Rhian had heard it argued that Alasdair should take the place of chief, even though he was not a member of the chief’s house. She’d even heard it whispered, by God, thatsheshould take the place.
A worse prospect she could not imagine. She was a woman who worked in the background. She did her best to fill the place of her mother, who in a way had kept them all united till her death. Not her da’s place.
“Mistress Rhian, come! Come awa’ in.”
One of their warriors called to her and, when she came near enough, caught her by the arm.
He had blood flowing freely from his jaw and his sword in his hand. He stared into her face earnestly.
“Any more o’ our wounded out there?” He jerked his head toward the battle’s flank, where she’d been. “Be they all dead?”
She could still betray the man who’d called her merciful angel, if she chose. He wouldn’t have got far yet, and they might well run him down. He was the enemy.
She parted her lips and hesitated. “They be all dead.”
“’Tis no’ safe for ye out here, Mistress Rhian. Come wi’ me.”
She went. The horrors of the dark fell away behind her, but the man with the broad chest and the winsome, desperate face—he remained in her mind.
Chapter Three
Rhian lost herselffor a time after that in tending the wounded, of which there was no lack. They came to her in a steady stream, reeking of sweat, blood, and the remnants of fear. If they could not come to her, she went to them and forgot everything else in spending herself on those who needed her.
The clan had other healers, two of them, both male. Indeed, though Rhian performed the duties, she was not a healer as such. She ran the household, moving behind the scenes to accomplish all that must be done.
And yet she could not miss the fact that some of their wounded seemed to prefer her care to that of the other healers. Och, Timor and Preslan were competent, but folk would wait patiently for Rhian to see them instead.
Even now, as she cared for them, she wondered why. She never gushed or exclaimed over her patients, though she felt deeply for their hurts. One could not show such sympathies and attend competently to what must be done. Was it possible they picked up on her underlying compassion?
She did have a definite sense for what others were feeling. Not as her younger sister, Saerla, did. Saerla possessed a measure of clairvoyance. More than that, she carried a nearly visible aura of magic.
Yet those Rhian tended seemed to relax beneath her touch. They steadied and went away feeling better than they had, despite their wounds.
The injuries she saw were terrible ones. She soon emptied her basket and had to fetch more supplies. On her way to her next patient, she paused abruptly, assailed by the memory of the man she’d encountered out in the gloaming.
His had been a dire wound indeed. Would it prevent him getting away? Would she ever see him again?
Did she want to?
Nay, to be sure, she did not. No woman of sound mind wanted to encounter a MacLeod warrior, however compelling he might be.
She pushed the thought of him away again and returned to the great hall, where many of the wounded had gathered. She had not seen either of her sisters since the end of the battle. She hoped both had returned safely. She could only imagine they would have collected injuries.
Indeed, she’d no sooner resumed tending the wounded than she looked up and beheld Saerla. Rhian made a swift assessment even as she readied the next set of bandages.
A curious and amazing woman was her sister. Though the youngest of Iain MacBeith’s daughters appeared fragile and carried a wealth of dreaming in her misty blue eyes, she never hesitated to march out and face the worst of MacLeod’s warriors with a sword in her hand.
Rhian’s first impulse was always to try to protect her. She’d learned better, however. Saerla often had reasons beyond the ordinary for doing the things she did, and it was better not to question those reasons.
“Sister, how badly hurt are ye?”
For Rhian could see that, aye, Saerla was injured. Pain glinted in her eyes, and she had blood on her chin. Her leather armor bore slash marks across the breast.
Rhian caught her breath. A near thing, that must have been. The thickness of the leather had saved her.
Saerla held out her hand. It bore a slash across the palm that still oozed blood.
Horror and sympathy rose inside Rhian. As always, she tried to push it away. No place here for personal feelings.
