The first was on her knees, arched over the fallen man to hold the cloth to his eye. “Easy there, Cam. Daenae try and get up. We need to stop the bleeding,”
Arran found his eyes wandering down her back to a trim waist that flared out into a rounded bottom, just now suggestively hoisted into the air as she tended to her work. He inwardly scolded himself for having such thoughts about a woman who had no intent toward him.
The second woman, Ava turned from where she was examining the second contestant. “Cam, what were ye thinkin’? Ye ken ye couldnae win. Rory took the blue ribbon prize fightin’ at the cattle fair. And over a silly lass, too!”
Sorcha looked up at Ava. “Was it Ruth? She’s betrothed to the miller, and shouldnae mean nought to either of these two.”
Ava put her hands on her hips. “Och, ye’ve the right of it. Yet here they are, battlin’ it out like a pair of stags as they are said to do at Sharky’s in Lunnen.” She glared around at the crowd. “And as for the lot of ye! Eggin’ them on! It’s a wonder the biggest hurt is a black eye and a split lip.”
Arran scarcely heard Ava’s scolding. His attention was all for the woman who was crouched on the ground. Her complexion was flawless, her eyes were a brilliant blue, like summer sky on a clear day. Tendrils of brown hair escaped her kirtle, curling about flushed cheeks, and her firm little chin telegraphed her irritation with the two men.
Arran was in Braewall for a reason, and bedding a woman was not it. He was looking for one specific woman, one with red hair.
Get a hold of yerself, Arran! Pay attention to business.
The women finished tending to the fighters’ wounds, and began collecting their supplies back into bags with economical motions.
Arran took a step toward them. “So, do ye ken of the women I’m searchin’ for?”
Ava asked without hesitation, “Why do ye want to ken? Are they of yer clan? Are they in some kind of trouble?”
Arran was surprised that she answered him with questions of her own, and with boldness at that. As Laird, he never tolerated insolence, but he was spellbound.
He worried his body would betray him before he could reply, but thankfully he managed to form a coherent sentence. “Lass, me reasons for lookin’ for these two are me own and none of yer concern—or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
The woman’s gaze remained locked on his, and for a moment, it seemed it was a battle of wills, of who would look away first. “Then I suspect our answers will be our own, an none others,” Ava snapped. “Are ye finished there, Sorcha?”
“Aye,” she replied, rising from where she was. “Best we get back to Mrs. Smith, before her twins arrive without us.”
Ava laughed. “Small chance of that. Them bein’ her first and all.” The two women picked up their bags. The crowd parted for them, then flowed back together as the Red Sea must have parted for Moses then flowed back to impede the pharaoh’s men.
Muttering curses to himself, he stepped back toward the remaining villagers. “Who was that woman?” he asked the closest man to him. “The one who tended to the injured man? Was she his sister?”
The man lowered his eyes respectfully and answered quietly, “Nay, Laird MacArthur. That was Sorcha. She’s a healer here. She is very kind and helps anyone who is in need.”
He rambled on, obviously afraid that Arran might take out his frustration on Sorcha, or even worse, squirrel her away back to his village, as good healers were hard to come by.
“She has been a blessin’ to our village. Ava took her in and helped her hone her skills. So now Ava is the midwife here in and the surroundin’ villages, and Sorcha tends to us. Aye, we are fortunate to have her.”
“And this woman, yer healer, who is her husband?”
“Sorcha isnae married, me Laird. She lives with her maither. Several men have asked for her hand, but she’s refused them all.”
Arran raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “And her faither? What does he say about this?”
“There’s nay faither. She and her maither live alone. Her maither is bedridden, ye see. She takes care of her and claims she cannae marry because her maither’s care would be a burden on a husband—and worse, she wouldnae be able to raise a bairn properly,” the man answered.
Arran thought for a moment before he continued his questioning. “And her maither, what does she look like?”
“Eh, I cannae say. She’s never been to the village, me Laird.” The man leaned to the left and nudged the villager next to him. “Have ye ever seen Sorcha’s maither, John?”
John shook his head no, but then added, “She’s never been to town, but Sorcha always buys two of everything when she’s here. She’s a good lass, she is. She provides for her maither as best she can and spends most of what she earns on her care.”
“We’re right glad to have her here,” a stout housewife spoke up. “When me Maisie got her hand caught in the mangle, she set the bones, an’ plastered the hand up wi’ clay to hold it still until it healed.”
“Aye, and she made a tea that took little Sukey’s fever right away.”
“An made a syrup that soothed ole Herb’s cough.”
