Page 14 of The Highlander’s Hunted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #2)

14

T he horse slowed along with the bleeding, the never-ending road no longer offering any hope of serenity or garnering any of Katie’s admiration.

They’ll think I killed him if he dies out here. They’ll think I was avengin’ me braither.

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason she wanted Hector to live, but it was the safest thought. Either way, she cursed the Laird’s stubbornness.

The bruised heavens had begun to spit at the horse and riders, a fine rain that soaked through Katie’s cloak and made her shiver. Her hand shook against Hector’s thigh as she continued to hold the blood-drenched handkerchief in place, her wrist aching from the cold and the effort. But it would take more than that to make her give up.

“Are ye still with me?” she asked, looking up at Hector.

He looked a little paler than before, his eyes blinking in a way that made it seem like he might drift off to sleep at any moment.

To jolt him back into awareness, she squeezed her thighs against his waist.

He blinked more rapidly, peering down at her. “Hmm?”

“I asked if ye were still with me. I suppose that’s me answer,” she replied, her heart racing in panic.

“Can a man nae rest for a while?” he asked gruffly. “Ye wouldnae ken this, but it’s common enough for a soldier to sleep with his eyes open while ridin’.”

She sniffed. “Well, ye’re nae a soldier right now, and ye’ve lost a fair quantity of blood, so ye’ll forgive me for bein’ cautious. It doesnae look like ye’re sleepin’—it looks like ye’re about to keel over, and I cannae catch ye if ye fall off yer horse!”

She shifted in the saddle, the pommel digging into the small of her back. She’d ignored it for as long as she could, but as she shuffled forward, the relief was a glorious thing.

Hector sucked in a sharp breath and clenched his jaw. His eyes closed for a moment, as though he was just hit with a fresh burst of pain.

“Am I hurtin’ ye?” Katie asked, willing to suffer the bruising press of the saddle against her spine if she was.

He shook his head. “I dinnae feel any pain at all.”

She frowned, doubting him. Throughout the past hour they had been on the road, he had made that face every so often, usually when she moved forward to relieve her discomfort. As far as she was concerned, he was in pain but didn’t want her to know.

As stubborn as a mule.

“We’re pausin’ at the next village or town we come upon,” she said sternly. “I willnae take any objections, M’Laird. I’ll stop the horse meself if I have to.”

She moved again, adjusting herself to bring some life back into her numb legs, still draped over his hips. That tension returned, his teeth raking over his lower lip, his eyes flashing with a feverish gleam. How could he say he wasn’t in any pain when he looked like that?

“Fine,” he muttered. “But only so I can get the feelin’ back.”

She furrowed her brow. “I can turn around if that’d be better. More comfortable.”

“I dinnae think it’ll make a difference,” he replied, his voice oddly thick. “There’s a village just over that hill. It’ll be more trouble if ye move.”

He hoped she understood his meaning, that her shifting around was the cause of his fresh, stifled agony.

Katie remained perfectly still as the stallion plodded onward. It would hurt her a little to sit so rigid, but she could bear it for a short while. Yet, as they rode up the hill and crested it—the ferocious wind whipping at her long hair and sending it in Hector’s face—she couldn’t help but notice his jaw tightening a few more times.

His eyes glinted with an emotion she was certain she’d seen before, though she struggled to place it. Anger? That wasn’t it. Disappointment? Not that either.

“There it is,” he said, with a note of something akin to relief.

She twisted in the saddle, hearing his breath catch slightly. Amidst the greens and browns and purples of the moorland, bordered in the distance by jagged mountains, appeared the soothing sight of stone cottages and wooden houses. More a hamlet than a village, smoke wisping from the chimneys.

“Let’s hope they have a healer,” Katie said, turning back to him, catching one last glimpse of that odd, fevered look in his eyes.

Hector couldn’t have cared less about the pain in his thigh. It didn’t bother him at all, his body used to aches and injuries. But Katie— she was a singular, torturous kind of agony. Unbearable. To make matters worse, he couldn’t tell her— wouldn’t tell her—in case she stopped.

It endeared him to realize that she had no idea what she was doing to him. Every time she shuffled forward in the saddle, every time she adjusted her legs, every time she pulled herself closer, every time the motion of the horse nudged him against her, it was torment.

Her thighs were parted, her skirts bunched up to her knees, her position bringing to mind pleasanter acts. She was practically sitting in his lap, the friction of her stirring his loins into a frenzy, striking a tinderbox far too close to a bonfire.

There was relief when she sat back again, but the saddle seemed to cause her discomfort, always bringing her into his lap again, almost flush against his loins. How she hadn’t felt what she was doing to him was beyond his comprehension, but she seemed oblivious.

It’s nae an act. She really doesnae ken.

