Brenda Joyce - A Sword Upon the Rose

Alana nodded. She walked back to Iain and stared down at him for a moment, suddenly aware of being exhausted. How she wished she knew why he had been in her vision, and why she was now with him.

She bent and adjusted the furs, covering him up to his chin. As she did, she thought he stirred; she thought his dark lashes flickered. But he did not open his eyes.

“Child?” Eleanor called.

Alana turned and followed Eleanor from his tent.

* * *

THE SOUNDS OF the men taking down the camp awoke Alana.

She jerked upright. For one waking moment, she did not recognize the tent she shared with her grandmother, did not recall why she was there and not in her own bed.

And then all the events of the previous day came rushing back to her. The burning manor, the bloody battle, Iain of Islay...

Alana stared at the hides of the tent, stunned anew, and then looked down at Eleanor. Her grandmother remained soundly asleep.

She had hoped to be up and gone well before dawn. Now she remembered every detail of the previous day—mostly, she remembered just how suspicious of her Iain had been. She could not imagine what the new day would bring. But they had to get to Nairn, or suffer Duncan’s wrath. And mostly, they had to escape this camp before Iain decided not to let them leave—before he learned she was a Comyn.

She prayed that he remained soundly asleep, which would not be unusual, considering he was afflicted with such a stab wound.

Alana slipped out from the furs she and Eleanor shared. A pitcher of water was on a small table in the tent, and Alana used some to wash her face and brush her teeth with one finger. She quickly loosened and braided her long dark hair. Then she paused to gently awaken her grandmother. “I am going outside.”

As Eleanor got up, Alana lifted the tent’s flap and stepped out. The sun was just rising, and it was a freezing cold December morning. She pulled her fur more tightly about her. They had overslept, for the sun was rising from the dark mists.

Her trepidation increased as she glanced at the camp, hoping their captor remained abed. A dozen men were standing about the cook fire, bread and ale in hand, while the rest of the Highlanders were packing up their tents and gear and saddling their horses.

Alana saw the lady of Boath Manor. Pale and blonde, she sat with her children on the fire’s other side, the children busily eating bread and cheese. And Iain was with them.

She was in disbelief. He was up and about, as if he had not suffered a deep knife wound the previous day. And then she prayed that he would not ask about her identity another time, that he would thank her for all she had done and let her go on her way.

He had seen her. He was seated with the lady and her children, but now, he slowly rose to his full height, staring across the fire at her.

She no longer saw the woman and her children, or the other men. She hugged herself, unmoving.

His gaze unwavering upon her, he drained his mug, tossed a crust away and strode to her. “Good morn, Alana.” He smiled carefully at her.

“Good morning,” she managed to answer. His smile did not reach his searching eyes.

“Did ye pass a pleasing night?” he asked.

So he wished to make polite conversation? What tactic was this? “Fortunately, it was not too cold.”

He glanced at the brightening skies. “It will be colder today.”

He was probably right, as the skies were clear, which meant it would not snow. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes again. He did not seem like an injured man just then. Although his left arm was in a sling, he wore a long sword and a dagger. Beneath his fur, she saw his dark blue, black and red plaid, pinned with a gold brooch above his right shoulder. She was very aware that he was not bedridden, that he was powerful, masculine and very much the enemy.

“I did not expect to see you on your feet so soon.”

“Did ye truly think I’d linger on a pallet in my tent?”

Was he amused? It was hard to tell. “Your wound must pain you.”

“I care little about pain. It is always a good day when one awakens alive,” he said. “Will ye break bread with me, mistress?”

“I am not hungry.” She did not wish to share a breakfast with him. “We have been delayed as it is. We must get to our kin in Nairn.”

He smiled. “Ah, aye. Ye have been summoned there, to heal someone, and ye cannot spare a moment to eat.”

She knew she flushed. “It would be best to simply go on.”

His brow lifted. “But ye had the time to attend my wound.”

She could not help staring at him and their gazes locked.

“I will learn why ye nursed me, mistress, just as I will learn why ye truly go to Nairn,” he said.

She had little doubt he would soon learn all that she hid from him and she was so tempted to blurt out the truth. Instead, she cried, “I do not even know, myself, why I wished so desperately to save you! I saw the terrible treachery, my lord, and I ran to your aid without thought!”

He started, his regard probing.

Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. “That is the truth, my lord.”

For one more moment he studied her. “Come eat.”

She decided not to argue, aware that he had not forbidden her from leaving. Alana glanced toward their tent, but Eleanor had yet to come outside. She followed him closer to the campfire, took the bread he offered and quickly ate it. He continued to stare and it made her uncomfortable.

When she was done, she looked up and saw him flexing his left arm in the sling, wincing. He seemed pale beneath his days’ growth of beard.

She knew her stitches would hold, if he undertook no abnormal activities. But men died from infected battle wounds more often than not. “Maybe I should look at your wound before I leave?” Alana heard herself say.

“So yer concern for a stranger in a time of war remains.”

She did not want him to die, and she had already said as much—she would not say so again, especially when such desire was insensible.

He gestured. His tent had been taken down, so she followed him to a large wagon, one containing a catapult. He leaned against it, shaking his fur from his wounded shoulder. Their gazes danced together, his appraisal this time slow and steady.

She looked away, deciding that she preferred it when he looked at her with suspicion, not with interest. She pushed the plaid farther back over his shoulder. She did not look up at him as she untied the sling, but she felt his gaze upon her face. She had the feeling he was scrutinizing her every feature as he had done the past night. It made her terribly uneasy.

She removed the sling, then pulled open the neckline of his tunic. Someone had secured the bandage. She lifted an edge, and was instantly relieved. “You are healing nicely.”

“I have been well nursed,” he said softly.

Aware of the heat in her cheeks, Alana tucked the linen back into the wrappings, and covered it with his tunic. She helped him put his arm back in the sling and tied it. But there was no avoiding contact—no avoiding the feeling of male muscle and bone. “I hope you will rest and heal for a few days, at least. I do not wish for my efforts to have been in vain.”

“War waits fer no man.”

She took a step back, to put some distance between them. “Surely you will rest for a few days.”

“I am a soldier. I have no time to rest, mistress.”

She was in disbelief. “Then you might die, for you can hardly wield a sword with such a wound.”

He began to smile. “I will wield more than one sword today, my lady, I will wield two.”

Alana gasped. “How can you raise a sword in your left hand? And you think to fight today?”

His smile vanished. “Why did ye come to help me yesterday? The truth, mistress.” Warning filled his tone.