An Outlaw's Word

by Aileen Adams

  She hesitated before speaking. “I merely wanted to know you.”

  “What else is there? Ye didna answer right away. Why?”

  There was little else to do but be honest. “I’m so uncomfortable. I suppose I wondered how you could do this every day, for such a long time.”

  “It won’t be much longer,” Quinn promised, and he sounded as though he sympathized with her. “This is the fifth morning we’ve been riding. Another day or so, and we ought to reach the harbor.”

  “Can we not stop in one of the villages?” she asked with a groan, rolling her head on her shoulders.

  He scowled.

  “I do not mean to be difficult,” she vowed, “but I am near ready to collapse. I am so tired and so hungry. I know this is an expense you would rather not incur…”

  “Indeed.”

  She sighed, slumping a bit in the saddle. “I had only hoped we might spend a night in a bed.”

  “We? In one bed?” he smirked, and she wished he would scowl instead.

  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “You know I did not mean for us to share a bed.” Though it was not as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind on at least one occasion, most notably when she had awoken in the middle of the night to find him dozing not far from where she’d made her sleeping area.

  Asleep, there was none of the prideful tilt of his head, nor of the sharp tongue he sometimes let loose. Concern did not crease his brow, nor did frustration set his jaw in a hard line.

  Asleep, he was almost beautiful. Younger, too, so much so that she judged him to be not very much older than herself.

  She had wondered then, as she wondered again while riding at his side, what it would be like to touch his face as he slumbered. To feel his warm, strong body beside hers. To sleep in his arms and know nothing and no one could touch her so long as he was there.

  When she did not offer further reply, he grunted in displeasure. “If we reach the harbor tomorrow, we might pay a visit to an inn nearby in order to refresh ourselves. But only one night, mind ye.”

  One night would heaven, she was certain. The hope of this coming to pass gave her strength and renewed her spirits. She felt nearly happy as they trotted along, with the birds providing music above their heads. They were happy, too.

  “Are ye feeling well, lass?” Quinn asked, seemingly for no reason.

  His tone of concern surprised her. “What gives you the idea that I am not?”

  “Ye seem… strange.”

  “Strange? Thank you very much.” She rolled her eyes, chuckling under her breath.

  “Truly, though. Your face is red as though it had too much sun. Are ye feeling ill?”

  She touched her cheeks, surprised they were still warm after flushing earlier. “I suppose I’ve had too much sun, as you say.” It would explain the deep ache in her muscles, too, and in her knees and shoulders. She had simply been out of doors for too long without the benefit of shade.

  He scowled, swearing softly. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to stop and rest.”

  “I said nothing of the sort.” She sat up straight to prove her point. “You see? I’m able to ride. Though it might do me good to stop for water more often, if I’ve had too much sun.”

  He handed her the water jug. “Drink the rest of this.” She did as she was told, relishing the sensation of cold water running through her overheated body.

  She really was quite warm. Even her lips and eyelids seemed to burn.

  “How long have ye felt so?” Quinn asked.

  She shrugged. “This morning, I suppose. I did not feel poorly yesterday, or last night.”

  He grunted. “We will stop the next time we reach water. You need to cool your skin and have more to drink.”

  They rode on in silence, though Ysmaine felt his gaze time and again. Watching her. She wished he wouldn’t, while at the same time she was glad he did. The longer she rode, the worse she felt.

  “Ysmaine.” Quinn reached out for her horse’s reins and pulled it to a stop. “Look at me.”

  She did. He was blurry. She could not see him clearly no matter how she strained her eyes.

  To her surprise, he dismounted and reached up to take her from her saddle. His hand grazed her thigh.

  “Ohh…” she groaned, pulling her leg away.

  “What is that? Why did ye do that?” He reached for her again, and she swatted his hand as hard as she could manage.

  “Please, don’t…” She tried to fight off his attempt at lifting her kirtle. He took the reins to hold the horse still and scowled up at her.

  “Are ye injured? Did ye not tell me ye were injured? I had asked myself why ye did not wear your stockings.” He swatted her hand away this time, then lifted the bottom of her kirtle until it was past her knee.

  She turned her face away at the sight of what had become of her leg. The wound spanning from above her knee to midway up her thigh was an ugly shade of purple and always seemed wet, somehow, as though something was seeping from it. She could not bear to wear her stockings, as the fluid made them stick to her skin.

  And when it dried, and she tried to peel them away, it only opened the wound once again.

  And the pain. When Quinn touched even a gentle finger to the outside of the bruise which had formed, hot, fresh agony burst through her leg and brought tears to her eyes.

  “Ysmaine…” When he looked up again, his face bore a stricken expression. “Ysmaine, ye must have this looked at by a healer. You’re ill because of the wound. I believe there is an infection. Why didn’t ye tell me?” It came out sounding like a moan, but in her dizzy state, it was hard to tell.

  Why hadn’t she? It was difficult to remember. It seemed so long ago. She thought she’d washed it well that night. “I didn’t want ye to think… I was weak… or to be cross with me…”

  He looked up and down the road. There was nothing but trees in both directions. No signs of a village or people. She hadn’t seen anyone but Quinn all day. As though they were the only two people in the world.

