Highlander Claimed. Juliette Miller
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not budge him.
Should I attempt to sneak away from him, to take my bag of food and flee northward?
I dismissed the option almost instantly. I was too weak. I had no idea as to the extent of my injury. Or his. And I had no intention of leaving him to die. I remembered the look on his face when he’d removed my helmet. The direct fascination in his eyes, the impact of his blue gaze. The new, tingling awareness of my own heat and my own skin, and more than that: my own life.
I would take my chances.
“Warrior,” I said, trying to rouse him.
No response.
“Wilkie,” I attempted. “You must let me go, so I can tend to your wound, and my own. I’ll fetch water for you to drink.”
His eyes opened, blue even in the semidarkness.
“Roses,” he mumbled.
“Aye. ’Tis me. Release your grip on me, warrior.”
“Kiss me, angel. Before this life leaves me.”
His eyes seemed to gain focus, and I thought I detected a brief glimmer in their sapphire depths. I was wary, mainly because of his size and his obvious strength, but he was a temptation to me in ways I did not understand. I wanted to disengage from his grip and at the same time settle yet closer to him.
“Then will you release me?”
A hint of a smile lingered in his eyes but did not touch his lips, which parted only slightly. “Aye,” he whispered.
I brushed my lips softly against his mouth. I meant it to be brief, a means to the critical end of attending to our injuries. But the feel of his mouth against mine, the warmth of his breath on my face, held me there. I let my lips touch to his for a moment longer, savoring the soft contact. Then he kissed me back, sweetly, his mouth just open, so I could feel the wetness on his lips. I pulled away, shocked by the feel of it.
“Let me go, warrior.”
He obeyed my request, drawing his arm away from me. But the action pained him greatly, and he groaned and closed his eyes as he lay back on our makeshift bed. I could see then that his injury was indeed severe. The front of his shirt was near-saturated with his blood. He faded from consciousness again, although his sleep seemed fitful and agitated.
I jumped up, ignoring the burning ache in my left arm. Using my knife, I cut away Wilkie’s tunic, revealing the gaping wound inflicted by my own hand. It was longer but less deep than I had feared, running in a diagonal line below his rib cage along his right side. I was relieved to see that the edges were cleanly sliced, so they would be relatively easy to sew back together. Ismay had allowed me to assist her with wound care and stitching, even though Laird Ogilvie had once forbade it. She saw no harm in it, she’d said, and was only too pleased to have a willing, eager student.
Infinitely grateful that I’d happened to grab the needle and thread and the healing paste in the midst of my hasty departure, I intended to put them to good use now. But first I needed to clean his wound. Looking around the cave for a vessel to carry water, I spied the bowl.
I ran down to the pool and filled it.
Wilkie remained unconscious, and I used his stillness to my advantage. Washing away the blood from his torso took several more trips to the pool. Then I carefully sewed his wound, taking care to pull the edges neatly together before smoothing the area with healing salve. I found the process strangely taxing and was heated and exhausted by the time I’d finished but pleased with my efforts. I cut a clean strip off of his tunic to keep the wound covered, but when I tried to lift him, he wouldn’t budge. The man was possibly twice my own weight, and my strength had been decidedly tapped. So I tucked the strip around him for now; I could tie it when he awoke.
I took a moment to admire the graceful lines of his chest, so powerfully built, the muscles curved and sculpted. His chest and arms carried many battle scars, lines of paleness against the brown of his sunned skin. I traced several of them lightly with my finger, imagining the battles he had fought over land, honor, women. I clearly wasn’t the first to wield a sword against this seasoned warrior.
It was then that I was reminded of my own battle scar. I had been so immersed in my task of healing the warrior that I’d temporarily forgotten my own injury. But now the pain flared as if in protest. My body felt unusually warm, almost tingly in places.
I went back to the water’s edge. Quickly, I removed my tunic. Before I did, I unclasped the glass-jeweled pin that adorned it, a small piece that had belonged to my mother, given to her by my father on their wedding day. It was the only belonging of theirs that remained in my possession, and I wore it each day, as a tribute to their memory. I stopped briefly to look at it, to run my fingers over the smooth rounded surface of its face. A daisy, with curved metallic petals; at its center was an amber-colored glass jewel that gleamed now, in the sun. My mother’s name had been Daisy. The sweetest, prettiest flower, my father used to say. My Daisy, my Roses. I have my very own flower garden, right here, in our house. My lovely girls.
I placed the pin on a small rock to the side of the pool and scrubbed my tunic to remove the blood, the memory of my parents surrounding me peacefully. Their kindness and generosity. Lost to me now. I hung the tunic on a near branch to dry in the breeze.
I washed the sweat and tears from my face. I cupped my hands and drank. Carefully, I washed my wound, removing the dried blood there and surveying the damage. The burning sting of the raw, exposed flesh made my eyes water. But the sword had sliced across the skin, rather than cutting deep, so the injury would likely not require sewing. I could douse it with healing salve and bandage it, and leave it to heal on its own. And I would forevermore carry the scar inflicted by Wilkie Mackenzie. Like a seal.
A seal.
It looks like a seal of some description.
I pushed the unpleasant memory out of my mind, concentrating instead on drying myself, and quickly. The warrior might wake at any time. Or his clansmen might have found his trail, or mine. They’d have noticed his disappearance by now, for certain. It was hours since he’d spied me at the wall, as he’d emerged from his own pool. I let that memory linger. I had beheld his magnificence, even amid the panic of the moment. I had never seen a man so beautiful and so...naked. And not a shred of modesty. Just confidence.
I wore my thin sleeveless shift—which I had shortened to a length I could accommodate with men’s riding clothing—leaving my tunic off, for now. I didn’t want to aggravate my wound with the thicker fabric yet, as it was bleeding freely again since I’d removed the layer of dried blood. I carried my tunic and the bowl, now filled with fresh water.
The warrior still slept. This worried me slightly.
I applied healing salve to own wound, which stung frightfully, bringing tears to my eyes. Once the pain had eased, I wrapped a second strip of cloth from the warrior’s tunic around it several times to apply pressure. It was the only cloth I had access to, aside from my own clothing, and it was in such a state of disrepair already, it couldn’t be salvaged.
After my bandage was in place, I sat next to the warrior and placed my hand on his forehead. No fever, yet.
He needed an experienced healer, one with knowledge, teas and tinctures. Would he wake soon? Would he be able to make the trek back down the mountain? He should drink.
I lifted his head gently into my lap.
“Warrior,” I whispered in his ear. “You must drink. Wake now. I have fresh water.”
He groaned softly, and his eyes blinked open. I held the bowl to his lips.
“Drink this. ’Tis cold and will quell your thirst.”
He gulped it thirstily, drinking most of it. This relieved me. I put the bowl aside and smoothed his hair back from his face. He turned his head to gaze up at me, the expression in his eyes unfathomable. There was fierceness there, and something more. Was he still vengeful? If I healed him and comforted him, he might forgive me my crime. I dared to imagine he’d