Molly watched him go and Fiona came up beside her. “He’s been through a lot,” she said, nodding in the direction Conall had taken. “We all have.”
“I just wish I knew what to do,” she said with a shrug. “I feel so helpless.”
Fiona put a hand on her shoulder. “Ye did everything ye could,” she said. “Ye led the people to safety. Ye helped us fight off the raiders. Ye showed us that we can rely on ye.”
“I wish that was true.” Guilt gnawed at her insides like a sharp-toothed rodent. She turned to look at Fiona. The woman’s sharp eyes were fixed on her. “I’m not the savior you all think I am,” she said. “I was running, Fiona. I was stealing Conall’s boat and running. That’s what kind of person I really am.”
“I know,” Fiona replied, with a small, wry smile. “I know ye were running. But ye seem to have missed the most important detail in all this.” She squeezed Molly’s shoulder. “Ye came back.”
Chapter 11
The gash was deeperthan he had hoped. As Conall gingerly tugged his shirt over his head, he winced as the material snagged on the wound.
Curse it! This was the last thing he needed. There was a three-inch slash in the meat of his bicep where one of the raiders had caught him unawares from behind. Still, it could have been worse. If he hadn’t brought up his shield at the last minute and knocked the blow aside, it would have been his neck rather than his arm that would have taken the blow. He doubted there would have been any walking away from that one.
He shifted on the rock on which he’d seated himself and reached down to dip a cloth into the pot of hot water he’d lifted from the fire a little while ago. With gritted teeth, he began cleaning the wound.
From here, he could no longer see the cave where the inhabitants of Lanwick were holed up. Nor could he see Molly, for which he was grateful. A swirl of tangled emotions rocketed through him whenever he thought of the fire-haired lass. Hurt and betrayal that she had stolen his boat and made a run for it. Relief and gratitude that she had come back and saved the people of Lanwick. Confusion and distrust knowing she’d been lying to him from the start.
When he’d cleaned away the worst of the crusted blood, he fished out the needle and thread that he’d boiled in the bottom of the pot. One of the first things he’d learned when he joined the Order of the Osprey was how to take care of wounds—including keeping them clean.
He pinched the needle between thumb and forefinger, but hesitated. He hated this bit. This kind of doctoring was normally done by one of his sword-brothers—usually Emeric because the archer had the steadiest hand—after they’d gotten him steaming drunk. But right now his sword-brothers were miles away and he was stone cold sober. Still, there was nothing for it. If he didn’t sew the wound, it would fester.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up. Molly was approaching along the beach, her feet leaving wet footprints, and her hair blowing out behind her. Damn him, but he hated the way his traitorous stomach did a little dance at the sight of her. He clamped it down.
“What’s it look like?” he growled, holding up the needle and thread so she could see it.
“You’re going to sew your own arm? Without any anesthetic or anything?”
Lowering his hand, he sighed. “Did ye want something?” He knew his tone was cold and unfriendly, but he didn’t bother to modulate it.
“I...I...” She swallowed thickly, scrubbed a hand through her thick hair, and looked out to sea for a moment. “I know you’re angry with me—”
“Oh, do ye think?”
