“I’ll take ye tae a healer,” the man said, insistent. “Where’s the nearest village?”
“I dinnae need yer help,” she said, suddenly furious—at the pain, at the blood, at the way her limbs trembled despite every order she gave them to be strong. She didn’t trust this man—she didn’t trust anyone.
“Ye dinnae have much o’ a choice,” he pointed out. His voice was quiet, but there was something sharp in it, something that made her stomach clench. “Ye want tae bleed tae death in these woods, that’s yer right. But if ye want tae live, we need tae get that wound stitched right the now.”
Isabeau faltered, her hand tightening around the torn fabric of her dress. She knew he was right. The cut was deep enough; every breath stung, and her gown was already drenched in blood. If she didn’t clean it and close it soon, infection would do worse than any blade.
She didn’t want to die there, not in the cold, not with strangers’ blood still drying on the leaves.
CHAPTER THREE
Just me luck.
Michael cursed softly under his breath as he watched the girl gasp for breath. He knew the pain well; he, the sword of Clan McDonald, had sustained more than a few such injuries in his life.
And he knew, better than he knew anything else, that a wound like that could very easily become fatal.
“Come” he said, reaching for her, but the girl was quick to flinch away from him with what strength she had left, which was more than he would have expected. An injury like that on a person like her—Michael couldn’t help but think she should be unconscious by now.
She was a lithe, pale girl, her dark hair making her skin look like porcelain. Her eyes, wide and just as dark, were dry when Michael would have thought they would be brimming withtears after such an injury. Others, even soldiers, would have cried out in pain and fear for their lives, but this girl, with her unblemished skin and her fine wool dress, decorated with delicate embroidery and intricate lace, only lay there, drawing in shaky breaths.
Who is she? She’s clearly a noble, but where did she come from?
“Nay,” the girl was quick to say, shoving his hand away when he tried to reach for her again. “Nay. Dinnae touch me.”
Only he could come across such a stubborn young woman, who would rather die than be taken to a healer. Michael rubbed a weary hand over his face, lowering himself to the ground to sit next to her.
“Listen, lass… I dinnae ken what yer issue is but if I leave ye here, ye’ll die,” he said. “I cannae help ye. Tell me where the nearest village is an’ after I take ye there, ye willnae have tae hear from me again.”
The girl hesitated, her eyes shifting back and forth between him and the tree just behind him.
“Auchindrain.”
“Auchindrain?” Michael asked with a frown. “I only just came from Auchindrain. Surely, there’s a place closer tae here.”
Besides, Auchindrain was too far from where he was headed—Inveraray Castle, the seat of Clan Campbell. He had a purpose; he had a mission to complete, and this girl was taking him too far away from his path.
“I dinnae ken o’ a place closer tae here,” said the girl through gritted teeth. “Take me tae Auchindrain. They have a good healer.”
With a sigh, Michael pushed himself to his feet again. “Fine. I’ll take ye tae Auchindrain.”
It would be a short detour, he told himself. It would be for a good cause. He could hardly leave her there to die, so Auchindran it was.
The girl pushed herself up with all her might, but she only made it to sitting. Michael offered his hand to her this time, instead of trying to grab her, and she took it, though a little reluctantly. When he helped her to her feet, the girl let go of him and swayed a little, as though she could hardly keep herself upright.
Her eyes began to slip shut and her knees to buckle. Her hand shot out, reaching for something to hold—and Michael was there already, prepared to steady her. He caught her arm, his grip firm, grounding. The girl glanced up sharply, and once more their eyes met.
Something in Michael’s chest tightened, the sensation sharp and unexpected. She stared at him with those dark, wide eyes, and it seemed to him as though she was looking right through him.Even in her pain, even pallid and drenched in cold sweat as she was, she was a striking young woman, her slender neck opening to a sharp jaw, bold cheekbones, and a high forehead. There was something distinctly patrician about her, and it had less to do with her fine garments and more to do with her features, the way she held herself even then.
“Ye havenae told me yer name,” she said, breaking the silence that had spread between them.
That made Michael pause. He didn’t want to reveal his name to her, not yet; not when he didn’t know who she was.
“What’s yers?” he asked instead of answering her.
The girl hesitated, just as reluctant to tell him her name as he was to tell her his. They stared at each other in silence, Michael’s eyes narrowing in suspicion, hers doing the same as she mirrored him.
“Isla,” she said, and immediately, Michael knew it to be a lie. “Now tell me yers.”
