Why couldn’t she have saved a smaller man? This one was gigantic. Even with his clothes between her palm and arm, she could feel the hardness of his muscles, the bunching and stretching of them as he lumbered beside her. Her thoughts became centered on the movement, the hardness, under her hand, and she fell into a rhythmical pace with the motion.
He let out a small groan, and her face filled with heat at her wayward thoughts. She’d never been so intrigued with a man’s form before, and especially someone she didn’t even know. Feeling foolish, she clutched a handful of material under his shoulder.
All thought of the man beside her evaporated moments later as pain coursed over her upper back. Grimacing, she worried they wouldn’t make it up the incline, worried that if they didn’t find respite soon, she would drop him.
Finally stepping on the crest, she spied a burnt-out building only steps away. Only half the gray stone facade wasleft standing, and almost the entire thatched roof was gone. Blackened stones were strewn over the ground, and the rest of the walls were crumbling slowly.
The smell of moist, scorched wood flooded her nostrils, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the stench they’d just left behind.
Thanks to the rain, the back section had been saved.
What was once an internal door had withstood the flames along its hem. Although it was blackened, the timber was still intact.
She sagged as she stepped to the door with a grunt. The man held on to a beam with the hand that wasn’t clutching his wounded side and withdrew his weight off her shoulder. She sighed in relief at the loss of her burden and opened the door.
The room had been the middle of the dwelling, and thankfully there was a hearth built near the back wall. The peat was still smoldering. She loved how the Scots kept these fires going all year round.Thank you, whoever you are, she silently said to the owners of the house.
Another door to the side and behind the hearth stood open to the outside cold. Abby rushed to shut off the entrance as the man limped to the bed. He carefully lowered his body to the mattress until he stretched out on his back.
“Thank ye, lass,” he said, and immediately closed his eyes.
Abby checked him. She didn’t know if he was asleep or unconscious. Rubbing the freezing skin on her arms, she was glad either way—at least he was alive. He needed drying and warming, but she had to look after herself first or they would both die there.
Using a steel poker she found resting on the wall, Abby moved the peat about and then blew on it until small flares spouted out of the smoldering earth. She quickly added more peat and smiled at the growing flames. Thank goodness.
Looking around the modest room, her excitement at getting the fire working evaporated. She didn’t think even a small family could live comfortably there, let alone with their animals. She shivered at the thought of living, no, existing like that.
The stone walls were crammed with a sort of earth mortar to keep the weather out and the heat in, but it was still cold.The floor was dirt, but it was so packed, at first she thought it was concrete. Abby wondered how anyone could live on dirt. Above her, the wood beams held part of a thatched roof that she hoped was dense enough to block the rain, but not so thick thatthe smoke from the firestayed in. She could already see where the soot had blackened the walls and rafters.
She placed more peat blocks on the fire and rested back on her heels, taking in the delicious warmth.
After her goose pimples faded, she removed her cloak and was surprised but delighted to find her clothes were only damp. She spread the cloak out in front of the flames.
Pulling a rickety wooden chair away from the corner, she sat facing the bed. Just a minute’s rest and then . . . Uh-oh, she had to get him out of his wet clothing.
She studied his face. His eyebrows, as dark as his hair, weren’t as bushy as she would have expected, although his eyelashes were much longer and darker than she had ever seen on a man. The growing stubble didn’t hide his square jaw, strong but, at that moment, relaxed. His tanned and weathered skin told her he’d spent many hours outdoors. He must have led a physical life, because his entire body was taut and muscled. She knew he was big when she’d held him, but his shoulders nearly spanned the width of the bed.
The man groaned. Even with a pain-filled face, he was quite handsome. He probably had a family waiting for him somewhere, and she hoped she could make him well enough to go to them.
Standing up, she placed her hands on her hips, puffed out a breath, and went to work.
After pulling off his boots and thick socks, there was no choice but to rid him of all his clothes. They were soaked through, and mixing pneumonia with his injuries would just make her job all the harder.
Undoing the circular broach at his wounded shoulder, she pulled the long, wet plaid cloth from the front of his body, but it appeared to wind around his back. Something hard was amongst the folds. She carefully prodded and poked the cloth, revealing three knives. They were more like daggers than kitchen knives. She plucked them out and put them on the table.
Standing back, she glared at the deluge of material. How the blazes was she supposed to get him out of that? Maybe she could roll him off it.
She dragged the bed away from the wall so she could get around it, and then rolled him away. Holding him on his side, she pushed the material as far under him as she could. Once on the wall side of the bed, she nudged him to his other side and yanked the cloth out and off the bed.
Although she tried to be as gentle as possible, she knew from his moans every movement was hurting him. Performing the same ritual with his skirt, she finally rid him of his outer garments. His long linen shirt was next, and then he would be completely naked. She looked around for something she could cover him with, something she could drop there quickly.
Searching the room, she found a box under the bed. The leaves spread under and over the contents, Abby guessed, were to keep away bugs. At the sight of blankets, she called out in glee, “Thank the stars.”
His shirt was long, and her arm muscles had turned to jelly from the previous exertion. There was no way she could repeat the maneuver. She couldn’t pull the shirt up his heavy back, so she tore the material from the neck to the cuffs and then threw the blanket over him.
Now with less cloth to deal with, she forced her aching arms to drag and tug what cloth remained out from under hisback. She grunted and swore until finally, with a little push against his shoulder, the last bit of linen broke free.
She felt bad for being thankful he was unconscious, but she was sure he would have been in excruciating pain with all the jostling and jerking otherwise.
