CHAPTER THIRTEEN
E ven from her chambers in the second floor of the castle, Paige heard the furor from below. The shouts had her dropping her sewing and rushing out of the room, down the corridors and to the staircase— only to lurch away.
Two footmen were carrying an unconscious man up to steps and for a moment, she felt her heart sink to her feet, thinking it was Ruben.
But she glimpsed the man; he was older and grey-haired with blood matted across his temple. Following him though, was Ruben, clutching his arm—his bloody arm.
“Ruben—” she called out.
He slid an eye to her. “Nae now, lass.”
Nevertheless, she followed the men and watched in worry while the men placed the older man on the bed. She pressed her hand to her heart as one healer rushed Ruben to a nearby bed.
She stood at the back while watching the healer cut the makeshift tourniquet from his arm. Her head snapped away as the wound began to bleed again.
Her throat worked thickly as they cleaned his arm and bandaged it. A gentle hand touched her arm, and she turned back to see Galan there, staring at Ruben with worried intensity.
“What happened?” Her words were strangled.
“We were ambushed by thieves,” the warrior said then nodded to the old man, “T’is a cryin’ shame they have to use innocent men to do it.”
“Is there nothin’ I can do?” Paige asked worriedly. “I am nae a healer, but can I help prepare what ye need.”
“Me lady—” from the healer’s tone, Paige knew she was going to reject her offer buts she insisted.
“Let me do somethin’.”
“If ye insist, hold his arm as we stitch,” the healer said. “It will be painful and we cannae risk him jerkin’ too hard and then do more harm than good.”
Taking a seat near him, Paige tentatively reached out to touch him. “Are ye in horrible pain?”
“Nay,” he said. “I have endured worse.”
While one healer gave Ruben a warm, pain-reducing herbal tea, Paige held his shoulder and forearm still as the healer slid the needle in and out of his skin. Not once did Ruben wince or give any indication of what was happening to him, but Paige could not take her eyes off him.
His eyelids were lowered and his jaw locked; even in pain he was handsome and his skin was tight and firm. Her fingertips coasted over thin scars here and there and the brush of his hair at the back of his head was thick but soft.
When they were finished, they gave him another infusion and then left to join the other healers tending to the older man.
Before the last healer left his side, she asked, “Is it—” she moistened her throat. “Is the wound life-threatenin’?”
“Nay, me lady,” the healer who then introduced herself as Ceana said. She was short and round with a motherly look to her. “His lairdship has suffered worse wounds that this.”
“T’is only a flesh wound, lass,” Ruben said gruffly. “It will heal.”
Heavy with worry, her eyes fell to meet his. “Will there be any festerin’?”
“Nae with the herbal poultice we have wrapped the laceration with, me lady,” Ceana said comfortingly. “He will be on the mend in nay time.”
Looking over her shoulder at Ruben, Paige wondered if that was true. He was rested on a pillow now, his chest moving with controlled breath, while his eyes were closed.
“Will he need to stay here for the night?” she asked.
“Nay, me lady.”
“Thank ye,” she told Ceana.
Relieved washed through her and she and she looked straight into Ruben’s eyes. They were steady but Paige thought she glimpsed a rare moment of vulnerability on his face.
Galan said. “I’ll clear the room for ye to have some privacy.”
She gave him a slight smile, “I’d appreciate that.”
As his second in charge ushered the unneeded people out of the room and when the room was quieter, she went to the side of his bed.
“Ruben…” she hesitated. “Are ye?—”
She did not know how to frame that question, clearly he was not well, clearly, he had had worse injuries than the laceration on his arm. She paused. “Is there anythin’ I can get for ye?”
His eyes opened to slits. “Water, please.” He swallowed. “With ice.”
Ice? He truly is a wealthy man!
Without hesitation, she ran her hand over his other shoulder in soft comfort, then left the room, seeking the kitchen. A few kind servants pointed her the way and two even offered to get the water for her, but she refused.
I want to do this for him.
Entering the kitchens, she paused at the feel of the heat washing over her, Paige swiveled around, aware of the enormous amount of activity in this kitchen.
Her father had employed about five kitchen workers for their home; there were at least three times that number here. All of them, from the young girl to the lanky kitchen lad, were hard at work in a room that was as large as half her old home.
Along the inner wall, a long hearth stretched the length of the room. The fireplace was tall enough for the beast—no, not the beast, Ruben—to stand upright inside.
