up to touch her hand, brushing away a soft strand of hair. Her fingers were icy. Gritting his teeth against the pain moving wrought on his shoulder, he managed to push two of the warm plaids off his body and tug them over her without waking her.
Highland Surrender Page 4