“She's a Campbell,” Patrick swore. “When you find yourself losing heart while staring at her pretty face, picture her brothers and cousin instead.”
Robbie took a step back, staring at him with a peculiar expression on his face. “Aye, Captain. I'll remember that.”
Patrick felt the eruption of temper cool just as suddenly, realizing what had happened—and what he'd been reacting to. Robbie had done no more than voice Patrick's own qualms—qualms that he hadn't anticipated. “It's better than the alternative,” he said, more to convince himself as Robbie walked away.
Patrick yanked off his shirt, using the water brought by the maidservant to wipe away the sweat, blood, and grime from his body. He balled up the ruined shirt and tossed it in the fire, then pulled a fresh one from his bag, silently thanking the merchant he'd stolen the clothing from for being thoughtful enough to have a spare.
Tucking in the shirt, he flinched as his fingers scraped the wound at his side. But he ignored the pain as he pulled on his cotun and strode out the door, heading to the great hall. He tried to blink, but could not clear the black spots in his vision. With some food and a good night's rest, he would be good as new.
He made it as far as the staircase.
Chapter 5
Lizzie lingered over her food, taking another piece of brown bread and slathering it with fresh, creamy butter, even though she'd had her fill. She sat at the dais beside the bailiff and theseannachiealong with other high-ranking men of the clan, the room buzzing with the loud voices of the guardsmen who'd decided to drown the hardships of the day in a hearty amount ofcuirm.Her gaze shifted more than once toward the door, wondering what was keeping them.
It was only the concern that the lady of the keep would feel for her guests, she told herself. But the longer the delay, the more obvious the lie. Her concern was for one man.
Patrick Murray fascinated her. Everything about him seemed intense—larger than life—from his impossibly handsome face to his strength to the darkness and turmoil she sensed simmering just below the surface.
As the minutes ticked by, she became even more convinced that something was wrong. So when the young Murray warrior she'd spoken to earlier—Robbie, she recalled—appeared at the entry to the great hall, his eyes frantically scanning the room, she practically leapt to her feet and hurried across the crowded room.
“Is there something wrong?” Her fingers clutched the wool of her skirts, already anticipating the answer.
Robbie nodded. “It's the captain, my lady.”
Her heart plummeted. “What's happened?”
She could tell that Robbie was uncomfortable—as if he weren't sure he was doing the right thing.
“Please tell me. I only wish to help,” she urged gently.
“He's unconscious, my lady.” He lowered his voice, and she could see the worry in his roguish gaze. “I thought he was dead. He's lost a lot of blood.”
“He's wounded?” Lizzie couldn't control the high pitch of her voice.
“Aye.”
“But how?” Her mind shuffled through the day's events. She'd known something was wrong. How could she have missed it? “Was he shot?”
The young warrior shook his head. “Nay, he took a blade in the side.”
Surely she would have seen an injury of that magnitude? “But when? How is it possible?” When Robbie started to look even more uncomfortable, she said, “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”
Not wanting to waste a minute, she motioned for a serving girl and gave her orders to have the healer meet them in the barracks right away with her medicines. Thinking of what else they might need, she told the girl to find hot water and fresh linens and bring them as well. And some broth. And plenty of whisky.
A few minutes later, she entered the barracks with Robbie. Patrick's men had laid him on a pallet and were gathered around, staring at him indecisively. Lizzie waved them out of the way and knelt beside the unconscious man, feeling a strange tightness in her throat and chest—as if the swell of emotion inside her had suddenly grown too large to hold.
Why he should affect her so, she didn't know. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing such a big, powerful warrior blazing with life suddenly cut down. His face was bloodless. Fear trickled down her spine. It was easy to see why Robbie had feared he was dead: He looked it.
She put her hand on his cheek, shocked by the cold clamminess of his skin. Leaning over him, she put her cheek next to his mouth. Her chest heaved with relief when she felt the warmth of his ragged breath sweep across her skin.
Though faint, it was a sign of life—one that she intended to hold on to.
He would not die. Not if she had anything to say about it.
Fionnghuala, the healer, arrived, and with the help of Robbie and another of Patrick's men, they removed his cotun and shirt, slowly revealing the broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and powerful chest that looked as if it had been ripped from steel.
Jesu!
