Hendry appeared with a swollen leather skin and another cup, eyeing her as though she suffered from the plague. He handed the articles to the crone and backed away. Adellis rubbed her mouth to hide her amusement. That one better hope his slavery to the Scottish bear lasted a lifetime. Soft and cowardly as he was, he would never survive without his master.
“Drink,” Marta ordered. “All.”
Adellis wondered if Marta always chopped her speech whenever around the Scots. Why would she do so? To make them feel superior? After enjoying a deep breath of the alcohol’s heady fumes, she downed the liquid fire in one satisfying gulp.
“Another.” She held out the cup, startled when her captor laughed.
“Give her all she wants,” he ordered. “Her leg looks festered to the bone.”
“When you start the cleaning, give me back the gag,” Adellis told Marta, enjoying the hot glow in her gullet, and determined to keep it well fueled.
“There is no shame in crying out, lass,” the Scot assured her, grunting as he bent to retrieve the bit of leather and handed it to her.
“I was speaking to the healer.”
“Aye. I know.” He gave her a disarming smile. Damn him. Viking heritage ran strong in this Highlander, blessing him with everything that attracted her to those sorts of men. Or maybe it was the drink softening her. Nay. It was him. That hair, bright as gold glinting in the sunlight. Eyes like the sea. Stormy blue ever-changing with shifting shadows. Strong cut features. The perfection of his sternness was offset by a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. A sign the gods had touched him whilst he swam in his mother’s womb. No wonder some called him Thor. He could pass for the Viking god himself.
“Who are ye, lass?” he asked as he pulled the stool closer and sat.
“I am not a lass.” She drained the cup again before adding, “I am a woman you had best be wary of.” She caught Marta’s subtle smile out of the corner of her eye.
The Scot had the gall to give a gallant bow of his head. “Forgive me, m’lady. I am Thorburn MacDougall. Might I know yer name to address ye proper?”
“Drink more,” Marta ordered as she shoved the refilled cup into her hands and gave the slightest shake of her head. The old healer didn’t wish her to say her name. Why? Her brother was only a fearsome legend in his own imaginings and among some of the villagers. How dare this misguided user of herbs try to curb her.
She downed the drink and held it out for another, then rolled to her side so the crone could better work on her hip. With her head propped in one hand, she glared up at Thorburn. “Adellis Bjørnsdóttir.”
“Adellis,” he repeated.
Marta scraped a blade across the ruptured wound.
Adellis flinched and gritted her teeth to keep from cursing aloud. She grabbed hold of the old woman’s wrist and stopped her before she could make another pass. “More drink first.”
“There is not enough drink in this world to grant ye the oblivion you seek,” the healer hissed.
“Do ye know this woman?” Suspicion echoed in the Scot’s tone.
“Nay, Constable.” The scowling matron recovered quickly. “I can tell her handling of drink by the way she acts.” She waved him back. “I would see your wounds next, my lord. Young Hendry said the knee was the worst. Prepare yourself as I finish with this one. I will not be long.”
Adellis tossed the empty cup aside and held out her hand. “Give me the Scot’s whisky. The bag of it.”
“Thorburn,” he corrected as he stripped off his tunic. With a tip of his head, he winked. “Or Thor. That’s what some call me. Use it, if ye prefer.”
“Blasphemy,” Marta muttered under her breath, but Adellis plainly heard it.
Adellis took another long draught of the painkilling spirits, then smiled as the delicious burn flooded her veins. “We are Christian now, old woman. Remember?”
Marta’s sour look tightened. She didn’t reply, but the iciness in her watery eyes promised that every word, every action, would be reported to Jarl Alrek. Adellis read it as plain as black ink on fresh parchment.
After another hard pull on the leather flask, she corked it and set it aside. “Do it,” she ordered, then shoved the leather between her teeth and bit down hard. To keep her mind off the searing pain, she concentrated on the half-naked Scot in front of her.
The dusting of hair on his chest was darker than that on his head. It shadowed the hard cut of his muscles, making him look even more sculpted and shaped for strength and beauty. He had fought much. But the scars didn’t mar his perfection, just attested to his power. She found the rugged lines of his hulking mass most pleasing. With that knee wound, he would soon remove the trews. She looked forward to seeing the rest.
A burning wetness splatted onto her hip, making her bite into the leather harder. Fool healer. This was the third time the witch had dressed the wound with that nasty concoction per Alrek’s orders. It would also be the last. Adellis would again tend to it herself as soon as she could obtain what she needed.
“Lift your leg,” Marta ordered. She wound a stained linen strip around the thigh to keep the green muck in place. With a huffing grunt, the old one pushed herself to her feet and turned to the Scot. “All of it,” she said, pointing at his bloodstained trews.
Adellis helped herself to another drink, then held the flask out to him.
