Alana took a sip. The wine was warm and spiced. Its heat crept through her.
He put the mug down, picked up her hands and rubbed them gently. “Ye will not die from the cold today,” he said tersely. “But ye might have died, had ye spent another few hours in the snow.”
Her stomach churned. “Iain,” she tried to say. Her lips were blistered from the cold and it hurt to speak.
He held her hands against his chest. “I will shout at ye for being ten times the fool another day.”
Did he care? “Iain,” she said, through her cracked lips. She was in his tent, she saw. A fire was in the center, but holes in the hide allowed the smoke to escape.
“I am here, Alana. Do not speak, yer lips are bleeding.” He turned and a woman appeared, blonde and freckled, in a long leine and a fur cloak. She dabbed a salve on Alana’s mouth and nose.
What day was it? Bruce was going to be attacked! “No. Iain. Please.” She struggled to sit up.
He instantly put his arm around her and helped her. Alana put her hands on his chest and whimpered, for her fingers hurt terribly—but not as much as before. He wrapped her hands in his.
For one moment, she closed her eyes and laid her cheek on his chest. The pain was passing. The cold had burned her extremities. She would look later to see if she had lost a finger or a toe.
Alana realized she was nestled in Iain’s arms, and that he had his chin on top of her head as he held her hands. He had forgiven her, she thought. Either that or he cared so much about her that what he thought was her betrayal no longer mattered.
“Impatient, headstrong wench,” he said.
She looked up at him. “I have come...to warn you.”
His gaze narrowed. He handed her the warm wine again. She took another sip. And another one.
He set it down and Alana took a breath. “Buchan plans to attack you at Slioch on Christmas Day.”
His eyes widened. “Christmas is but four days away!”
So she had not been unconscious for long. Craig must have brought her here very recently, before departing back to Brodie.
“Are you sure, Alana?”
“I have risked my life to warn you.... Yes, I am certain.”
His eyes wide, he stood. “I will be back. Meg will take care of ye until I return.” He left the tent immediately.
Alana lay back on the pallet, closing her eyes. She had done it. She had warned Iain. Now she must pray that there was enough time to move the army or mount a proper defense.
She immediately thought of her father, praying she had not put him in jeopardy. She did not want to think about her vision of his death just then.
“Do ye wish for more wine, my lady?”
Alana glanced at the servant, and felt wary. Who was this? She was Alana’s own age, a pretty blonde with a small nose and vivid blue eyes. She had seen women at Bruce’s other camp at Concarn, but they had been camp followers—the kind of loose and impoverished women that were always present among an army. Alana did not like the fact that this woman was so pretty and so unworn. She did not like the fact that she was tending Alana on Iain’s behest.
“Yes, please,” Alana said, struggling to sit up. She used her hands and cried out as she did so.
The woman hurried to her. “Try not to use yer hands, my lady. Do they feel better? They have been terribly burned. I was hoping to bandage them, but Iain told me to wait. My name is Meg.”
Alana was now sitting, and she allowed the other woman to help her sip the wine. “Are you his lover?”
Meg looked at her, flushing.
Alana looked away instantly.
“So ye love him,” Meg said. “To ride across the Highlands to warn him of an attack.”
She slowly glanced up. “Yes, I love him. How did you meet?”
