Slowlyturning his head, wincing as even that small, cautious movement brought himpain, Ruari looked around the camp until he espied his young cousin Beatham.Despite his anger over Beatham’s disobedience, Ruari was relieved to see thatSorcha was right; the youth did not appear badly hurt. In truth, the boy wasclearly well enough to indulge in a little flirtation if Margaret’s smiles andblushes were any indication.
Stillmoving cautiously in an attempt to minimize his pain, he watched Sorcha preparea fire and then looked over her choice of camp. He had to admire her selection.It held enough trees and undergrowth to allow them shelter yet not so much thatan enemy could approach them completely unseen. It was also on a rise thatallowed her a good view on all sides. Someone had taught the girl well, hemused, and wondered why. The expert way she set up camp only added to hiscuriosity.
Allinterest in her strange skills fled his mind, thrust aside by his pain, as sheand Margaret shifted him from the litter to the bedding Sorcha had spread outby the fire. His wounds were serious, made all the more so by the long hoursthey had been left untended. As the women removed his armor and clothes, theurge to slip into the blackness was strong, its promise of sweet oblivion fromhis pain a great temptation. He clung to what few shreds of awareness he could,however. Ruari did not fully trust his rescuers yet.
“Yewould ease our distress greatly if ye would swoon,” Sorcha muttered as shewashed the blood and dirt from his body.
“Ourdistress?” Ruari spoke through gritted teeth, even her gentle touch almost morethan he could bear. “I am the one in pain, woman. What trouble can it causeyou?”
“Ihave always found such stubborn bravado troubling. I ken that ye cling to yoursenses as if ye held the Holy Grail and I am some heathen trying to snatch itfrom your hands. Ye allow yourself to suffer needlessly. That, my fine knight,is the act of a fool.”
“Themon is in great pain, Sorcha,” Margaret said. “‘Tis unkind of you to insulthim.”
“Hedeserves such insults.”
“Heedme, woman,” Ruari began.
“Hush,fool. Ye can bemoan my impudence later. Bite on this,” she commanded even asshe stuck a thick piece of leather between his teeth. “Ye have three deepgashes that need stitching—the one on your right arm, the one on your bellythat nearly cost ye your innards, and the one on your left leg. Either ye wereattacked by a veritable horde of Englishmen or ye were too stupid to fall afterreceiving your first serious wound.”
“‘Tisa miracle he has not already bled his life away,” murmured Margaret.
Sorchathought so, too, but said nothing, concentrating on closing the worst of hisinjuries. She closed her ears to the sounds of pain he could not fully stifle.Although she detested adding to the man’s agony, she comforted herself with theknowledge that she had no choice. The moment she tied off the last stitch, shelooked at his face. His eyes were so glazed with pain they had lost all color,as had his face, and she knew he was barely conscious. She urged Margaret to goand finish tending the youth’s minor hurts, and bandaged Ruari herself.
Nowthat she had finished the more onerous task of treating his injuries, she foundherself taking an unsettling interest in his battered form. He was a big man,tall and strong, yet not bulky. His was the lean, hard strength of a wildanimal. His skin was smooth, taut, and several shades darker than her own,almost as if he had allowed the summer sun to touch every inch of his body. Asshe wrapped clean strips of linen around his wounds, she found it difficult toresist the urge to smooth her hand over his skin to see if it felt as good asit looked. There was no hair on his broad chest. Tiny dark curls started justbelow his navel, ran in a straight line to his groin to provide a softprotection for his manhood, and diminished to a light coating on his long,well-shaped legs. He was, she decided, an exceptionally fine figure of a man.
Inwardlycursing her own weakness, she quickly finished bandaging him and covered himwith her cloak. It was fortunate that his wits were dulled by pain or he wouldhave noticed her ogling him like some greedy whore. She brushed thesweat-dampened black hair off his face, realized she was lingering over thechore and flushed guiltily. Sorcha wondered what ailed her as she tugged thepiece of leather from between his still-clenched teeth.
“Areye done mauling me, woman?” Ruari asked, astonished at how weak his voice was.
“Aye,”Sorcha replied. “Ye may yet live.”
“Heis going to be all right?” asked the youth as Margaret helped him over to thefire.
“‘Tisin God’s hands,” Sorcha murmured as she began to prepare a meal of oatmeal andbarley bread. “Howbeit, he survived for many an hour with no aid. A mon thatstubborn should do weel once he is clean and mended.”
“Andstill awake?” The youth cast a nervous glance toward Ruari then paled.
“Aye,”Ruari said, his voice strengthening as his pain eased.
“‘Tisglad I am that ye have survived.”
“Yewillnae be so glad when I regain my strength, laddie.”
“Now,Cousin...”
“Cousin?”Sorcha asked, looking from the youth to Ruari and back again.
“Iam Beatham Kerr,” the lad replied. “Sir Ruari’s cousin.”
“Whowas supposed to stay at Gartmhor,” Ruari grumbled.
“But,Cousin,” Beatham protested, “how am I to become a knight if I am always leftbehind with the women and children?”
“Thereis many a mon guarding the walls of Gartmhor who wouldnae appreciate ye callingthem women or bairns.”
“Iam twenty now, Ruari. I shouldnae be coddled so.”
“Askingye to see to the protection of my keep isnae coddling ye.”
