He went to address her, but for the life of him, couldn’t remember her name. Damn his clouded mind. “Yer name again?”
“Evie,” she said, snapping another branch and tossing it onto the growing pile of shorter sticks. “And by the way, I am sorry for losing my temper earlier. I didn’t mean to act so ratty.” She blew out a heavy sigh. “That’s how I ended up here.”
“Mistress Evie,” he repeated, determined to remember it this time. He ignored the rest of what she said. The nauseating pound splitting his skull forbade the luxury of word play.
“Your short-term memory may be a bit dodgy for a while, but as stable as you seem to be, I shouldn’t worry.” She gave him a grudging smile and broke the last branch. Crouching, she selected a few pieces from the pile and stood them on end as if building a wee shelter or trap. After stuffing handfuls of grass and moss inside the thing, she fetched a small square of some sort of metal from her bag. Must be a tinderbox. Instead of striking it with a flint, she pushed it into the grass and moss, then backed away as flames crackled and popped, then licked their way up the sticks. Ever so carefully, she piled larger pieces of wood onto the fire.
“How did you do that so quickly?” Fear for his soul made him cross himself again.
She laughed, then sobered quickly as though fearing she hurt his feelings. Flipping the top off the small square, she rubbed her thumb across the thing and produced a flame. “Sorry—I thought you saw it. My grandfather’s old lighter. Still works like a gem. Long as the fluid and flints hold out, it’s golden.”
“It is nay golden. ’Tis silver. But like an old blade.”
Her dubious look shifted to one of concern. “You worry me when you say things like that.” She rose and moved to the enormous bag of cloth holding all the tools of her sorcery and unbelted a rolled bundle from one end. With a hard snap, she shook out a heavy, thick blanket and placed it closer to the fire. “If I steady you, do you feel as though you could move over here? You’ll find the sleeping bag more comfortable. I promise.”
“Sleeping bag,” he repeated.
She patted the thing. “Yes. One of the best. I know it’s summer, but I don’t want you catching a chill with the sun going down and all.” She tilted her head the barest bit. “Would you consider stripping down so we might dry your clothes and boots by the fire?” She picked up a pair of sturdy twigs. “Perfect sticks for propping your things to dry. There’s quite the supply from a downed tree nearby.”
Although he’dstripped down, as she called it, in front of women before, this time gave him pause.
“Come now, don’t be shy.” She came closer with the same sort of smile he’d seen the women of the keep use on the ill or the aged. “I am a doctor, you know. I’ve seen it all before.”
“Maybe so, but ye’ve nay seen mine.” He flinched as the pain in his head shot clear to his churning gut. He needed to remember to speak in a quieter tone. For his aching head’s sake.
“I am sure I shall be suitably impressed.” Her placating smile infuriated him every time she flashed it. She reached down and supported him with a strong hold on his arm. “Shall we try to stand now?”
“I believe ye already are standing, Mistress Evie.” How dare the woman speak to him as if he were a bairn. He glared up at her, willing her to fear him. Soon, he would be healed, and then she would see his might.
“One of those, are we?” Her irritating smile quirked to the side as she pulled on his arm. “Up with you, Chieftain MacCrotchety.”
“MacTaggart!” he snapped, immediately regretting it. “In God’s name, I command ye to remove this spell of pain that grows worse every time I speak or move.”
She rolled her eyes and continued her steady pulling. “I shall do my best. Now, over to the sleeping bag with you. The acetaminophen should kick in soon. It won’t get rid of all your pain but should help some.”
“I thought you wanted me stripped?” he growled, swaying like a drunkard.
“Good man.” She wedged herself against his side and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you over here first, then I’ll help you undress. My sleeping bag repels water. Any dampness wipes right off. Once we’ve gotten your clothes off, I’ll zip it open so you won’t feel so exposed.”
“I dinna understand half what ye said.” Pain and nausea battled over which would control him. Once he reached her strange pallet, relief surged through him at being back on the ground.
She helped him to his back, even folded the end of the thick blanket toward him so he might use it as a pillow.
Eyes closed, he blew out the lungful of air he held. He splayed his fingers and smoothed his hands back and forth across the strange slickness of the cloth. Almost slippery like silk, but rougher. A fluffiness to it, too, as if filled with an abundance of goose feathers.
“I’m going to pull your boots off now. It may jerk a bit, but I’ll do my best not to.”
He braced himself as she hoisted his right foot into the air. It would move him. Always did whenever the wenches pulled them off. One came off, then the other. He exhaled and dared to open his eyes. Not as bad as he had expected. She must’ve used spell craft to make it easier.
“Thank ye,” he breathed.
“Let me turn these up on a stake nearby. Don’t want them too close to the fire, do we? Ruin the leather if they dry too fast.”
“So, ye’re a witch, a healer, and a tanner? What else can ye do, woman?”
With a cocky tip of her head, she winked again. “You can’t begin to imagine, mate.”
Mate? What did she mean by that? Did she mean what he thought she meant? “Dinna expect any coupling tonight, woman. My head canna bear it.”
