She realized she was shaking, her teeth chattering, her breath coming faster the longer she stared at the trio, and she began tocomprehend exactly what had been about to happen if not for the Laird’s interference.
She vaguely heard the clatter of his sword as he slammed it home in its scabbard and approached her on swift feet. “Lass? Hannah? Hannah, are ye alright?”
She could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart in her ears.
Her gaze finally moved from the bandits and up to the Laird’s face. “I’m nae sure.”
The words were barely audible. She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d spoken them so softly or because all she could hear was the rushing of her blood.
The Laird spoke to her again. She couldn’t understand what he said. All she could do was hug the whiskey bottle to her chest like the priceless lifeline it was as her vision grew darker.
Hannah felt her legs give out. She felt large hands catch her about the waist. She felt her head tip back as her vision went black.
When her senses finally found her again, it was to the sensation of being carried as if she were weightless. She knew that couldn’t be true.
Hannah had always been well fed, and her curves were generous, especially compared to her sister’s frail form of late. Still, she felt as though she was weightless as she was placed effortlessly on something soft, though that could have had something more to do with waking from a dead faint.
She flexed her hands and realized there was no whiskey bottle clenched in them anymore. Her heart nearly stopped, and she immediately braced her arms beneath her and heaved herself upright.
“Ach!” It was the Laird before her, catching her shoulders and pushing her back down flat. “Nay. Ye’ll rest. Ye cannae have anything so urgent to address in this moment, lass.” His grip was gentle but impossibly firm as he squeezed her shoulders to emphasize his intention to put her back where she was if she tried to get up again.
Her wits quickly returning, Hannah couldn’t help but heave a sigh of relief when she realized she was safely inside a room she supposed belonged to an inn and not on the side of the road in the dark with a trio of wicked men who intended to do her harm.
Seemingly satisfied she wasn’t about to leap from the stuffed straw bedding beneath her, the Laird nodded his head and stood. He strode to the door and called out into the hall. Moments later, he returned with a clay bowl in his hands and dragged a chair to the side of the bed.
Hannah watched with burgeoning curiosity. For now, she did as she was told, letting her head rest against the feather bolsterserving as a pillow, half-reclined and still trying to fully gather her wits. Trying to understand where she was and what was happening.
How had they gotten to this inn so quickly? Why was she so dizzy?
She very vaguely recalled the way her stomach had suddenly soured. The way her vision had suddenly become so terribly narrow, and she’d gone from feeling the evening chill despite her wool cloak to feeling entirely too hot and sweaty in a flash. She knew she’d seen the Laird dispatch the three men who’d had her backed into a corner.
If he hadn’t arrived when he had, she also knew she’d be in far more trouble than she was right now. If she was still breathing.
The thought sent another little shudder through her.
The memories were largely visceral. The stench of the breath of the man who’d been inches from her face with his gap-toothed leering grin and eyes that had been the muddiest hazel she’d ever seen, as though whatever darkened his soul was leaking into his irises, the sudden tension of her cloak about her throat as he’d dragged her forward.
The sound of a severed limb hitting the dirt and the stunned shout of the man who’d been attached to it. The way the pressure at the back of her neck had vanished. The impulsive moment she’d snatched that damned bottle of whiskey from the hands ofthe man to her right, who she’d been so certain was going to drop it and ruin everything.
She had no idea if the Laird would have had any patience for a delay in his whiskey delivery. The heather infusion took her four days to prepare. It required more of the plant than one might have thought, and she didn’t have another bottle ready. The second delivery would be days late. So, even if she had survived the encounter on the road, the Laird may not let her gather more of the angelica in retaliation for her tardiness. Her stomach churned, and the nauseating heat washed over her again.
Finally, she realized the obvious. She’d fainted on the road, directly in front of the Laird himself. Who likely now thought her a wilting flower.
How deeply humiliating.
“Easy, lass.”
She glanced up, jolted out of her reverie by his voice.
He sat, sweeping his belted plaid back from where it draped over his shoulder and around his waist so he could move freely. “Ye’ve gone pale again.”
With controlled movements, he dipped a spoon into the bowl in his hand and held it to her mouth.
Finally understanding what he was doing, and thoroughlymortified, Hannah opened her mouth to a spoonful of broth laden with vegetables. After she’d accepted another three, miraculously keeping herself from asking exactly why he thought she needed so much help feeding herself, he finally spoke.
“What in God’s name were ye thinkin’, being on the road at night alone, lass? Where is yer pony?”
Hannah pushed the next spoonful away carefully. “He threw a shoe this afternoon. I had to leave him with the farrier.”
