CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Davy MacKenzie tried to protest when the crone of a healer thrust a vile-smelling cup of poison under his nose, but only a rusty gasp of air emerged.
“Stop trying to talk and drink this. It will soothe your throat.”
Davy pursed his lips and gave her his angriest battle glare, but the witch didn’t even flinch. She glared right back. He silently remembered every curse and insult he knew. By the way her eyes narrowed and her own lips pinched, she understood every thought in his head. There was nothing to do but drink. She wouldn’t go until he did. The potion slid down his throat like thistles, smelled like unwashed wool, and was bitter, sour, and sick-sweet all at once, and he gagged, which hurt. She grabbed his nose and twisted, and he swallowed reflexively.
The old crone had the audacity to smile at him.
He looked across the wee sickroom at Callum, who was being tended by a far sweeter healer, one of Gillian’s bonny sisters. She had a touch like an angel and a voice as soft as spring wind—until she put her foot in Callum’s armpit, took his arm in her delicate hands and yanked it hard to set the bone. The brave MacLeod warrior suppressed a scream of agony through the bindings that held his broken jaw, and Davy clutched his blankets and winced.
“All over now,” the angel said, splinting the arm. She hummed softly as she cleaned and stitched Callum’s wounds until the lad looked like a tapestry gone awry. Davy wondered if he looked as bad as that.
He thanked his good fortune that he was alive at all.
He wouldn’t be if the Englishman’s shot had missed. Davy touched the angry welts that ringed his neck. He owed John Erly his life. He would have said so if he could speak—so, no doubt, would Callum. The MacLeod warrior looked across at Davy, his eyes pleading, and Davy knew exactly what the MacLeod clansman was saying, even if neither of them could speak a word. He gave Callum a grim smile, since he couldn’t nod.
He caught the angel’s glance. “Sassenach,” he mouthed.
She understood well enough. “You mean John,” she said. She came to stand beside him. “I’m Fia Sinclair. John is my friend, and my husband’s captain. My father is going to hang him.” Davy shook his head and winced at the pain that caused. “Right after your wedding to Gillian,” she added. He gulped air that felt like nails. He reached for her hand, clasped it. She scanned his face. “I suspect there’s more to the tale than my father knows, Laird MacKenzie. Is that so?” He blinked at her, tried to nod. Callum grunted.
She regarded them both. “Then we need to find a way for you to tell my father what truly happened. Can you write it down?”
Davy did his best to nod.
Fia gave him a breathtaking smile. “I’ll go and fetch paper, quill, and ink,” she said and left the room.
Davy looked at Callum, and Callum looked at him, and they blinked at each other like comrades, like friends, like survivors who owed everything to one man, and had a whole silent conversation without speaking a single word.
But before Fia Sinclair returned with the promised writing materials, a MacLeod clansmen entered. He snatched off his bonnet and swallowed hard as he looked at the two battered patients. “The MacLeod wants to see ye both in the hall, if ye can manage it. It seems they’re going to give the Sassenach a trial before he swings.”
* * *
John regarded Fia from inside the cell as she came down the stairs and sweetly sent his guard away.
“Why am I not surprised you’re here? Is Dair with you?” he said.
She raised one eyebrow. “He is. You should have told me you were coming to offer for Gilly.”
“Would you have stopped me?” John asked.
“I would have given you some advice.” She scanned his face and body, noted the blood and the bruises with a healer’s eye. “You look terrible, by the way. I’ll tend to you once you’re away, and—” She crossed to take the key off the hook on the wall and unlocked the door of his cell.
“Away?” he interrupted, staying where he was.
She bit her lip. “We came to find you for reasons other than Gillian. Dair has news for you. Dair has asked Papa to let you speak before he—well, Dair and I won’t let Papa hang you. But Davy and Callum can’t talk, and the Robertsons and the Grants have kidnapped Gillian so Papa can’t marry her to Davy until they’ve had a fair hearing as well, and . . .”
“Kidnapped her?” John said.
Fia sighed. “Aye. It’s a very complicated tale, and I suspect it will take some days to unravel to my father’s satisfaction, and there isn’t time now.” She opened the door wide. “TheVirginis in the bay, John. Go out the postern gate and follow the track. Find Gilly and—”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Kidnap her myself?”
She raised her brows. “Do you have a better idea?”
“I’ll go and find her and bring her safely back.”
“Here? To my father?” She scanned his face.
