In a haze, she again saw the same face revolve, the mouth twisting in a cry for which there was no longer a voice.
Then Kenna knew the kind of peace found only in a swoon.
Tearloch’s gutclenched when he saw her fall. He judged the space between them and knew he would never reach her in time. As he gathered the breath to bellow a warning, the man on her left shot out an arm to keep her upright. The soldier on her right reached down to stop her horse.
Tearloch flew from his saddle, barely touching the road before he reached her side and lowered her to the ground. Whilehe waited for her legs to support her, she shuddered against his chest.
“She’s going to collapse, lad! She’ll not stand,” Duncan shouted.
Tearloch held her away from him, insisting with a stern look that she stand. But she never looked his way. Her eyes were glassy and staring, her teeth chattering.
His captains dismounted and gathered around her in a circle, nudging her horse out of the way. Jamie passed a hand in front of her face, but she didn’t blink.
“She’s breathing funny,” Leland said, pointing out the obvious. He was the shortest of the bunch, and the broadest. His hair was carrot red. His plump apple cheeks, usually flushed with laughter and drink, lay slack against his face. Concern lowered his ever-smooth brow.
The men held their own breath to listen to hers. Shallow puffs barely moved her nostrils, and all eyes dropped to watch her chest rise and fall at a frenzied rate.
“She’s tied in too tight, do ye think?”
“Leland’s right. How can she breathe?” Jamie whispered.
“Shall I just loosen one side?” Leland’s hands inched to the side of her gown. Tearloch, with his own hands occupied with holding the lass upright, could only bark out his order.
“Stay those hands or lose them!” It was bad enough they were all staring at her bosom. He’d be damned if anyone would touch her but him. “Duncan, I could use a little advice here? Is this a fit? Is she daft?”
Duncan laid a hand on Tearloch’s shoulder and leaned forward, sniffing. “She’s not been drinkin’.”
“What’s she starin’ at?” Kincaid stepped directly behind the woman’s head and looked in the same direction. Trust the quiet Kincaid to reason out a situation. The man was the sober type, even when drunk, and Tearloch had never seen anyone else gofrom sleeping to fully alert in the blink of an eye like Kincaid could. “Is that blood on Monroe’ horse?”
Duncan slapped Tearloch on the back. “That’s it then. Battle fever. She’ll be fine in a bit.”
“But Duncan,” Leland protested, “battle fever drives a man to fight and then to rut. Yer not suggestin’…”
“Leland. Watch yer tongue,” the old man growled. “She may be dazed, but she can likely hear ye. Even I ken ye don’t speak so to a?—”
Her shivering distracted Tearloch.
“Lay her down, lad.”
“I dare not.”
Duncan chuckled. “Lay her down. The shock of what she has seen this day has become too much. Aye, ‘tis battle fever. A woman’s fever.”
Tearloch sank slowly, cradling the lass as he lowered her to the ground. He sat to her side and supported her back with one raised knee, a tentative arm around her shoulders. With the bloody horse taken out of her line of sight, her eyes closed but her tremors increased.
A wool plaid was handed over his shoulder and he wrapped it clumsily around her. Then they waited.
“Can ye hold her a bit closer?” Jamie asked. “Perhaps ye can lend her yer warmth.”
“Nay, Jamie. I’m too bloody.” Even the bits of his garb that had not been covered by mail had smatterings of blood caked with dust.
“Then take it off, lad. You need no armor. She’s only a wee lass.”
“Aye, the worst ye’ll get is a scratch, or a bite if ye’re lucky.” Leland’s jest got no acknowledgment from the concerned circle. He wisely left off.
Tearloch realized that whatever he did she would likely not notice, so he released her shoulder long enough for his armor and padded jack to be removed. One quick look ensured there was no blood on the thin linen he wore against his skin, so he edged in closer. He knew this would be the meat of ribald jokes in the future, but for now, he had to try anything reasonable. How could he face Malcolm and say, “Weel, ye see, yer sister started shakin’ and we knew not what to do for her.”
He eased his arms around her, but felt no warmth. He pulled back and worked his arms under the plaid. That was better. He wrapped the one arm around her shoulders once more and wrapped his hot hand around her neck. It was cold to the touch. With his other hand, he pulled her tighter into his embrace.
