The door opened. Arran wished he had spent the precious minutes looking for a weapon so that he might defend himself rather than attempting to figure out where he was. He couldn’t fight back. His body was drained of its normal strength, likely due to the blood he had lost while waiting for his death.
“Ye’re awake.”
The raspy voice caught Arran’s attention, and he waited with bated breath as the figure came into view. The woman looked as if she had wallowed in a pigsty and smelled like it, the scent turning Arran’s empty stomach. A hood covered her hair and much of her face as she briskly felt his forehead.
“The fever has broken.”
“Where am I?” he asked as she picked up one of his wrists and examined the bandage.
“The McDougal keep,” she responded, placing his arm back on the mattress. “I demanded that they bring ye here if the laird wanted ye tae live.”
Aye, so that was the plan. McDougal wanted him alive for his own ministrations. Arran figured he would be better off dead once the other laird was through.
“How long have I been here?”
“I believe I liked ye better when ye were unconscious.”
The annoyance in her voice caused Arran to snort with laughter unexpectedly. It was not the answer he had expected.
“It’s been ten days,” she said a moment later. “Five of them spent in this bed. Ye nearly died.”
Arran propped himself up on his elbows, gritting through the pain, and threw the blanket back, eliciting a gasp from the woman. On his left thigh, there was a long bandage, hiding the wound that was there.
“What are ye doing!” the woman shouted as Arran tried to swing it over the edge of the bed. “Ye are about tae ruin mah hard work!”
“Hush, woman,” he grumbled, placing his bare foot on the cold stone floor. Gingerly, he stood, blindly reaching out to brace against the wall for support as the room tilted sideways and his vision blurred. The pain was nearly unbearable, and it felt as if his leg was on fire.
Unable to take it, Arran eased back on the bed, sighing in relief.
“I told ye,” the woman said haughtily.
“Who are ye, woman?” Arran asked, resting his head against the stone wall. “A tormentor tae drive a man insane?”
She chuckled, kneeling at his feet to inspect the dressing. “I am Agatha, the clan’s healer.”
A healer. That would explain her eccentric looks and behavior. While Arran did not believe in the magical powers of healing, he had been the subject of many a poultice and bandage in his day.
“The laird must wish tae have me well then.”
The woman stood, brushing her hands on her skirts. “I dinnae know what the laird has in mind.”
“Ye live in his keep,” Arran replied evenly. “Surely ye have heard something.”
She frowned. “I dinnae live here, nor would I even if the laird begged.”
Arran was surprised. His own healer lived in a room deep in the keep, close by if the need arose. Where did this woman live, and why was she not revered by the laird?
The door opened without warning, and Arran growled low in his throat as he watched McDougal stride in, sending the healer hurrying off into the corner of the room.
“Well, I cannae believe it. Ye must be too stubborn tae join the afterlife.”
“And ye are a fool tae keep me alive,” Arran replied casually, crossing his arms over his chest. “’Tis will be yer death.”
The other laird smirked. “Perhaps I am, but from where I am standing, I see naw recourse but tae make an example oot of ye, Mcaiwn.”
“Only because ye are scared,” Arran countered with a smirk of his own. His entire body was screaming in pain from the casual movements he was making, but he would be damned if he’d show his enemy his weakness. As much as he wished to take the sword hanging at Mcdougal’s side and thrust it through his neck, Arran knew the guards behind the laird would gut him soon after. He had to find a way to stay alive and a way back home to his family.
He was no good to them dead.
