Instead, she stood there, holding his gaze.
“Go on, then,” she whispered. “Do it. Throw the knife.”
He met her eye, holding it for what seemed like an eternity. It could only have been a few seconds, however. Abruptly, before she could react at all, he tossed the knife up into the air. It spun,point over hilt, and came down with a vibratingthud, landing with its point jammed between two flagstones a few feet in front of Una’s toes. She snatched it up before the handle had even stopped vibrating.
“I would not kill ye, even if I had the chance,” Struan said bluntly, and Una felt as though she were frozen to the stop.
“Why not?” she asked, even as she told herself that she wouldn’t ask any more questions.
He half turned away, angling his face up at the silvery moonlight. For the first time, she noticed that his sleeve was torn, and there was a nasty gash running down the outside of his shoulder. There was bruising around the cut, too, a sure sign that it had happened when he was being beaten.
“I owe ye my thanks. I never had the chance to say so. For driving off those men earlier.”
Una was sure she must have misheard. Clutching her knife to her chest, she cleared her throat.
“What?”
He didn’t look at her.
“When those Kenneth guards attacked me, they meant to kill me. I knew it, ye knew it, and so on. And in that moment, I…” he hesitated, the words stuttering in his throat. “I didn’t want to die.”
Una flinched, rocking back on her heels. He didn’t want to die? He’d said over and over how much he preferred death to dishonor. She believed him. And now, he was saying something different?
“So,” he continued lightly, his voice seeming very thoughtful and distant, “I owe ye my thanks.”
Now was the time for Una to say something. She found, to her surprise, that no words were coming to mind. Instead, she pointed with the knife towards his bloodied arm.
“That needs washing and bandaging. Ye will get an infection. The healers here won’t be as good as the nuns at the convent.”
He chuckled and leaned backwards to lie stretched out on his bed of straw. Now, he was staring up at the distant, dark ceiling, as if he’d forgotten she was there at all. There was something strange and misty in his eyes, the sort of expression you shouldn’t see in the face of a merciless killer.
“Do ye see any bandages in here, lassie?” he asked, and there was a wry twist of amusement in his voice. “I’ll be fine. It’ll take more than a wee cut to kill me.”
Una scowled. She took a step backwards, gripping the door handle.
“The convent’s graveyard is full of dead men who thought just the same,” she snapped.
He didn’t venture a reply, and she wouldn’t have stayed to hear it even if he had. She slammed the door, locked it, sheathed her knife securely, and set off at a brisk stride down the hallway.
She made it all the way to the crossroads before she stopped. To her left, the hallway led to the feast hall, where laughter and chatter and heat came billowing out, laced with the heavy smell of roasting meat. To her right, it led off to the kitchens and more practical parts of the Keep.
Surely I am not so much of a fool,Una thought, heart thudding in her chest.
A young man came hurrying along, carrying a large jug of wine. Inwardly cursing herself, Una stepped in his way.
He flinched, eyes wide.
“Aye, lady? What is it?”
“I want some supplies, if ye please,” Una said brusquely. “A bowl of warm water, a few clean rags, bandages, a sharp needle, and good thread. Oh, and a poultice of basil, marigold, and garlic leaves for infection, aye?”
The young man blinked in surprise. “As ye wish, lady,” he managed.
Fifteen minutes later, Una had her ingredients.
What am I doing? Why am I so foolish?she wondered, over and over again, as she unlocked the door to Struan’s cell.
She told herself it was because of her promise to Kyla and her promise to the Abbess. Struan was her responsibility. That was why she cared whether or not he lost an arm to infection. That was the reason. The only reason.
