“Nae, ye dinnae. But I’m here nonetheless.” She’d need to get his shirt off to apply the poultice. The idea sent a soft, fluttering sensation through her belly. She squashed it firmly as she came and knelt beside him. His sash was easy to remove, and she began unknotting the laces of his shirt.
Blake woke up a little more. “What’re ye doing?”
“Removing yer shirt so I can clean yer wound and put some medicine on it.”
He gave her a drowsy, half-hearted smirk. “I can dae it, though I willnae stop ye if ye want tae undress me.”
“And I’ll nae entertain such talk from ye, nae when ye’re fevered and sick and out o’ yer head with it. And even less if ye were in yer right mind.” She retorted. The last of the laces came loose, and she whipped his shirt off.
She’d seen wounded, shirtless men in the healer’s cottage. Knowing that did nothing to stop the blush that rose to her cheeks as she studied Blake’s bared torso. The muscles his youthful build had hinted at were now fully defined. The lines of his chest and abdomen were well-formed, and not at all diminished by the scars of varying ages that marked him. Despite her anger toward him, she couldn’t deny he was pleasant to look at, and that there was a very small part of her that longed to explore the contours of his frame.
She shoved the thought out of her head and went back to the fire. The poultice was heated enough, so she folded it together andbrought it back to him. Blake flinched a little as she laid it across his shoulder and bound it in place, but he already seemed to be slipping into a half doze. She nudged him. “Dinnae sleep. I need tae get some restorative tea intae ye.”
She couldn’t tell if he was listening or not, but he was still at least partially conscious and aware when she returned to his side a few minutes later with a steaming cup of tea. He managed to open his mouth when she placed the cup against his lips, and swallow when she tipped liquid into his mouth. Once he’d finished the tea, she helped him lie back, and he was soon asleep, leaving her free to drink her own tea and try to sort out her feelings.
She was still furious at him for abandoning her and leaving her to mourn him for ten years. But at the same time, he was also Blake Sinclair – a grown version of the young man she’d fallen in love with. He’d stepped between her and a knife, taking a blow that she knew might well have been fatal if it had struck her.
She noticed he was sweating, his face pale, and the cloth she’d used to bathe his face was dry. She doused it again, wrung it out, and replaced it. Blake twitched and opened feverish, unfocused eyes. “Ye’re upset…”
“Aye.” She brushed some of his wild hair back. “Why did ye take that blow fer me, when ye kent I was angry at ye, and just as like tae knife ye meself?”
He blinked, honest confusion on his face. “Why would I nae?”
There was no good answer to that, so she poured some more tea into him. Blake made a face at the taste but drank obediently. “Little witch... always with yer teas and the like…” His voice trailed off as he dropped back into slumber.
Looking at him now, asleep and relaxed in a way he never was when awake, it was easier to see the youth who’d laughed with her in the meadow, and given her casual, friendly embraces, and let her lean on his shoulder to rest after hours of herb collection. Against her will, she could feel a little of her anger softening in the wake of the memories, only to be refueled a moment later as she remembered the long, lonely days in the meadow waiting for him to appear, and the nights lying away, heartsick and wondering what had happened, and why he’d not at least sent her message.
She shook her head.
Damn ye, Blake. Why could ye nae at least have given me a proper explanation? How can I decide whether or nae tae even consider fergivin’ ye, when I have nae idea what happened tae ye, and why ye nae only left me, but came tae serve in the clan o’ me faither’s worst enemy?
Reyna sighed. She knew she’d get no answers while he was asleep. She could also feel the falling temperatures as night deepened, and she frowned. It wouldn’t help his health if he took a chill, and the fire was too small to keep him adequately warm.After a moment, Reyna collected her blankets and moved closer to where she could monitor his condition and keep him a littlewarmer, and closed her eyes. Not long after, the events of the day caught up with her, and she joined him in a light slumber.
His world was being consumed by fire and pain. Agony screamed through him, along with heat, until he thought he might burn to ashes or collapse under the strain of it. The world was dark around him, illuminated only by memories and nightmares that danced through his tortured thoughts.
He relived his last fight with his father, and Hutch’s words to him in the woods the day he’d lost everything. This time, not even Hutch believed him, and he was dragged before the Elders and delivered to judgment.
He dreamed of the attack that had scarred his face, but this time his attackers were Sinclair soldiers, and no help came.
He dreamed of standing on the executioners’ platform, Reyna at her father’s side as they prepared to take his life, her expression cold and hard and dismissive as he cried out to her.
There were other dreams too, other memories, a maelstrom of torment that he couldn’t escape, no matter how he fought to find his way back to safety, sanity, or even consciousness.
He was a boy, trying not to cry under his father’s stern rebukes.
He was fourteen, alone in the dark and fighting howls of grief for his father, along with the bone-deep regret that he’d not been able to say farewell to his mother or comfort her.
He was a youth, fighting back involuntary tears as he lay in the dirt, knocked on his back by the brutal blows of the warrior assigned as his teacher for the day.
He was a young man, looking at the blood on his blade and fighting not to feel anything, despite the sickening knowledge that he was now a killer for Oran Murray, the very man he’d once despised.
He was standing in the darkness, face to face with his father, his features warped and bloated in death. Ghostly voices swirled around him, his father’s and others, including one he thought was Reyna’s.
Why did ye abandon me? Why did ye scorn me? Why did ye kill me? Why... why... why…
“I didnae! I didnae want tae leave... I had nae choice. Faither… I didnae kill ye, I swear I didnae, I swear…”
Something cold slashed through the heat and the pain, and Blake found himself catapulted back into the waking world, the ghosts of old regrets and grief chasing him like the hounds of the legendary Wild Hunt as he went.
