“Mayhap so, but it needs bandaging.”
He placed his finger and thumb on her chin and turned her head to the side, his brows drawing down in a frown. “Ye bleed as weel.”
She brought her hand up to her cheek and when she looked at it, red shaded her fingers. She didn’t remember being hit but assumed it had happened while they were scuffling.
“Come on. We need to leave.” He grasped her arm and began to pull her onto the narrow path.
Pulling back, she dug her heels into the ground. “I need to bandage yer arm.”
“Later. When I have ye out of harm’s way.”
With a quick look over her shoulder, she gave a shudder at the men lying on the ground. Two of them lay in a halo of blood, their eyes open, staring blankly at the sky.
“Dinnae look at them, lass. Ye dinnae need that memory burned into yer head.”
“Are we to just leave them there?”
“Aye,” Rory said, nodding curtly. “We cannae do aught for them and the one that lives will see to the bodies.”
He spoke of the dead so nonchalantly and Alana realized that the sight was not foreign to him. He had seen death afore. Enough to be accustomed to it. She silently vowed to never be in that same position. Letting Rory lead her away, they walked for some distance until he deemed them safe and made camp.
“Afore ye do aught further, please let me tend to yer arm, Rory,” she begged. The cut had not stopped oozing blood and if it went on much longer she feared he would drain himself.
Rory sighed, but reluctantly sank to the ground. Alana rummaged in her sack and came away with a clean shift. Using her teeth to start the tear, she pulled some of the material apart into strips. She ripped another larger piece off and dipped it into the water he had gathered at the burn they had stopped near.
Moving to clean his wound, she paused.
“Why do ye look at me so?”
She pulled her bottom lip in betwixt her teeth. “I,” she started, and then paused again. She was acting foolish. Squaring her shoulders, she replied, “Ye will need to remove yer tunic if I am to clean and treat yer wound properly.”
He lifted a brow. “If ye wanted to see me naked, lass, ye need only ask,” he jested.
Alana felt her face flame. First from embarrassment, then, as she took in his muscled chest with just a dusting of hair, his rippled abdomen, and tapered waist, she felt herself redden even more.
“Do ye approve?” His eyes bore into hers, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small smile.
“I believe I have asked ye no’ to call me lass,” she said in an attempt to change the subject, even though her eyes wanted to continue to wander over Rory’s exposed skin.
Focus, she thought. Wound. Cut. Clean. She finally remembered what she was supposed to be doing and moved to Rory’s side.
“Surely we are much too acquainted now for me to call ye Lady Alana or Miss Duran.”
Lass felt too personal. As if they had kenned each other for a long time. That was not the case, so she didn’t think it proper.
“Shall I call ye by a nickname?”
She touched the wet cloth to the slice in his arms and began to slowly wipe away the bits of dried blood and stop the flow of the blood that still ran from the wound. “I dinnae have a nickname.”
“Nay? Now, ye jest.”
Alana shook her head. “My family doesnae believe in nicknames. One should always be addressed as their given name. ’Twas what my mother has always said.”
Rory chuckled. “Seems silly to me. There is naught wrong with a friendly pet name.”
“A pet name?” She asked. “Is that how ye see me?”
“No’ a pet in the sense ye are thinking. I dinnae think of ye as a hound or a bird or a cat. A pet in the sense of a caring friendship.”
