A Sword Upon the Rose

Alana jerked free and seized the hem of her skirts; she pushed a wad of it down hard on his wound. What had he been thinking?

“That was a fine way to remove the blade,” she said tersely. But the enemy blade had missed his heart; she was relieved to see the wound was high up, almost in his shoulder.

He eyed her exposed knee as another man handed her a piece of linen. Alana quickly put it on his wound in place of her skirt. The wound continued to bleed. Dughall knelt, offering the warrior a flask. He took it with his right hand and drank.

Now on both knees in the frozen snow, she shivered—but not from the cold. She was terribly aware of the Highlander she was trying to help. His presence—his proximity—seemed overwhelming. “Your wound needs cleaning. It needs stitches.”

His blue eyes were ice. “Why would ye help me—a stranger?”

She had no answer to give. She did not know why she was compelled to aid him. She did not know why she was worried. But he had clearly survived the attack—and she was relieved.

She had no explanation for her relief, either.

When she made no answer, his eyes darkened with suspicion. He struggled to stand. Instantly he reeled, as if he were a tree buffeted in the wind.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, left holding the bloody linen. She rushed to him to brace him to stand.

“Dughall, tell the men to raise our tents. We will spend the night here.” He did not glance at her, shaking her off, his gaze on the burning manor. It was mostly rubble and smoldering ash now, although some timbers still burned. He appeared satisfied. “No one will use this place against us now.”

Alana recalled what she had heard about Bruce—how his armies left no stones standing. So it was true.

He turned to Alana. “So yer an angel of mercy.” He was mocking.

She flushed. He did not seem grateful for her aid. He seemed highly skeptical.

“I could not let you bleed.”

He turned as if he hadn’t heard her. “And, Dughall, get a needle and thread.”

“Aye, Iain.” Dughall raced off.

Her pulse was racing. His name was Iain. Why did that seem to matter to her? “I can see a simple knife wound will not kill you. You should sit back down, my lord.”

“A true angel.” He eyed her. “Why not, mistress? Why not let a stranger bleed to death?”

She did not know the answer herself!

“Why were ye in the woods? Did ye flee the manor when we attacked?” He spoke sharply.

“No.” She hesitated, now thinking about the fact that Eleanor was hiding in the woods, and it would be dark in another hour. And he was fighting for Robert Bruce. He had been in battle with Duncan’s men. It would be dangerous to reveal who she was, or where she had been going—or why. He was the enemy, even if she had been compelled to help him. “I was on my way to visit kin in Nairn.” A version of the truth would surely do.

“Ye journey alone?” He was obviously doubtful. “And then ye rush into a battle, to aid a stranger?” His stare was unnerving.

She wet her lips. She could not blame him for being so suspicious. “I am not alone. My grandmother is in the woods, where I left our mule and the wagon. We heard the battle....” She stopped. Now what could she say?

“And ye decided to come closer? Ye’ll have to tell a far better tale, my lady.” But now, his gaze swept over her, from head to toe. “Who are ye? Whom do ye visit in Nairn?”

“I am not from the castle,” she managed to say. Had he just looked at her as if she were in a brothel and awaiting his pleasure? “We are simple folk, farmers....” She could barely speak. Men did not look at her with male interest—they were too frightened to ever do so.

For a moment he stared.

“My grandmother carries healing potions.” That much was true. She could finally breathe, somewhat. “If you will allow it, we will clean the wound and put a healing salve on it, then stitch it closed. I must get her, my lord. She is old and it is cold out.”

He turned. “Fergus, go into the woods and bring back an old woman and a wagon.”

A Highlander with long blond hair rushed off to obey.

Alana hoped that was the end of the conversation, but it was not. He said, “Ye still cannot explain why ye rushed into the battle, mistress, when all other women would hide in the woods and pray.”

She again had no answer to make.

His gaze narrow, he took her shoulder and guided her with him to the largest of the tents that had just been erected. He gestured and Alana preceded him inside.

It was warmer within. A boy was laying out furs and a pallet. From outside, she could smell meat roasting—a cook fire had been started. Alana hugged herself. She felt uncomfortable, and not just because of her lies. Twilight was near, and they were alone. He did remain the enemy, he was a warrior, and as such, was frightening.

Dughall stepped inside, carrying a small sack. “Do ye want me to sew it?”

Alana was alarmed. “My lord, the wound must be cleaned first.” He could so easily die of an infection if it were left dirty and unwashed.

His blue gaze upon her, he sank down on the pallet, shoving off the fur that had been loosely draped about his shoulders. For an instant, Alana stared at his broad shoulders, his huge biceps. The upper half of his leine was blood soaked. “Come, angel of mercy,” he said.

Mockery remained in his tone. She looked aside and hurried to him. “Pressure must be kept on the wound.” She tried to sound brisk. “Or you will certainly bleed to death.”

“Give her a blade,” he said to Dughall. To Alana, “Cut the leine off.”

She nodded, taking the knife Dughall handed her. And then he seized her wrist another time. Alana froze, meeting his hard gaze once again.

“Try anything untoward and ye will suffer my wrath,” he said.

She nodded. Did he truly think she might stab him now?

He released her. She quickly cut his leine down the front, to his belt, and pulled open the sides of his leine. She pretended not to notice the hard slabs of his chest, the dark hair there, or the small gold cross he wore. Then she uncovered his left shoulder completely.

The wound was bleeding again. Dughall handed her more linens, which she gratefully took and pressed to it. Iain inhaled in pain and their gazes collided.

“I am sorry.... I am trying not to hurt you.” She avoided his gaze now, acutely aware of him.

“You have no calluses,” he said.

She started, eyes wide, locking with his. What was he talking about?

“On yer hands.” He was final—triumphant.

She finally realized what he meant. If she were a farmer, her hands would be callused. Alana could only stare. She had been caught in her first deception.

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Who are ye, lady? Dinna tell me yer a farmer’s wife—falsehoods dinna sit well with me.”

“We were summoned to Nairn,” she managed to answer. “My grandmother carries healing potions.”