“Of course. The laird will send out a patrol. Now, forget them. Let’s get ye to the healer to take care of yer hand.”
“First we’ll take our basket to Cook,” she said, determination in her tone, and passed it to him when he reached for it.
“Whatever ye wish, lass,” Jamie told her. He helped her up the tor, the basket in one hand and the other on Caitrin’s elbow. Though she had climbed the tor quite easily on her own earlier that day, she permitted his touch, for which Jamie was grateful. She’d been hurt while with him and he wanted to care for her. Though the trip to the glen had not gone precisely as he’d hoped, he would have other chances to make her see him as more than a friend. She would be with Lathan for another year, perhaps two,before she would return to Fletcher, so he had time to win her heart—and if everything went as he hoped, someday, her hand.
He knew the daughter of a laird must make a match advantageous to her clan, but surely her father counted on her fostering at Lathan to result in a match with a suitable Lathan lad to rule Fletcher with her, or act as her arms master or in some other highly-placed position in their clan. A lad like him, perhaps.
Toran would have a better sense of who might be considered for a female laird’s husband and in what capacity, but the last thing Jamie wanted to do was raise the idea with Toran that Jamie had hopes in that direction. He would never hear the end of it, especially if she left Lathan without him, without a betrothal or even a hand fasting with him. The idea saddened him, not because it would give Toran years’ worth of teasing to torture him with, but because he would lose Caitrin. Or he might plant the idea in Toran’s mind, and his friend would decide to pursue her to one day become the Fletcher laird. Jamie didn’t like that idea at all.
He fought the urge to say something to her. To convince her she belonged with him, and he with her. But he couldn’t. Not yet. It was too soon. He had time, and today was a good start.
They sought out the guard captain and told him of the voices in the woods, then dropped the basket of herbs, flowers and berries in the kitchen with Cook to sort through. She would ensure the healer got a share of the things she could use.
Jamie insisted on escorting Caitrin to the healer. “Ye were hurt while ye were with me. I willna leave ye alone until I see ye healed,” he told her. “I meant it when I said I would always take care of ye.”
“The healer will care for me, Jamie. Surely ye have something more important to do.”
“Aye, she will, and I’ll escort ye to her,” he insisted with a smile. “Ye are the most important—helping ye is the most important thing I have to do today.” He feared once again that he’d said too much, but her answering smile relieved his anxiety.
“Thank ye, Jamie. Ye are a good man.”
The healer greeted them when they arrived at her herbal near the kitchen. “What have ye done to yer hand?” The make-shift bandage Jamie had wrapped around it was hard to miss.
“’Tis naught,” Caitrin said. “A scratch. But Jamie insisted I come to ye.”
The healer nodded. “Jamie is wise beyond his years.”
Jamie fought the urge to stand taller and puff out his chest at the praise. Both women were too perceptive to let him get away with that. Besides, he was too old for that sort of thing.
“Where did ye scratch yer hand?”
“In the woods, reaching into a bramble for berries. We brought Cook a basket full of herbs, berries and flowers. Some, she said, she’d save for ye.”
The healer nodded as she unwrapped Caitrin’s hand. “Very well. Jamie, ye needna remain.”
He understood an order when he heard one and took a reluctant step toward the door. One did not disobey the healer, especially not in her herbal.
“Thank ye, Jamie,” Caitrin told him again before he went too far.
“Of course, lass. I’ll speak with ye later.”
Her gaze locked with his and she gave him another smile.
He took it with him, held close to his heart.
He saw Caitrin at the evening meal, but she was with a group of lasses, her friends, and he didn’t intrude. She had a new bandage on her hand, one neater and cleaner than the one he’d fashioned from a strip torn from her shift. He held that memory close to his heart as well. She had allowed a familiarity, anintimacy, that he hadn’t expected, though it was needful at the time. It gave him hope that she would allow that bond between them to grow into something more.
He spent the next morning training with the other younger men of the clan, paired, as he often was, with Toran.
“So how many coneys did ye give to Cook?” Jamie asked as he swung a fist at Toran’s jaw. They usually trained with weapons, but the arms master insisted they be able to fight without them as well. Many battles devolved into weaponless, hand-to-hand combat. His men would be well prepared for that eventuality.
Jamie didn’t really care about the coneys, but knew Toran would have kept count, and had probably asked Cook how many they’d supplied.
Toran ducked and danced aside and around Jamie. “I beat ye by one,” he answered, aiming a blow at Jamie’s kidneys.
Jamie spun and took the hit on his arm, then lashed out and caught Toran on the chin, snapping his head back even though Jamie pulled the punch—a little. “Did ye, now?”
“Enough!” The arms master called out as the bell rang for the midday meal. “Get cleaned up and get inside.”
