He swung his sword down, and Jeane screamed, seeing the blood splash across the scarred man’s tunic.
Her attacker was dead, and now, she was at the mercy of the man who killed him.
The blood had also splashed on Jeane’s skirt, and she rubbed at it frantically, only managing to transfer it to her hands.
She rubbed them in the dirt, finally getting it off her, and the scarred man looked down at her with dark brown eyes, his stare so intense that Jeane thought he might see into her soul. The way his dark hair framed his face made his gaze even sharper. Jeane shivered—whether from fear or desire, she could not tell.
“Who are ye?” he asked, turning his sword on her.
Jeane let out a little squeak, unable to answer, and the man approached her, his sword inches from her chest.
“Tell me yer name, little mouse,” he ordered. “I am nae fan of killin’ women, but if ye were in league with him?—”
“I wasnae in league with him,” she said quickly. “I daenae even ken who he was. I daenae ken whoyeare.”
She looked up at him, determined, and the scarred man looked down at her, his eyes blazing.
Jeane did not know if this was her end, but if it were, she would go down fighting. She scrambled to her feet, and the man sighed, sheathing his sword.
“Who are ye?” she asked, and the man just stared at her, as if he would not answer.
She had to admit to herself, at least, that she was intrigued by the handsome, scarred man. She thought maybe she had gone mad. He had just threatened to kill her, but she wanted to know more.
Who was he?
And what did he want with her?
CHAPTER THREE
“Iasked ye a question. I expect ye to answer, lass.”
But she did not speak a word, quiet like the little mouse she seemed to be.
Fergus looked down at the lass, trying to keep his gaze hard. He had sheathed his sword because she clearly had nothing to do with his attacker. It did not help matters that she might be the most beautiful lass Fergus had ever laid eyes on.
Her hair was so blonde, it was nearly white, and it had come loose from its braid, curls trailing down her back. Her wide brown eyes, a doe’s eyes, looked up at him. There was more fire in them than fear.
She did not recoil from him as other women did, and for that, Fergus was grateful. He did not have the patience to deal with a trembling little lass, too scared to answer his questions while hewas bleeding out. But he was also intrigued. What made her so different? He wanted to know more about her.
“Who are ye? What are ye doing in me woods?”
“I didnae ken they were yer woods!” she exclaimed, her hands tightening into fists at her sides. “I was followin’ a doe. I’m just a healer, and I stumbled across ye, unconscious. I didnae want to leave ye to die. Maybe I should have.”
Fergus snorted out a derisive laugh at that. “Aye, maybe,” he murmured, stepping closer to her. He looked down to see that blood had seeped through his tunic.
Her hands spread out to touch his chest, clearly ready to push him away, and Fergus drew in a sharp breath at the unexpected touch. Her hands were warm even through the fabric of his tunic. The pressure of those delicate fingers made him hiss—not only from the unbidden desire that surged through him but also from the sudden pain her touch triggered.
“Ye’re hurt,” she said, her voice soft.
“Aye, but it’s nae so bad.”
“I think I will be the judge of that.”
“Ye said ye are a healer?”
Jeane did not answer. She lifted his tunic, hissing in a breath when she saw the gash across his stomach.
“It’s deep,” she said and leaned down to rip a piece of her dress off, flashing a tantalizing glimpse of pale knees. “If I had supplies?—”
