She silenced him by surrendering to his need for a kiss and to her own ravenous urge to taste him one last time before he charged into battle. The inexplicable yearning to follow him, to protect him from harm, made her cling tighter, prevent him from leaving without her. This man might be a fearsome warrior, but he was still just a man. Able to bleed. To suffer. To die. When he pulled away and stared down at her, he knew what she felt, what she feared; she could see the reflection of it in his eyes.
“If ye came, I wouldna fight as well. A victorious warrior must remain focused on the enemy—not fretting about…”
The way his words tapered off made her swallow hard and take a step back. The worrisome aching in her chest pounded harder, making her wish she could claw it away and escape the troublesome feelings. She hated to feel. It made her vulnerable.
“I will remain here as you wish.” She coughed away the tremor in her voice. With a glance back at the tent, she stood taller, prouder, colder. “I fear your man will leave this world soon. What do you do with your dead? I will see to it whilst you are away.”
Thorburn’s intense stare turned into a scowl. “We take our dead home to their families. Hendry knows how to prepare the bodies.”
All that was left unsaid between them charged the air until it threatened to crackle like lightning. Without another word, Thorburn gave a jerking nod, scooped up his shield, and stormed away. After several long strides, he halted and bowed his head as though about to steal a glance back at her and speak. But he didn’t. Instead, he lifted his head, stared forward, and charged on.
Such a man, her Scottish bear. She hoped he fought the same way he loved, with every fiber of his being.
“M’lady?”
The uncomfortable pinch to Hendry’s voice told her Edrid had found his peace. The lad’s pallor made her realize that perhaps Thorburn had overestimated this knave’s knowledge about caring for the dead. “Do you have the balms to prepare him for his journey?” She already knew the answer by the panicked rounding of the boy’s eyes. “Your master spoke as though you knew what to do,” she gently chided.
“TheGallóglaighrarely die,” Hendry whispered with a backward glance at the entrance to the tent. “At least, none have since I started serving the constable.”
“All men die, Hendry,” she said as she marched inside. She knelt down and held her hand beneath the spy’s nose to ensure he had died and wasn’t just unconscious from his pain. No air stirred against her skin, and the cooling down of his now waxy flesh confirmed that the unnerved boy had at least gotten that part right. The man was dead.
She rose from the floor, trying to remember what the old wise woman of the clan had done for the dead. As near as she could remember, the body needed to be washed with the best heated white wine on hand, massaged with resin, then a combination of herbs had to be stuffed down the man’s throat and up his nose. Since Hendry appeared to be at a loss, she made up her mind to do what she had done most of her life. Do what felt right, then live with the results. She counted off on her fingers, “Set some white wine to heating. Add to it cloves and whatever other strong-smelling herbs you have on hand. Oakum, myrrh, incense of any kind.”
“Garlic?”
“No.” At least, she didn’t think so. She couldn’t remember the smell of garlic during any funeral rites. “Do you have balsam and enough linen to wrap his body?”
The knave gave her a hesitant shrug. “Linens, I have. Balsam?” He shook his head. “I dinna think we have any resin at all.”
“We have to find some kind of resin to mix with more of the myrrh.” Adellis frowned down at the body, wondering what trees on the Isle of Mull might prove helpful in the preservation of the dead.
“I have plenty of myrrh.” The boy opened a trunk, revealing a cornucopia of jars, crocks, and bottles, carefully fitted into wood-slatted frames to keep them safe during transport. He lifted up a corked jar filled with chunks of golden-brown nuggets. “If we mix it with oil, will that not be enough resin?”
“Our wise woman always used balsam and myrrh. It preserves the body longer.” Another casual glance around the opulent tent made her realize the camp didn’t appear all that temporary. How long had they planned on staying here? With it being summer, the deceased wouldn’t keep overlong before becoming very unpleasant. “When did your master plan on returning to Scotland?”
Hendry gave her a fiercely proud glare. “M’lord leaves nothing unfinished. He’s sworn not to leave until the head of the vile Northman responsible for all the troubles is on a pike in front of his tent.”
Adellis curled her nose at the prospect of keeping the body for however long that might take. Alrek would not be vanquished with ease. “We should prepare Edrid as best we can, then send him on to Duart for transport back to Scotland on the next ship. Surely, they can place him in a casket at Duart.” She twitched her nose again. “Trust me, it will be better that way.”
With a doubtful tip of his head, Hendry bent to select herbs and oils from the chest and set them on the table. “No one leaves camp while the constable is away. We can do what we must for poor Edrid, but we must keep him here until everyone returns to bid him a proper farewell.”
“Give me a crock and a knife,” she said, deciding not to waste her time arguing about when the fallen man should go to the port beyond the castle.
“What do ye wish with a crock and a knife?”
“I intend to find some sort of resin for us to mix with the myrrh.” When he didn’t move, she added, “I am not fond of the stench of decaying flesh. Are you?”
Hendry gagged and fixed an accusing glare at the man on the floor. “I wish he hadna died.”
“I agree it was very inconsiderate of him.” Rather than wait on Hendry, she fetched one of the woven bags off a peg and helped herself to a small empty jar and a curved knife sheathed in the lid of the spice trunk. “Drag him outside while I’m gone. It’s best we prepare him somewhere other than here in your master’s tent.” She started toward the door, then stopped. “But be sure and put him in the shade.”
“Ye shouldna go alone.” Hendry hefted the deceased up by the armpits, huffing and grunting as he attempted to inch the body across the floor. The boy acted as if it weighed more than an ox.
“How did you survive before becoming a knave?” She nudged the lad aside, caught up the corners of the fur beneath the bulk of the man’s body, and dragged it backward out of the tent.
“By my wits,” he huffed as he took hold of the fur beside the man’s ankles and helped her shift the body well beneath the trees into the deep shade. As he straightened, he gave her an insulted look that made her feel as though she had behaved with as much heartlessness as her brother always did. “I know I will never be a warrior, but I see that m’lord receives nothing but the best and doesna want for a thing in this hard but honorable path he has chosen to follow.”
“Forgive me, Hendry. I should not have spoken so callously.” She patted the bag slung across her body, rattling the knife against the earthenware jar within. “I shall not be gone long. Set the wine to heating, and be sure and add every herb you can find that has a stout yet pleasing scent. Flowers, too, if you can find them.”
