Noah gave orders for the few bodies to be buried. They’d taken it quite easy on the ill-prepared army. Ian went through the opened gates in search of the healer.
Rhiannon met him inside the bailey, her somber eyes on her brother’s body.
“He should have been paying attention,” she said.
“He should no’ have run. I wasna going to harm him…much.”
“He’s a coward.” She shrugged. “Cowards run.”
“So did his friend. Shame. Would ye like to come with me to see him to the healer?”
“Aye.”
Ian dismounted, and carried her brother’s limp body inside the castle, where a healer was already waiting in the great hall. Every battle, they prepared for such occasions, even when the battles seemed like an easy win. One wrong move in the wrong direction could mean life or death. Thus far, Ian and his brothers had been lucky, but there would come a day when their bodies aged losing the ability to be as fluid and in control as they were now, and when it came, he would risk death.
Ian laid Adam on the table that had been prepared for the wounded. The healer removed the hastily tied wrap Ian had put in place, revealing a mighty gash in the center of Adam’s forehead that pulsed blood at a rather steady pace, though slower than the geyser of when it first happened.
“Good sign,” the healer said. “A pulsing wound means he’s still alive.”
Ian nodded, and Rhiannon relaxed beside him. She might have hated her brother for what he had done to her, but that didn’t mean she wished him dead. Ian knew that. It was the reason he hadn’t planned to kill the man. Why did Adam, the bloody fool, have to run?
Wanting to comfort his wife, Ian tucked his arm around her and pulled her closer. Rhiannon leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, her body sinking into his.
They watched together as the healer poked and prodded at the wound and then proceeded to wash it, pulled a chip of bark out. Adam moaned as the healer worked but didn’t open his eyes or appear to regain consciousness.
After cleaning out the wound, the healer sewed him up and then put a salve on the wound. By now, the bleeding had stopped, and by the time his head was wrapped, he mostly looked as if he were sleeping, save for the extremely pale coloring of his cheeks.
“Just need to watch out for fever now,” the healer said, pouring a tincture into Adam’s mouth that he choked and sputtered on but which the healer coaxed him to swallow with a few massages to his throat. “That ought to help and keep him asleep. We’ll give him this,” she wiggled the bottle, “every few hours.”
“Thank you,” Rhiannon said.
The healer nodded. “If he can beat the fever, he’ll likely live. Canna say if he’ll wake the same way he was before the injury. Some men with head wounds like that come back a wee bit daft. Only time will tell.”
Rhiannon nodded, and Ian grimaced. If the man came back daft, he’d be their responsibility for the rest of his life, and while Ian had planned to keep Adam prisoner for a little while, he’d also planned on sending the idiot back to England with a warning never to set foot in Scotland again. Now, it seemed that was not going to be an option.
“We’ll pray he heals,” Rhiannon said.
“Aye, and perhaps give a few tithes.” Ian glanced up at the rafters of the great hall, speaking to the heavens in silence that he would promise whatever it took to get this man healed and back to his own lands.
Ian took Rhiannon’s hand and led her away from the healer, who was now tending a few warriors with minor injuries.
“May I get ye some wine?” he asked, knowing it would help heal her nerves a little bit.
“Nay. No wine.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head and walked toward the hearth.
Ian followed.
“You were fearless out there,” she said.
“No’ without some fear.”
She glanced up at him. “No one would believe that.”
He grinned. “We’re supposed to look terrifying to our enemies.”
