“Did ye forget how to speak, little mouse?”
When she looked up, she realized that Fergus was towering over her, looking down into her eyes. He was close enough that if she tilted her chin up just slightly, her lips would brush against his.
She shook her head to clear it.
“I havenae forgotten,” she murmured. “What happened to the last healer?”
Fergus’ face went stony. “Morna was a good healer. She was with us for many years, but she passed away in her sleep last winter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jeane said quietly.
Fergus shrugged. “Death comes for us all. Now, get on the horse.”
Jeane groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Get on the horse, lass. It’s a long ride to town, and I want to be back before midnight.”
She sighed heavily as he held his hand out to her but took it so that she could mount the horse.
They rode into town, which thankfully was only a few hours’ ride. Jeane was already so sore, she could no longer get down off the horse without Fergus’ help.
He did not seem to mind helping her, though, his hands lingering on hers as he helped her down.
She trailed into the first shop, an apothecary. She gathered all the supplies she thought she would need, uncaring about the price. If Fergus wanted her to heal, he had better give her the right materials.
Cloths for bandages, antiseptics, draughts for pain and fever. Fergus, to his credit, did not complain when he placed a small bag of gold into the apothecary’s hand.
As he paid, Jeane walked out of the store ahead of him, looking around, wondering if Fergus would allow her to visit a dress shop. She had not brought any clothes with her, and she and Lottie were not exactly the same size. Lottie was smaller, less curvy, and Jeane suspected her clothes would make her look like a harlot.
She walked slowly down the street, peering into windows at the clothing. Fergus hung behind, admiring the swords in a blacksmith’s shop. Jeane thought nothing of going on ahead, knowing that the Laird was just a few hundred yards behind her.
“Good evenin’, pretty lass,” a deep voice sounded behind her.
Jeane jerked her head around, not recognizing Fergus’ voice, and sure enough, it was not her tall, handsome captor who looked back at her but a smaller man, balding and chubby.
He smiled at her, showing yellow teeth.
Jeane politely smiled back but shrank against the wall as he got closer.
“Good evenin’,” she said in a measured voice. “If ye will excuse me?—”
“Daenae ye run off just yet, pretty lass.” He reached out to touch a lock of her white-blonde hair, and Jeane recoiled so that he touched only the end of the strand.
But the balding man only seemed to be encouraged by her obvious revulsion, leaning in closer, placing his hand above her head on the brick next to the dress shop.
“Aye, ye are an odd lookin’ thing,” he muttered, searching her face before his eyes fell on her cleavage.
Jeane crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide herself as best she could.
The man stepped closer and closer, so close that Jeane could smell the corn liquor on his breath.
“Please leave me be,” she pleaded, but she heard the crack of fear in her own voice.
“Come on now, lass. Daenae ye want to see how the other half lives? I see yer ripped skirt. I could buy ye all the fancy things, ye ken.”
Jeane doubted that since the man’s tunic seemed worn, and the smell of ale overwhelmed her as he leaned in even closer.
She opened her mouth to cry out Fergus’ name, even though she hated being beholden to him, and then she heard a booming command.
