“Hold!” James called to his men.
He didn’t dare spook the horse, not when it was close enough—and large enough—to cause Eilidh irreparable harm. One of the particularly eager young bucks looked as though he was desperate enough to be the lass’ savior that he was going to disobey James’ order, but he staggered to a stop only a few paces ahead of his companions.
“There’s a good lad,” Eilidh was murmuring to the horse as James reached her side. “Aye, ye are a braw, good lad.”
Her voice was low and hypnotic, and the horse—a midnight-black stallion with a single white star on its brow—seemed entirely in her thrall. James waved to his men, using hand signals to instruct them to approach slowly and cautiously.
“Will ye let me see to your rider?” she asked the horse.
“Eilidh,” James said warningly.
She ignored him. Bloodyagain.
Before she could reach for the rider, however, whatever lingering consciousness had been keeping him in the saddle gave up; he slid in an ungainly flop off the back of the horse, landing heavily enough on the ground that James winced slightly in sympathy.
The man was clearly not feigning unconsciousness. Nobody could fake that fall without reacting, not if they were aware of the fall in any way.
An uncharacteristic seriousness fell over Eilidh’s features as she patted the horse’s nose one last time, then turned to kneel beside the man on the ground.
“Bi crivvens, Eilidh,” James breathed, dropping to kneel beside her.
But the lass’ hands were certain as she gently guided the slumped man to lay on his back. His face was bloody, and his dark clothes were wet in places that indicated that there were more injuries than met the eye.
But he was breathing. The breaths were shallow and clearly labored, but they were there. He was alive.
Eilidh’s shaky exhale was full of relief.
She squared her shoulders, determination overtaking her features. She looked back at the guards and spoke with certainty and command that James had never heard from her before.
“Bring him inside at once,” she ordered in a voice that reminded everyone assembled that, for all her flights of fancy, she still was a Donaghey sister. “He needs a healer. Quickly. We are going to save this man.”
1
Eilidh felt as calm as she’d ever been as she directed the guards through assembling a quick, makeshift travois, carrying the stranger into the Keep, and seeing him installed in a guest chamber.
“Careful!” she snapped when they stumbled. “Dinnae jostle him, ye will make his injuries worse!” She was filled with purpose and she knew precisely what she had to do.
It was everyone else that didn’t seem confident.
“I dinnae ken if this is a good idea,” James said for what had to have been the fourth or fifth time. She ignored him, just like she had when he’d tried to order her away from the man’s side.
“Your objection is noted,” she told him as she waved the guards to carefully lower the man onto a bed, then gently guide him off the stretcher they’d used to bring him in. “You are free to return to your training if this makes you feel uncomfortable.”
James gave Eilidh a look that was very reminiscent of the way that Vaila often looked at her. It was wry and exasperated but still affectionate beneath that. Deep down, perhaps, but still there.
“Eilidh,” he groaned. “Ye cannae really believe that I’m going to leave ye alone with a total stranger when our people are in the midst of a war.”
Eilidh looked pointedly at the unconscious man, who was unlikely to do any harm more grievous than bleeding on her.
“He does seem quite the threat,” she said sardonically.
James’ eyes flicked heavenward, as if he needed to pray for patience before he replied.
“He could wake up,” he said with exaggerated calm.
Eilidh glanced back at the stranger. Beneath the blood smearing his face, he had golden hair that was just too light to be brown, though a few dark threads were intertwined with the blond, especially in the beard that covered his chin. It looked as though it had been neatly trimmed a few days prior, but like he had been without his usual tools for a little while. His clothes bore the same signs; they were well-made but bore signs of recent wear.
“I dinnae think that he could put up much of a fight even if he does wake,” Eilidh argued. “He looks half dead.”
