Page 17

MOMENTS PASSED, AND then Rose breathed a curse. Several arrows protruded from the prone bodies, and the iron tang of blood tainted the morning air.

From this distance, it was impossible to tell who the men were. They could have been The Black Wolves—or the Dun Ugadale Guard.

However, as she stood there, a chill feathered down Rose’s neck. She started to tremble.

If they were the bodies of the outlaws scattered here, Captain Mackay and his men would have already ridden back to Kenna’s cottage to tell them what had happened. The Guard wouldn’t have left the dead scattered about like this either. She glanced around, pulse hammering in her ears now.

Where were their horses?

And most importantly, where were the men who’d done this?

Cold sweat slicked Rose’s skin, and she glanced about nervously.

The last thing she wanted was for the outlaws to find her. The knife she carried would do her no good against men capable of such violence.

Steeling herself, Rose crept forward over soft ferns, to where the first of the fallen men lay sprawled on his back.

He was young, with long black hair. His blue eyes stared sightlessly up at the lightening sky, his face locked in a grimace of agony. An arrow jutted from his left thigh while blood covered his chest and belly, from two terrible wounds.

Bile stung the back of Rose’s throat.

She recognized him. He was one of Kerr’s men—the warrior who hailed from éire.

Aye, these were the men of the Dun Ugadale Guard.

Rose started to sweat, nausea rolling through her as she moved on, going from man to man.

The third one she checked, a big warrior with wild brown hair, was still breathing, barely, although the gaping wound to his abdomen warned he wouldn’t be for much longer. His face was chalk-white, and he was insensible.

Rose removed her hand from his cold brow. Death was only a whisper away. She could do nothing for him.

Straightening up, she counted the bodies strewn around her.

Nine.

How many of The Guard had ridden west? Were they all accounted for? Their horses had all disappeared, no doubt taken by The Wolves, and they’d been stripped of weapons.

Rose sucked in a deep breath and moved on to inspect the last of the fallen. She caught a flash of pale hair, and her breathing hitched. Only two men at Dun Ugadale had hair that color. One of them was the laird. The other was Kerr Mackay.

Of course, she’d known it would be him. She’d dreaded this moment.

Rose clenched her jaw. She didn’t want to draw closer, to see the agony frozen on his face. When she did reach him, the captain’s expression was hidden from her. He lay face-down upon the ferns, spreadeagled. Two arrows pierced his left shoulder, one just below the other.

Rose’s brow furrowed. Moving close, she took hold of his uninjured shoulder and gently rolled him onto his side, bracing herself for the worst.

To her shock, he was breathing. A large purple lump had come up on his forehead, and when she examined the ground, she saw he’d hit his head upon a large stone as he fell.

It had knocked him senseless.

Unlike the warrior lying just a few yards away, Kerr wasn’t doomed—not yet anyway.

Breathing an oath, as a strange weakness flooded her body, Rose reached forward and placed a hand on his brow. It was warm, yet clammy, and his breathing was shallow. Fear clenched her belly.

He might not be close to death, yet Kerr was in dire need of a healer.

“Thank ye for acting so quickly, Rose.” Iver Mackay’s voice rumbled through the cottage. The laird of Dun Ugadale crouched at his brother’s side, his dark-blue gaze haunted as he watched him sleep. “Ye took a great risk venturing out into that valley alone.”

“When they didn’t return, I knew something was wrong,” she admitted softly.

Rose didn’t admit, however, that instinct had driven her from the cottage and into the dawn. She’d known, even hours earlier, that something was wrong. It had gnawed at her, urging her to search for The Guard.

“We’ve sent for the healer at Ceann Locha.” Brodie, Kerr’s younger brother, spoke up then. He stood behind the laird, his face creased with worry. “He shouldn’t be too far away.”

Rose nodded, relieved. Kenna’s healing skills were good enough, and Rose had assisted her, yet they lacked the herbs needed to make sure the wounds didn’t fester.

After discovering Captain Mackay was still alive, she sprinted back to the cottage, where Kenna and Ailis were already awake and panicking about what had happened to her.

She’d stilled their questions with a rushed explanation.

Ailis had then run off, heading toward Dun Ugadale, while Rose and Kenna cautiously returned to the clearing.

They didn’t expect the outlaws to return—but they were careful to move as quietly through the pines as possible.

As Rose had predicted, the badly wounded warrior had died in the meantime.

Kerr still breathed, although a sheen of sweat had covered his skin while she’d been away.

Trying to be as gentle as possible, the women had pulled him up, placing their shoulders under his armpits, and dragged him back to the cottage. It had been a slow and laborious journey. All the while, Kerr remained unconscious, his head lolling against his chest.