  He gave a decisive nod. “I need to get ye to a healer. Someone who can help ye. I cannot.”

  “We must hurry to the harbor. We have to get on a ship, so we can get your brother from the Marquis.” No. There was something wrong about that, but she could not understand what. She only knew it did not sound right.

  “Ye do not even make sense, lass. I cannot allow ye to ride.”

  She felt herself swaying slightly but fought to remain upright. “How do you expect us to ever reach a village, then?”

  He acted before she could stop him, leading both horses off the road, where he tied them both off. Then, he swung up behind her in the saddle.

  She cried out in pain and surprise, her leg throbbing worse than ever when his leg jostled it. “What are you doing?” She was too weak to fight, though she tried. She may as well have been striking one of the towering pine trees all around them for all the effect she had.

  “I am riding with ye, lass. If ye do not stop trying to fight me, you’ll have the horse bucking us both off its back, and we’ll be in worse trouble than we are now.” He untied the reins, then untied the second horse.

  “I do not need you to do this,” she protested, but her protests sounded pitiful even to her own ears. She did need help. She needed it badly.

  She had never been so ill.

  He dug his heels into the gelding’s ribs, and they took off, kicking up clouds of dust as they did.

  15

  What was she on about?

  What had she been thinking?

  How did he not see how ill she’d become? Why did he not ask why she hadn’t worn stockings? He should have known better. He should have seen. Should have asked.

  Instead, he’d waited, even as it was clear she’d begun to favor her left leg. When she’d settled in for sleep the night before, she’d even winced on pulling the blanket over herself. Even that slight touch had stung.

  Why had he said nothing?

  O
nly half a day had passed since then, but who was to say what good it might have done to get her to a healer sooner? She might already be getting better. At least she would no longer be on the back of a horse, galloping down a road neither of them had traveled before.

  “Try to stay awake,” he demanded, his mouth close to her ear. “Do not allow yourself to fall asleep.”

  “I’m very tired,” she whimpered, and when her cheek touched his, the heat from her skin alarmed him. Her entire body seemed to burn like an ember. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck, soaking into her hair and the back of her kirtle.

  It had a foul smell. A smell which reminded him of nothing so much as the battlefield.

  The stench of dying men.

  How had she become infected so quickly?

  “Yah!” he cried out, urging the horse to greater speed. The next village had to be coming up soon. There were breaks in the trees every now and again, revealing rolling fields and a small house or two, but there was no one there who would be able to help him.

  Would there be anyone in the next village? He could only hope there was. For both their sakes.

  “Why do ye have to be so stubborn? Why are ye so difficult? I would not have been angry with ye for being injured.”

  She leaned against him, and he bore her weight as well as her heat. Her eyes were open, but she gave no answer.

  “Do ye think me as bad as all that, lass? That I would have… How did it happen? The thief I killed. Was that it?”

  He stole a glance at her, just in time to see her nod.

  “Would that I might kill him again,” Quinn snarled. “The wretched thing. He dared place his hands on you, and then to do this. Mind ye, if I had known before now…”

  There was nothing more to say. The lass knew she’d done wrong. Or she would once she could think clearly. That was not the case at the moment, when she was barely conscious.

  “Please, lass. Please, hold on somehow. I need ye to stay.”

  “I know you do,” she groaned. Her head lolled on his shoulder, toward his chest. “For your brother. I am sorry. I did not think.”

  He looked down at her, finding her over-bright eyes staring at nothing. As if she were dead. Ice-cold fear gripped his heart.

  “Ysmaine!” He did the unthinkable. He nudged her wound to rouse her.

  “No, please…” she whimpered. But it did shock her into wakefulness again.

  “I’m sorry, lass. I do not wish to cause ye pain.” He pressed his lips to her burning, sweat-coated forehead. Why he did so, he was not certain. He told himself it was to check her fever, but he did not need to touch his lips to her head to know she was burning.

  The knife that did it must have been dirty. It was the only reason for her to become this ill, this quickly. Perhaps the man himself had been ill with some terrible disease which she now carried because of him. He knew little about the art of healing, but he knew enough to realize anything on the blade could have gotten into her blood.

  If she died…

  He ought not to have left her alone. Why had he done it? She’d been tired, and so had he, and he hadn’t wished to allow her to slow him while he hunted.

  He’d been irresponsible, when he was responsible for her. She was his prize possession until their journey came to an end, but he’d left her on her own.

  With her hands still bound. He could not have done a better job of leaving her open to attack if he had tried.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured against her ear. Her eyes had closed, meaning it was more than likely she could not hear him, wherever she was. In blessed darkness, away from pain and fever.

  Though he’d suffered a high fever once, and the dreams he’d had then were nothing pleasant. She suffered, either way.

  The rain began then. Big, fat drops which splashed on the road until what had only just been hard-packed earth turned to thick mud. It poured off the brim of his hat, made it difficult to see. Keeping hold of both horses was more difficult, as well, the footing uneven and slick.

  But she could not be left out in the rain, either. Not for long. She would only become more ill.

