* * *
The time spent waiting for the men to return had somehow been awkward and tense.
It had nothing to do with the previous night, not on Isla's end, but she had not been able to stop herself from wincing when Iain had described the men's capability for killing. His face, savage in rage, had flashed before her, and she had flinched visibly; she knew it. It had been impossible to stop, and yet she felt shame for it all the same.
He had been so kind, so gentle to her the night before, and she had made him feel horrible by revealing that she somehow still saw him as a murderer. She could not help it; the thought, small though as it were, had been living in the back of her mind ever since he had made the threat. Though now, she did feel the connection to him that also called to her. It was strong and screaming at her to enfold him in her arms, and she had not wanted to ignore it any longer.
It was maddening and confusing, but as much as she feared him, she also felt he somehow needed saving as well. She had even wanted to go further the previous night; it had only been at his insistence that they had stopped. Isla had felt the need to press herself against his body, tangle her fingers inside his hair. She had never known such pleasure in all of her life; last night had been an eye-opening lesson in the ways of satisfaction, and she craved more.
The silence between them was as thick as the morning fog. Isla sat clutching the quilt to her body, glancing up every now again at the Laird, who stood with his back against the oak.
She dug around in her mind to think of something to ask him, anything to say that would break through the uncomfortable silence that had formed between them. Isla was just about to open her mouth to awkwardly ask if he was cold when she turned her head, her ears picking up something in the forest depths.
"Did ye hear that?" she asked. "It sounded like somethin' rustlin' around out there! And was that... Is that voices?"
It did sound like voices, men's voices. One was shouting, sounding as though in agonizing pain, while the other two were talking urgently between themselves. They were getting closer, approaching the camp.
"M'Laird!" one of the voices called from a distance. It was the men returning back to the camp; Aymer was being supported by his two fellows, his face a mask of anguish. "Aymer needs healin'! He needs help!"
Isla jumped up in surprise, her eyes shooting to Iain's. The man's leg had been torn open by something and was pouring bright red blood. It was apparent he could not walk on it, and if the bleeding was not seen too fast, she knew it was possible he could die.
Immediately, she reached for the discarded bowl she had used last night for Iain's poultice. There was still a little of the mixture left, albeit a bit dry, but it would certainly have to do.
The Laird himself had come alive as well, uncrossing his arms and taking urgent steps towards the two men supporting the screaming warrior. Isla watched out of the corner of her eye as she worked the mossy poultice in her fingers again, moisturizing it as best as she could. The Laird was concerned for his warrior, she saw; he was kneeling down to help guide him to the forest floor.
The man's trouser sleeve was drenched in blood, and his mouth was working, but he said nothing.
"What happened?" Isla heard the Laird ask. "Were ye attacked?"
"No, m'Laird," Gamelin said. "Not by any man, I should say. We were trackin' a doe an' a fawn through the forest and was about tae nock an arrow tae the bowstring when we heard somethin' bowlin' through the forest, comin' straight for the three of us."
"Aye," Jacob said. "'Twas a huge buck, massive beast. The creature flailed its head out, Aymer here bein' the closest tae it. I didnae notice until I heard the thing come crashin' through the woods, and Aymer started screamin' bloody murder. The thing's antlers struck Aymer right where y'see here, and the wound's been wickedly bleedin' ever since. We didnae know how tae close it up, m'Laird, so we brought him here straight away."
The Laird waved Isla over, and she was by the man's side within three long steps. It did not take long to see exactly what had occurred; the deer's antlers had pierced the man's artery, and the blood was flowing with the beat of his heart.
She had moistened up the poultice enough to be usable. It had taken a little bit of time and a lot of squeezing, as well as a healthy amount of dew from the leaves, but she would likely be able to stop the bleeding quickly. Isla cursed inwardly, wishing for all the world for something to sew the man up with. She had ample horsehair but no iron needle, and so that thought was discarded immediately.
Isla pressed the poultice to the man's leg, and he howled his voice breaking.
"Hush up, Aymer," Gamelin said. "The lass's taken care o' ye; ye'll end up right back on yer horse in no time at all. Just... try an' stay calm."
Gamelin was doing his best to calm his friend, but the man on the ground had already seen the wound and was completely panicked. He gasped for breath and would go into shock if he did not calm down.
"Listen," she said, pressing down on the wound. "Aymer, is it?"
The man nodded, his eyes wide. He clutched the earth in both hands, disturbing the grass and the greenery.
"Well then, Aymer," she said. "Yer quite foolish tae not pay attention tae the woodlands aroun' ye, but neither can I hold it against ye. Yer goin' tae be fine, so ye dinnae have tae worry. See, I've got the blood almost completely stopped up here. Dinnae fret, yer going tae live just fine."
She spoke the truth, not just saying the words to calm the panicked man. The blood had nearly coagulated at the source of the wound. He would not be able to walk for quite some time, and they would have to find somewhere to stitch him up immediately once they had the means to do so, but the man was out of danger for now.
She turned to look up at Iain; her brows had climbed high on her forehead.
"Y'see, m'Laird," she said. "This is why I said it would only aid you and yer warriors tae be knowledgeable in the art o' healin'. We dinnae have anythin' tae stitch the man up with, which would have been quite helpful. We will have tae be careful, but he'll be able tae make the rest o' the journey if ye want tae press onward. It would be smart tae try and hurry towards the village; they'll certainly have a needle tae sew up poor Aymer. I'm goin' tae press hold o' this a little while longer, and then we'll be set tae help ye on yer horse."
The last line was spoken to Aymer himself, who seemed to have calmed down. She looked at Iain, who had a mix of emotions on his face. She saw gratitude there and wonder as well, likely from her increasingly apparent abilities as a healer. She was glad now that she had paid attention when watching the healers of the Robertson clan from afar.
But there was something else that was stirred up in the Laird's face. What it was, she could not tell, and she did not want to keep staring as she tried to decipher what his expression meant. He frowned deeply, that same perpetual expression that he nearly always wore, but his eyes housed a fire that had not been there before.