And no sooner had they gotten him inside the cottage, when the thunder of hooves outdoors warned them that the laird had arrived.

Iver and Brodie helped Rose and her aunt snip off the ends of the arrows and remove them. Kenna had poured vinegar into the wounds, yet they were deep and would need tending or they’d surely fester. They’d then laid Kerr back on the sheepskins in the corner where Kenna and Ailis usually slept.

He still hadn’t awoken, which was worrying.

“The blow to his head was a hard one,” Brodie muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s a miracle it didn’t split his skull open.”

“The rock he hit was rounded rather than sharp,” Rose replied softly. “Otherwise, it would have.”

Brodie’s hazel gaze met hers, and she witnessed the pain, the worry, there.

The folk of Dun Ugadale all knew the history of the broch’s blacksmith.

He was half-brother to Iver, Lennox, and Kerr—the result of the former laird’s dalliance with a cook.

Brodie Mackay was somewhat of an enigma to most folk.

He kept to himself usually, worked hard, and was known to be dour and easily irritated.

Rose had to admit the man was quite intimidating. The blacksmith’s broad shoulders and brawny body barely seemed to fit in the cramped confines of the cottage. He loomed over the three women standing with him.

“Butchers,” Iver growled, straightening up.

The laird’s face was tight, fury burning in his eyes.

His gaze then speared the blacksmith’s. “Ride back to Dun Ugadale and gather what’s left of The Guard, Brodie.

We’re going after The Wolves.” His attention shifted to Rose then. “Can I leave Kerr in yer care?”

Silence filled the cottage, broken only by the crackling of the hearth.

“Here, lass, grind this up for me.” The healer passed Rose a pestle and mortar. “The woundwort needs to be mashed into a paste.”

Nodding, Rose did as bid, stealing glances at where Malcolm was cleansing the two arrow wounds once more with vinegar. Kerr lay on his side on the sheepskin-covered bed, still insensible.

Malcolm, the healer, was a serious man of middling age, who’d arrived with a basket of tinctures, herbs, and bandages strapped to his garron’s back. His long-fingered hands worked deftly as he examined the wounds.

“Here,” Rose murmured, passing him the bowl of mashed woundwort. “Is this what ye wanted?”

“Aye, thanks.” Malcolm took the mortar from her and shifted closer to his patient. He then stuffed the herb pulp into the arrow wounds, packing them tight.

Straightening up, the healer reached for a damp cloth and wiped his hands clean. “I’m going to need yer help once more, Rose,” he announced. “To put on the bandage.”

“Aye … what do ye want me to do?”

“We need to pull him upright … so he’s sitting.”

Together, the pair of them managed to get Kerr sitting up. However, he slumped against the healer’s shoulder, his head lolling. Then, under Malcolm’s instruction, Rose bound a bandage around Kerr’s injured shoulder.

Once that was done, they laid him back against a nest of pillows.

Gazing upon Kerr’s pale face and the swollen purple lump on his forehead, Rose frowned. “What about his head?” she asked, shifting her attention to the healer.

Malcolm huffed a sigh. “There’s little we can do about that.

” He started digging through his basket and produced a small clay container.

“This is a salve of chamomile and goatweed. It will help with the bruising and the pain.” Rising to his feet, the healer then ran a critical eye over the captain. “He should wake up soon.”

“And if he does not?”

Malcolm glanced her way, his brow furrowing. “Well … then we shall have cause to worry.”

Rose swallowed, her gaze flicking to where a light sheen of sweat still covered Kerr’s naked chest. “Does he have a fever?”

“Aye … a slight one, although it will likely worsen as his body seeks to heal itself.” Malcolm pushed himself to his feet, grimacing as his stiff joints pained him.

“Ye tended him well before I arrived … and so I shall leave him in yer care now.” The healer motioned to his basket.

“I will leave ye more woundwort, salve, and bandages.”

Rose nodded, even as her pulse quickened.

Noting her nervousness, Malcolm’s brow smoothed, and his mouth curved into a kindly smile. “Just wash the wounds with vinegar every morning and then apply fresh woundwort and bandages … the rest is up to him.”

“Can he go home?”

“Not yet … I wouldn’t move him until he is awake and strong enough.”

Rose watched as the healer packed up, leaving the items he’d promised behind. She followed him outside to where his fat garron waited.

Kenna glanced up. She was weeding around patches of onion and garlic, in an attempt to keep busy and not fuss, while the healer tended Kerr.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the garden, Ailis was scattering grain for their fowl.

“How fares the captain then?” Kenna asked, concern shadowing her green eyes.

“Well enough, for the moment,” Malcolm replied, strapping his basket onto his mount’s back. “But only time will tell.”