He’d seen feminine ‘performances’ before, of coyness and feigned innocence. That maid, Rhona, was always up to some trick or another with anyone who would pay her attention. Katie’s behavior wasn’t like that. Her behavior was that of a village girl who had spent most of her time taking care of others, forgoing the pleasurable things in life.

“Thank ye, by the way,” she said suddenly, raking a hand through her hair to hold it back from her face, fighting the wind’s teasing touch.

Hector frowned. “For what?”

“For what ye did back there,” she replied, her voice tight. “I’m glad ye didnae let me see.”

“Ye dinnae feel inclined to scold me for nae ridin’ on?”

He had expected a barrage of her usual, ill-judged fire, but it had not come. She had been rather too occupied with keeping the handkerchief pressed to his thigh.

She shrugged. “I thought I’d be cross about it,” she said haltingly. “But then I thought, what if ye’d let them live and someone else had gone through that passage? Someone without yer protection. A family, perhaps, or some lasses, or a couple, but the lad wasnae used to fightin’…” she trailed off, shuddering.

I dinnae want to imagine what might’ve happened to ye if it had been anyone else with ye.

Hector trusted his men, knew their strengths and fighting skills. Any one of them might have done the same thing to protect Katie, but the thought of hearing about it after the fact was almost as bad.

“This is why me grandmaither was right to pull me away from me duties,” Hector said gruffly.

Katie nodded, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. “I’m glad she did.”

“Well, M’Laird… I’m glad that ye didnae.”

Her words after he’d told her he should have let her go last night echoed in his head, troubling him. What had she meant by that? What part, exactly, was she glad about? Was it what they had enjoyed together, or was it the fact that her siblings were now safe and fed and comfortable in his castle, away from the potential harm of the village?

It wasn’t as if he could ask her, uncertain of whether or not hearing the answer would help or hinder him.

They spent the rest of the short journey to the small village in silence, an easier kind than the stilted quiet of earlier.

By the time they entered that speck of civilization, the wind and rain had picked up. Whistling gales battered against shutters, teasing thatch loose from several roofs, while the beginnings of a deluge slicked the stone walls and turned the thoroughfare into a quagmire.

“Have ye a healer?” Hector shouted to an unfortunate soul who was hurrying to shelter.

The woman jabbed a finger toward an old peat and turf mound of a house that marked the very end of the minuscule village.

Lucifer plodded grumpily onward, snorting his displeasure. After all, he wouldn’t be able to go inside the house, stuck out in the driving rain.

Gingerly, Hector extricated himself from Katie’s torturous limbs and slid down from the saddle. He held out his arms to her, puzzled when she burst out laughing.

“Are ye quite serious?” she asked, shaking her head. “Ye’re hurt , M’Laird. Ye cannae help me down.”

He sniffed at the remark, grabbing her by the waist. He pulled her forward, not feeling a thing—not in his leg, at least—and she all but fell into him, her body brushing against his as she slid down to the ground.

An old man with a wrinkled face and not a wisp of hair was already waiting at the door of the peat house. Hector didn’t much believe in the otherworldly, but he would never deny that there were folks in the world who were a touch stranger than the rest, able to do things that ordinary people couldn’t. In truth, he preferred it when a healer had an air of the mysterious and uncanny about them; it meant they knew what they were doing.

“Boar?” the healer asked bluntly, his rheumy eyes squinting at the injured leg.

“Blade,” Hector replied.

“Wife?” The healer pointed to Katie, and her eyes widened at the question.

“Captive,” Hector answered, already liking this healer. He didn’t enjoy having someone chatter while tending to him.

The healer nodded and beckoned for the pair to enter, gesturing for Hector to sit in a chair by the fire. The old man didn’t bother to gesture for Katie, who stayed by the door, looking on with nervous eyes.

The one-room abode had a soothing effect, the air brimming with the scent of herbs and tonics and brews, the dense peat keeping it toasty warm inside. Hector had the feeling of being in a rabbit warren, cocooned by the earth. Indeed, he could barely hear the wind outside, thinking it a fine place to wait out a storm.

“Brigands?” the healer asked, bringing over a small crate of vials and jars and pots.

Hector nodded. “On the forest road.”

“Clean blade?”

“I dinnae reckon so.”

That seemed to be everything the healer needed to hear. He set to work without saying anything more, pushing Hector’s plaid up to his hip to see the wound. It was long and jagged, but not as deep as Hector had thought.

Gritting his teeth against the sting of the ointment the healer began to spread across the gash, Hector diverted his attention to Katie. She had found a stool to perch on, her hands clasped as if in prayer, her eyes closed.

Is she prayin’ for me?

An uncomfortable sensation pinched his innards, and he quickly turned his gaze toward the fire instead, before that feeling could become something problematic.