The kitchen boasted many different sections for the various cooking implements, including racks, roasting spits, and hooks to hang tin and copper kettles.
There was a long table with bowls and pans galore, rolling pins were stacked in a pile, and an array of pots and trays stood ready for the daily baking.
Where do I even look first?
Paige felt the curious glances aimed her way and she raised her chin, intent on looking assured while meeting their searching looks.
“Me lady?” Maisie asked, coming in from a wide backdoor. She was holding a basket of ripe fruits. “Is somethin’ wrong?”
“Nay,” she said. “I daenae ken if ye have heard, but me husband was injured this evenin’. Where can I get iced water, please?”
“I shall fetch it for ye.” Maisie said, hastily putting her basket aside and grabbing a bucket and chisel. “We have ice in the cellars.”
She followed Maisie out into the outbuildings and to one far away from the last out-jutting terrace. The icehouse was circular and made of brick with a domed roof.
Entering the icehouse, she saw large blocks of ice insulated by straw and watched as Maisie chipped away at the blocks. “Have ye ever seen Rub—his lairdship get grievously injured?”
“I couldnae say,” Maisie said, while flickering her hair from her eyes. “He is usually three steps ahead of any enemy he has. But he has been in skirmishes and incidents before.
“There was a time when the Northern Raiders came and he joined with other lairds to quell them from the land,” She stood. “It was brutal. The northerns are kenned for their horrible torture and they captured one of his men.
“His lairdship volunteered to take his place and be the prisoner.”
Paige took the bucket from her. “Was he?”
“Aye, but nae for long,” Maisie said. “He fought his way out, killed twenty Norsemen and injured four. There were lashes on his back that took a while to heal but he wears his scars with pride.”
Trudging back to the castle, Paige felt another sliver of understanding fall into place. Ruben was not the mindless beast she thought him to be.
He is barbaric in killin’, but…is that because he had to do so and nae because of who he is?
Inside the kitchen, Maisie handed Paige a jug of water, then said. “If ye need anythin’ else, please send for me, me lady.”
“Thank ye,” Paige replied.
She headed back to the healing hall to find Ruben sitting up, his elbows on his knees. With the way he was facing her, she could see the edge.
Raised scars intersected with the others not just on his back, but also the backs of his arms. Her horrified gaze followed each trail, unable to move as she took in the sight.
God—how he must have suffered.
There wasn’t an inch of his back that was left unmutilated. Tears began to build under her eyes and she wanted to cry at the thought of all the pain he’d gone through. Somehow, she managed to swallow down the urge to make any sound.
“I have yer water,” she said quietly.
He sat up and wordlessly took the chalice with ice and the jug of water from her. He sipped slowly and Paige took the opportunity to look at his back.
Maisie was right; his back was littered with scars, small and large and she guessed, recent and some much older. If she thought of him as the warmonger, she thought him to be, the scars coupled well with his reputation.
But now, knowing he had sacrificed himself to save others had her thoughts swaying to pity. How had he withstood it? It had to have been many whippings to have made the huge, raised scars. From the back of his neck to his waist, there was barely any spot left untouched.
He tensed. “Take yer pity and throw it to the dogs, lass. I daenae need yer pity.”
Ashamed, Paige ducked her head. “Maisie told me how ye switched one of the prisoners for ye when the Northeners invaded. I—I dinnae believe ye would do such a thing.”
He scoffed. “Aye, because I am such a beast.”
Paige sighed, “I daenae think of ye that way anymore.”
His brow ticked up, while profound skepticism rested in his eyes. “And what lead to this sudden change, pray tell?”
“Me maither is pressin’ on me to more acceptin’ of the situation we’re in, that I should nae keep pushin’ aversion and hate between us if I want to live a peaceful life.” Paige said.
“And with the inconsistent recounts of with the war and all the secrets, I feel that I should give ye some doubt.”
Ruben straightened, his gaze still. “I will tell ye what ye need to ken—” Her heart leaped. “— but I daenae think ye’re ready for the truth now.”
Shattered, Paige took small comfort in him promised to tell her the truth, then said. “I’d appreciate that.”
Pushing off from the bed, Ruben made for the door, but Paige stopped him, “Ye should be restin’.”
“I will be,” he said, striding though the door. “In me chambers.”
Ruben rolled over and yawned. Despite the drapes keeping his bed chamber mostly dark, he instinctively knew it was the middle of the night.