"It may sting a wee bit," she said cautiously. "But dinnae ye go on and get angry with me, y'hear? I'm only doin' the best I can."
He said nothing but allowed her to continue. She reached down between her knees and pulled up the wine bottle, hesitating a moment. She poured the liquid over the wound, the blood, and wine mingling together. Isla was right; it did sting for a moment, but the pain swiftly fled as he distracted his mind with her beautiful face. He grit his teeth, biting down hard so that he didn't utter a single word and let her continue with her work.
The way her brows pulled downward as she intently focused on his wound enchanted him. She dabbed lightly at his arm, and he was certain she was deliberately trying not to cause him any more pain or discomfort than necessary. She certainly did seem like a true healer, so perhaps the young woman was telling the whole truth after all.
"Let me know if ye want me tae stop," she said. "If ye would allow me tae hunt around the glen here, I may be able tae forage for somethin' that I can use for a poultice. I could find somethin' easily if ye let me, I'd wager."
She did not look at him as she made her proposal, perhaps fearful he would shoot down her request immediately. It was an awfully bold thing to ask, especially since the men were finally drifting off to sleep by the fire.
But he found himself nodding anyway. In her eyes, there was a seriousness, a sincerity that he trusted, though he did not know why. It was an instinct to trust her, some strange remnant from the dream, certainly. It would make much more sense to tell her no, that it was enough that she had sterilized it with the alcohol, but he allowed her the request all the same.
"Alrigh' then, lass," he said. "If ye think that ye can help, then I won't deny ye that."
His voice had gone soft; he told himself it was not to wake the men, but he knew that was a poor excuse. He could not lie to himself, but he could keep up his gruff appearance with Isla. He had to work hard to frown in her direction when all he wanted to do was stare at her in wonder.
She stood, motioning him to follow her, taking with her a small cotton cloth from the rucksack. Iain followed her in awe, watching as she felt along the path. Every so often, she would bring her fingertips to her nostrils, foraging with scent since the light was less than optimal. He hung back a few steps, allowing her some room to search, simply watching.
She bent low, her fingers brushing the ground. The moonlight sunk low through the treetops, playing across her face in patterns that only highlighted her haunting beauty. Watching her feel her way through the glade was like watching a sublime being from the world of the fae in her natural habitat, working alongside the moss, herbs, and greenery of the trees.
Isla did not notice his eyes on her, or so he assumed. If she did, she chose to stay silent about it, to focus solely on the work ahead of her. He watched as she placed bits of this and that into her cloth, keeping the cotton closed in her fist so as not to lose any of her takings. He had no knowledge of healing, but she wore a thoughtful expression that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.
"I think I've found just about everythin' I can use around here," she said quietly. "I dinnae think we'll find much more here. We should turn back."
"Aye, I suppose tha' we should," he agreed, his voice matching hers in softness. "I dinnae want tae leave the men much longer unattended."
He only then realized she not once looked as though she would have tried to escape. In fact, she was leading him back to the camp as though he were the captive and not herself. The dim firelight was still visible through the trees, and upon their approach, he watched as it lay an orange glow over her visible skin.
The young woman sank next to the fire, feeling around in the rucksack.
"What are ye lookin' for?" he asked.
"I doubt the men thought to bring somethin' as forgettable as a mortar and pestle," she said. "I dinnae blame them, but I'm certain one could be useful if the men were instructed even but a little more in healing. It wouldnae hurt to start takin' one with ye; perhaps ye should think about makin' it standard on journeys."
She pulled out a little wooden bowl from the leather satchel and placed her treasures from the forest inside. Again, the young woman bent along the forest floor, and Iain could only wonder what she was doing. Her fingers dug through the earth, and after a moment, she stood back up with a smooth, flat rock in her hands.
"Not exactly the sort of pestle I'm used tae using," she said. "But I suppose that it will have tae do. Really and truthfully, it would help so much if yer men were more educated in this art; it is not hard tae learn."
The young woman crushed up the conglomeration of ingredients in the little bowl, occasionally reaching in to tear the contents with her nails and fingers. After a few moments, the mixture became a sort of absorbent mush that she slathered onto his arm.
"It's a poultice," she said, her lashes falling across her cheeks. "'Twill soak up the blood and stop the bleedin'."
Iain saw she was right; the bleeding had stopped, the moss soaking up the crimson liquid that had steadily poured out of his wound. The poultice had only needed to set for a few moments before Iain could tell it was working.
"I suppose I'm trustin' ye a little too much," he said. "Tha' could have been any manner of poison, though I doubt that it is."
She let a small laugh out again, a sound that shot pleasure through him. The young woman sounded as though the wine had dizzied her and the effect it had on Iain was staggering. He wanted to pull her into an embrace and feel the curve of her slender waist against his fingertips.
"Ye think I would poison ye?" she said as his thoughts dissipated. "Suppose that would be the only way a lass like me could bring down a giant of a man like yerself."
It had been the first time she had commented on his physical appearance at all, and he eagerly wanted to hear more. It was foolish and self-indulgent, he knew, but he was starting to enjoy conversation with her more and more.
He considered telling her about the dream but shut his mouth before the words escaped him. The last thing he needed was her laughing at him, but somehow he had the feeling she would not. The drink had loosened him up more than he thought; he had opened his mouth to tell her more than once.
He knew he should keep her at a distance, but it was too satisfying to keep her close. There was a large part of him that was still aware of the fact she could be a liar. That awareness had not been set aside; it lay dormant. The thought brought about a twinge of something incredibly uncomfortable inside of him, but he knew it would be stupid to forget about the possibility she was a spy altogether.
But for now, he would not assume the worst. She had already proven she could be trusted, at least a minuscule amount.
He would allow himself to enjoy her presence, though the risk that she was lying to him was still present. It was something that he was forced to consider, though he had done his best to push the fact far from his active thoughts.
