He glanced up, the dirk high in his hand, and the look of raw anguish on his face cut her to the quick. But by time she’d closed the remaining distance between them, the emotion was gone, hidden by a mask of control, but for the slight twitch below his eye. It was as if the sheer force of emotion he was trying to contain had found one small crack through which to escape.
Her heart melted. The small vulnerability at an age when it seemed so important for men not to have any—let alone show any—touched her. Why being a man meant you couldn’t have any emotion, she didn’t know. But toughness seemed to be some prerequisite to Highland warriorhood. And from his size, breadth of shoulder, and clothing, she could tell he was a warrior.
She came to a sudden stop before him and was relieved to see his hand come down.
“You shouldn’t be down here, lass. The path is dangerous.”
He spoke kindly, which, especially given the circumstances, impressed her. If she needed any proof of his words, all she had to do was look at the poor animal in his lap whose soft, whinging cries tore at every string in her heart.
She knelt down beside him, her eyes falling to the dog. It was a deerhound, and from the looks of him, one who’d been loved for many years. He had a large cut on his side, but it was his right rear leg that had provoked the dirk. It was bent at a hideous angle, the bone poking through the black and gray fur. A large pool of blood had gathered in the sand around it. But blood had never bothered her.
She wanted to reach out and pet its head, but she knew better than to touch an animal in pain. Unlike the lad before her, it would lash out.
“He fell?” she asked, gazing up at the young warrior.
He nodded. “Go now, lass. There’s no help for him. He’s in pain, and you…” His voice caught. “You shouldn’t see this.”
“You care for him?”
He nodded again, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. After a long pause, he said, “I’ve had him since I was seven. My father gave him to me when I was sent away to foster.”
The dog made another pained sound, and he flinched. She could see the fingers around his dirk tighten. She reached out, putting her hand on his wrist as if to stop him. But the solid muscle under her palm told her she would have little chance of that. “Please, I think I can help.”
He shook his head. “Tail is beyond help.” Tail? What an odd name for a dog! “It’s too badly broken, lass. There’s nothing to be done but put him out of his misery.”
But what about yours?Helen wanted to ask. “Will you allow me to at least try?”
He held her gaze and something passed between them. He must have sensed her earnestness because after a moment, he nodded.
She raced back to the castle to gather what she needed, after making him promise to do nothing to the dog while she was gone, and told him to gather all the wood he could find that had drifted onto the beach.
She was gone no longer than half an hour and was relieved to see him waiting with the dog where she’d left him. After explaining what she wished him to do, he placed one of the sticks in the dog’s mouth to prevent him from biting and held him down while she went to work.
She’d watched Muriel and her father do this only a handful of times on human bones, but somehow she seemed to know what to do. She applied what she’d seen, followed her instincts, and managed to reposition the bones, fashion a leg brace from the sticks, and hold them in position by wrapping strips of her chemise around them.
The hardest part was listening to the animal’s sounds of pain and keeping him still. But Magnus—that was the young warrior’s name, as she had learned in their quick exchange of names before she’d left—was strong.
He watched her in growing disbelief as she worked. After she’d finished telling him how to tend the injuries, and what herbs to mix in a tincture that would keep the dog sleepy while it had time to heal, he looked at her in wonder. “How …? You did it.”
He was looking at her with an expression on his face that made every part of her insides feel warm. “He did well. Tail, you called him?”
Magnus nodded. “My friends started to call him that because he followed me everywhere. He was my tail, they said. I called him Scout originally, but Tail stuck.”
She smiled and was surprised to see him smile back at her. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.
He held her gaze, and she felt something shift in her chest. With his golden-brown hair, soft brown eyes, and tanned skin, he was a startlingly handsome young man. For the first time, she understood how the other girls could act so silly about a lad.
Perhaps he read her thoughts. “How old are you, lass?”
She sat up straight, looking him in the eye. For some reason it was very important to her that he not think of her as a child. “I’m four and ten,” she said proudly.
He smiled. “All that, eh? But since you’re too young to be a healer, I think you must be an angel.”
She blushed. Hadn’t he seen her hair? Of course he had. She hated veils and “forgot” them as often as she could.
“Tell me, how is it, wee Helen, that you have such skill?”
She shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know—I’ve always been interested in it, I suppose.”