  The horses were beginning to tire, but a trio of small, stone cottages just off the road gave him hope. One of the doors was open, likely to allow the smoke from a cooking fire to leave the house even though the rain fell in sheets.

  “Hello!” he called out. “Is there a healer somewhere near the place? I have a sick lass here.”

  A withered old woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on an apron. When she took sight of Ysmaine, slumped backward against Quinn’s chest and shoulder, she gasped and pointed further down the road.

  Her voice barely carried over the pounding of the rain. “In the village! Around the bend!”

  He saw the bend of which the woman spoke and did not take time to thank her before he urged the geldings to continue. They could rest once they reached shelter.

  Great, deep puddles had already formed, sending filthy water splashing up to meet the water pouring from the sky. Quinn merely gritted his teeth against it and urged Ysmaine to have patience. “We are almost there, lass. Ye needn’t be in pain for much longer.”

  She did not hear him. She was elsewhere, far away, though the continuing heat from her body told him she was still alive.

  The infection would not kill her that quickly, after all.

  Would it?

  More houses, and more, and once he rounded the bend in the road, he found a modest village laid out before him. He might have wept with relief if not for the task still at hand.

  The downpour had sent many of the villagers scrambling for cover, leaving the roads empty save for the presence of abandoned carriages, wagons, horses tied to posts. He chose a wide, squat building with several horses waiting outside and called out at the top of his lungs.

  “Help! I need a healer!”

  The door opened, revealing the faces of several concerned men. That concern turned to suspicion when they spied Quinn’s clothing and sword.

  “She is gravely ill,” he shouted. “Is there a healer somewhere about?”

  One look at Ysmaine, soaked to the skin and unflinching even with water pouring onto her face, decided them.

  “Aye, she lives on the other side of the village,” a ruddy-faced man exclaimed, pointing down the road. “In the house with the wooden fence about it. The last house before entering the woods.”

  Quinn nodded his thanks and tapped the gelding’s sides once again, praying in his inexperienced manner than the beast did not collapse before they reached safety. “Almost there,” he shouted, uncertain whether he reassured the horse or Ysmaine or himself.

  When he came to the house with the wooden fence, he called out in the hopes that whoever was inside would come on the run. What if she was not at home? What if she had gone out to tend to a sick villager and decided to wait out the storm?

  He was careful on dismounting, afraid Ysmaine might fall from the saddle without him to support her, but he managed to get both feet on the ground before pulling her into his arms. She stirred, eyelids fluttering as she worked her eyes open, flinching away from the rain which still pelted her face.

  “Rest,” he crooned, his feet sliding through the mud as he carried her to the house. Before he reached the door, it opened to reveal a tall, proud woman as solid looking as the house she stood in.

  “Are you the healer?” he panted.

  “I am.” She looked at Ysmaine, curled against Quinn’s chest.

  “She’s ill,” he explained. “Infection in her leg. Please, help. I am happy to pay any price for your help.”

  The healer hesitated, like as not wondering why a man wearing a uniform such as his would be in the Highlands.

  “I’m a Highlander, as is she,” he snarled, his brogue thick. “Please. Even if she weren’t, she needs ye. Her body is hot to the touch.”

  The woman’s dark eyes widened when she placed a hand on Ysmaine’s forehead. That decided her. “Come with me,�
� she murmured in a low voice, motioning for him to join her at the fire on the other side of the room.

  It appeared as though it were the only room in the house, with a straw tick in one corner to serve as a bed and a long table running along one wall which held a staggering amount of herbs. Their scents mixed together to create a spicy, musky odor that tickled the inside of his nose and made him want to sneeze.

  Ysmaine stirred again as he laid her by the fire, though he took pains to be as gentle as he could. The healer’s hands were deft, raising the kirtle, fingers running along the outer edges of the wound’s purple bruise.

  “She is quite grievously ill,” the woman murmured, shaking her head. “How long has she suffered this?”

  He thought back. “Five days. She told me nothing of it.”

  “And how was she wounded?” Her keen eyes met his, asking more than her words expressed.

  “She was attacked in the woods. She will tell you herself. This was no doing of mine.”

  She made a noise to quiet him. “I didna mean to accuse ye. The attacker. A blade?”

  “Aye.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Dirty, no doubt.” She stood and went to a nearby basin to wash her hands.

  Quinn stayed at Ysmaine’s side, stroking back the dark hair which had stuck to her hot forehead.

  “She will need a poultice for the wound after I’ve finished draining it,” the healer announced, going to her table and working with her back to the two of them. “She cannot wear that soaked kirtle. Has she anything else?”

  Guilt plagued him. “Nay.” Because he hadn’t allowed her to bring anything but what she wore on her back.

  “Blankets will do, then, until it dries by the fire. Even then, she’d like as not sweat through it.” She was quick about her work, the sounds of chopping and grinding mingling with Ysmaine’s soft whimpers.

  She looked over her shoulder. “I’ll be needing ye to bathe her head, shoulders, and arms in cool water. Legs, as well, excepting the infected area. Will ye be able to do that?”

  He nodded. “I will do whatever you ask, so long as it means she will survive this.”