“Yes, you do.” She took a step toward him. “Hold still. It’s only just inside the skin.” She picked up the tunic he’d removed and tore a strip from it. “Wait there.” Sticking her head back out of the door she shouted, “Any alcohol on board?”
“Dinnae be getting drunk,” the captain called back. “The journey isnae long enough.”
“Good advice. Where is it?”
“There’s some whisky in the bottle by the bed.”
She ducked back inside, rummaging until she found it.
“What are you doing?” Wallace asked, pulling the feathers from the end of the arrow.
“Making sure you survive long enough to get me home.”
“By drinking?”
“By keeping your wound clean.” She doused the strip of fabric in whisky before handing it to him. “When I say so, press that to the wound. Ready?”
“Ready.”
She dipped a second strip and placed it nearby. “Here goes,” she said more to herself than to him. Then she pulled hard and fast. The arrow came out and immediately blood began to flow. She pressed the cloth to the wound, holding it fast while Wallace did the same at the other end. Throughout it all, he didn’t make a sound.
“Didn’t that hurt?” she asked, feeling the blood starting to soak through.
“Aye.”
“Yet you remain silent as the grave.”
“What would be the point of screaming? The pain would remain.”
“Fair enough.” She looked at his back, noticing the scars that covered it. “You’ve had a hard life,”she said, tracing the line of one of the marks with her free hand. “Who did this to you?”
“I was beaten in the dungeon.” He paused for a moment. “Many times.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, almost able to feel his pain. She could only imagine what had caused so much damage to his skin.
Stretching her hand out, she was able to fetch a length of twine from under the bed. Wrapping it around his waist, she tied the two ends of cloth in place before finally letting go, stepping back gratified to see no fresh blood had escaped the coverings. “You can relax now.”
He looked down and then nodded. “I thank you.”
“So much for not needing a MacCallister’s help.”
“Perhaps you helped a little.”
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Why do you hate me?”
“What? I dinnae hate you.”
“Yes you do. I can hear it in your voice, in the way you look at me. You hate the MacCallisters and I’m a MacCallister. What have I done to you?”
“It’s not you, it’s those that came before you.”
“What? You mean my ancestors, don’t you.”
“Aye, they took my parents from me, locked up my father, took away my childhood.” He paused, sounding emotional for the first time. “They killed my father.”
