“There you go again, Keeley,” she mumbled. Her flights of fancy often veered dramatically to the absurd. The tales she spun in her head would make a bard look boring.
His colors were unfamiliar to her, but then she had never been farther than McDonald land in her life.
She had no hope of getting him to her bed so she did the next best thing. She brought her bed to him.
She arranged the blankets and pillows around him so that he would be comfortable, and then she added wood to her dying fire. Already the room had gone chilly.
Next, she collected her supplies and gave thanks that she’d traveled into the neighboring village a few days past to replenish her meager stock. Most of what she needed, she gathered herself. And thank the good Lord that she had superior healing skills, because it was all that had sustained her for the last years.
Though the McDonalds were quick enough to toss her out of the clan, they had no compunction about seeking her out when one of them needed healing. It wasn’t uncommon for her to stitch a McDonald warrior after a training mishap or a wee one’s head after taking a tumble down the stairs.
McDonald keep had its own healer, but she was aging and her hand was no longer steady at stitching. ’Twas said she did more damage than good when putting her needle to flesh.
If Keeley were more mean spirited, she’d turn them away just as they’d turned her away, but the occasional coin they provided for her services kept food on her table when hunting was lean and it enabled her to purchase supplies that she couldn’t gather herself.
She mixed herbs and mashed the leaves, adding just enough water to make a paste. When she was satisfied with the consistency, she laid it aside and set about preparing bandages from an older linen sheet she kept for just such emergencies.
When everything was in order, she went back to her warrior and knelt by his side. He hadn’t regained consciousness since being dragged into her cottage. For that she was grateful. The last thing she needed was a man twice her size to become combative.
She dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and gently began to cleanse the wound. Fresh blood seeped from the wound as she brushed aside the crusted, dried parts. She was meticulous in her task, not wanting to leave even a speck of dirt into the wound when she closed it.
It was a jagged wound and it would leave a great scar, but it wasn’t anything he should die of if he didn’t take a fever.
After she was satisfied that it was clean, she pressed the flesh back together and took up her needle. She held her breath as she slid the needle in the first time, but the warrior slept on and she quickly set her stitches, making sure they were tight and close together.
She worked down, hovering over him until her back ached and her eyes crossed from the strain. She estimated the wound to be at least eight inches in length. Perhaps ten. At any rate, it would pain him to move in the days to come.
When she set the last stitch, she sat back and sighed her relief. The hard part was over. Now she needed to bandage him and bind it in place.
By the time she was done wrestling with the warrior, she was exhausted. Wiping the hair from her eyes, she went to wash and to stretch her aching limbs. The inside had grown overwarm and she welcomed the brisk cool air of the outside. She walked down to the bubbling stream not far from her cottage and she knelt by the edge to scoop the water up in her hands.
She filled a bowl full of fresh water and then headed back to the cottage. Then she washed the wound down once more before applying the thick poultice to the stitched flesh. She folded over several strips of material to fashion a thick bandage and then holding it to his side, she awkwardly wound the much longer strips around his waist to hold the bandage in place.
If only she could sit him up, it would make the task much easier. Deciding there was no reason she couldn’t lift him to a sitting position, she tugged at his head and then put her entire body behind him to shove upward.
He sagged forward and more blood seeped between the stitches. Working quickly, she wound the strips tightly around his midsection until she was satisfied that everything would stay as she’d positioned it.
Then she eased him gently back to the floor until his head rested on one of the small pillows. She smoothed the hair from his brow and fingered the braid that hung from his temple.
Drawn by the beauty of his face, she ran her finger over his cheekbone and to his jaw. He truly was a beautiful man. Perfectly formed and fashioned. A strong warrior honed by the fires of battle.
She wondered about the color of his eyes. Blue, she speculated. With that dark hair, blue would be mesmerizing, but it was just as likely they were brown.
As if deciding to answer her unspoken question, his eyelids flipped open. His stare was unfocused, but she was mesmerized by the pale green orbs surrounded by dark lashes that only added to his beauty.
Beauty. Clearly she needed to come up with a better term. He would be mortally offended by a woman calling him beautiful. Handsome. Aye. But handsome didn’t begin to aptly describe the warrior.
“Angel,” he croaked out. “I’ve gone to heaven, aye. ’Tis the only explanation for beauty such as this.”
She felt a prick of pleasure until she remembered that just earlier he was likening her to hell. With a sigh she smoothed her hand over the warrior’s unshaven chin. The bristle abraded her palm and she briefly wondered what it would feel like on other parts of her body.
Then she promptly blushed and pushed the sinful thoughts from her mind.
“Nay, warrior. ’Tis not heaven you’ve found. You’re still of this world, although you might be feeling as though you’ve been gripped by the fires of hell.”
“ ’Tis not possible for an angel such as you to reside in the bowels of hell,” he said in a slurred voice.
She smiled and soothed her palm over his cheek again. He turned and nuzzled into her hand, his eyes closing as an expression of pleasure settled on his features.
“Sleep now warrior,” she whispered. “ ’Tis God’s truth you have a long recovery ahead of you.”
“You mustn’t leave, lass,” he murmured.
“Nay, warrior. I won’t leave you.”
Chapter 3
Alaric became aware of burning pain in his side that grew stronger with each second he was conscious. It became so much that he stirred and shifted in an attempt to alleviate the unbearable tension.
“Be still, warrior, lest you rip your stitches.”
The honeyed voice was accompanied by gentle hands that scalded his already overwarm skin. The heat was nigh unbearable and yet he stilled, not wanting his angel to stop touching him. ’Twas the only semblance of pleasure he had.