“Soon.”
She drove her arm into his side again. “How far, Tavish?”
“Another hour,” he confessed finally, his eyes set forward. “Perhaps two.”
“Ye cannae wait that long,” she insisted. “Stop the horse. I can tend to it if I get some clean fabric and whiskey…”
“I said it’s alright!” he said through gritted teeth and let the horse gallop onward a little longer.
But when another shock of pain seemed to pass through his body, Ailsa had enough of his stubbornness.
“Stop or I’ll make ye! Ye hear me, Tavish?”
The pain must have been insufferable because he pulled the steed to the side of the road with no further protest. Surely he did not care about her threats. Maybe it was the thought that she could run for it again and he wouldn’t be able to chase after her that irritated him more.
She hopped down, glad for a moment to gather herself, and waved down a few of the approaching guards so she could use their help.
The handful of men following behind were quick to join them, and she planted her hands on her hips as Tavish dismounted behind her. At least she could show that she was somewhat useful. Perhaps it would earn her some respect among the men, even if she would not get much else in return.
“I need whiskey and a few rags,” she told one of the guards as they approached, glancing towards Tavish with surprise.
She raised her eyebrows pointedly. “Ye cannae leave the Laird waiting!” she pointed out. “Go!”
They sprang into action, and she turned her attention to Tavish. He could not quite meet her gaze, as though there was something he loathed about allowing someone to see him in this state.
“On yer knees,” she told him.
He stared at her for a moment. “What did ye?—”
“I cannae reach the wound,” she pointed out. “Ye’ll need to stoop.”
Tavish stared back at her for a long moment, but then, to her surprise, he did as she asked. For a moment, her hands faltered over the cut in his shirt. Something about seeing him like this, on his knees before her—the first inch of deference that he had shown to her since they had first met—was as alluring as it was shocking. She didn’t know he had it in him, a willingness to kneel for her, but…
“Ye enjoy seeing me on my knees, lass?" he asked, half-tilting his head to hers.
Silently, she answered his question,More than I should…
The guards returned with a flask of whiskey and some pieces of a tunic that had clearly been torn off just a few moments before—not much, but it was something.
The guards fell back, taking the chance to have a drink and gather themselves before the final leg of the journey. She pressed some of the fabric against the bottle, soaking it in whiskey before she swiped it along the open wound. Tavish drew in a sharp breath but did not make a sound in protest, staring at the ground beside him like it would keep the pain from showing on his face.
She bit her lip as she thought of what had happened. If it hadn’t been for her rushing off into the woods, he wouldn’t have taken that hit. She’d led him right into a trap, and he had been the one to pay for it.
“Ye shouldnae have taken the hit,” she remarked, once she had wiped away the blood that had dried on to the skin around the cut. There was little they could do to save the shirt, it was ruined now, but at least she could stop the wound from getting any worse.
“Not as though I had a choice,” he grunted back, not bothering to look up at her.
“Lift yer arm.”
He shifted it slightly, just enough that she could reach beneath it and wrap the strip of the tunic around him. She tightened it, making sure it would not slip while he rode, and he started at the sudden pressure against him. She noticed, as she worked, that her fingers were trembling slightly.
There is something about seeing him like this, seeing the vulnerability in his body represented by the wound, that felt almost intrusive to her. As if it was a side of himself he would never have chosen to show her given the chance. It seemed thatunder the strength of his muscles and his blade lay something softer, more vulnerable than a man like him would ever want to put into words.
Once she was sure that the wound was properly covered, she brushed the threads that had come loose aside and stepped back, surveying him to make certain that he was in one piece. He glanced up at her there, from where he knelt on the ground, and for a second, she just looked back at him, the breath knocked from her body.
It made no sense to her that a man as fearful and terrifying as him could look at her with that gaze, from where he stooped below her, deferring to her, if only for a moment. Then, her mind drifted back to the very attackers who had caused this in the first place.
‘Those men who attacked us,” she remarked, changing the subject as he straightened up and adjusted the saddle. No blood leaked through the bandage she had placed on his arm, and she had to hope that she had done enough to keep the bleeding from getting any worse while they rode. “They wore MacCairn tartan, did they not?”
