The Highlander drew a flask from inside his tunic, and she was tempted to ask him for a long drink of it.
“Ach, I hate to waste good whisky on my damned leg,” he said, and uncorked the flask with even white teeth.
As he poured the whisky over the open wound, he emitted a string of colorful Gaelic phrases in quick succession. Sybil was tempted to ask him to repeat them slowly so that she could expand her vocabulary, but this was probably not the time to ask for a lesson in Gaelic cursing. Besides that, her instincts told her not to reveal that she understood Gaelic. A Douglas did not share her secrets without good reason.
The Highlander wiped his blade on the grass and began to cut a new strip from the bottom of his tunic.
“Wait,” she said, touching his arm. She lifted the hem of her gown to reveal the linen shift beneath it. “See? I have more cloth to spare than you do.”
Despite the fact that his wound must sting like the very devil, especially after pouring whisky on it, he stared at Sybil’s calf as if he’d never seen a woman’s stockinged leg before. This Highlander was far too handsome for her to believe he had not seen a good deal more of a good many women. She shook her head.Men.
“Give me your knife,” she said, and held her hand out for it.
“Ye don’t carry a dirk?”
“Why would I need one?” she said as she took the blade from him.
“To defend yourself, of course,” he said. “Every lass should carry one.”
“I’ve managed to live one and twenty years without one.” She held the wicked-looking blade up and thought of the times she had been cornered by men like James Finnart. “But I will admit that a blade like this could have been useful.”
“Keep that one,” he said. “I have others.”
When she met his gaze, the burst of heat that flashed between them drove the damp chill from her bones. Mercy, what was that about? She pressed her lips together and concentrated on cutting a strip of cloth for a bandage. The blade was so sharp that it sliced through her linen shift as if it were thin parchment. When the Highlander took the strip from her, their hands touched, sending another unexpected jolt of awareness through her.
By the time she recovered her senses, he was preparing to bandage his leg himself. He was already pale and sweating from the ordeal of removing the arrow. Could the man not admit he needed help?
“You’ve already proven you can do this on a galloping horse,” she said. “Why don’t you let me do it this time?”
“Aye, that would be better, for certain,” he said, and leaned back on his elbow.
His ready agreement surprised her until she noticed the smile curving his lips and the devilish gleam in his eyes. Her sensible half regretted her offer, but her other half—the one that liked to play with fire—smiled back at him. Her poor mother had despaired of taming her wild side.
As she reached around his bare, muscular thigh with the strip of cloth, she was keenly aware that without his bloodied trews there was nothing but Highlander beneath his knee-length tunic. Goodness, other men’s legs were like scrawny chicken legs compared to his. If she was tempted to touch more of his thigh than strictly necessary, it was not entirely her fault. It was becoming difficult to see in the growing darkness.
As she worked the cloth around his leg, she felt more than saw the unnaturally smooth skin of a long, jagged scar that ran up the side of his thigh from his knee up to his—well, she did not know how far. Curiosity was another aspect of her nature that her mother had urged her to control with little success.
“How did ye get this?” she asked, touching the scar with her fingertip.
“Ach, ’tis nothing.”
“Nothing?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I was injured at Flodden.”
Mention of Flodden always reminded her of her father, who was killed in the disastrous battle. Her eyes stung, and she was grateful it had grown too dark for the Highlander to see her clearly. She still missed her father.
If he had lived, everything would be different. Archie would not have taken their grandfather’s place as earl and the queen’s advisor. He would not have had the opportunity to seduce the queen and cause all the trouble that followed. Sybil would be safe at home with her family at Tantallon Castle, rather than sitting outdoors in the middle of nowhere at twilight with a strange Highlander.
“The English threatened to cut off my leg to save my life,” the Highlander said, interrupting her thoughts.
“I’m surprised they didn’t,” she said. “Does the old injury still pain ye?”
“Nay.” He shrugged. “Not much, anyway.”
“I believe that’s a lie,” she said.
He gave a low chuckle that caused an odd flutter in her stomach.
