Suzanne Barclay - Lion's Lady

“Nay. I need nothing from you.”

“I’ve a bit of experience with wounds, and I know the sight of blood always made you queasy. I could—”

“I have overcome my aversion to blood,” she said flatly.

.Lion’s mouth thinned. “I will stay nonetheless.”

“I would prefer you did not, but doubt that will sway you.”

“Nay, it will not. For as long as you are in Blantyre, you must be under my protection.”

“I do not believe I am in any danger. I think you just want an excuse to—to annoy me,” she finished, unwilling to give voice to the tension that simmered between them.

“Many of the men who’ve answered the earl’s summons are of the worst sort, the dregs of the Highlands. They are without honor or conscience. Pray forgive me for not wanting you to fall into the clutches of others like the MacPhersons.”

Rowena stifled a shudder at the reminder of what he’d saved her from. But forgiveness didn’t come easy. “I’ve not the time to argue.” She turned her attention back to Harry. “He has lost a great deal of blood, so I must act quickly.” She peered into the pot beside the fire and found it empty.

“I sent my squire for hot water and whiskey,” Lion said.

Rowena gritted her teeth. “I must cut his tunic away from his body.”

Kneeling, Lion proffered his own dirk to her. “’Tis sharp, so mind what you’re doing, lass.”

“Around you, always.”

A fair-haired lad stuck his head into the room. “I’ve got the things you asked for, milord.”

“Bring them in, Sim. Set the pot on the coals to keep warm and put the whiskey there, beside Lady Rowena.”

Sim did as he was bid, paling a bit when he glanced at the injured man. “I’ll wait outside in case you need anything else.”

When she’d sliced away Harry’s shirt, Rowena lifted the bandage she’d put over his wound, and her heart quailed. The slash was a long one, extending from under Harry’s left arm across his chest to his waist, laying bare two rib bones. It would be a miracle if he lived.

“Let me keep pressure on this while you ready the needle and thread,” Lion offered.

“All right.” Opening the medicine chest, she rummaged through it, bringing out a needle, stout silk thread and several packets of herbs. She dipped both thread and needle into the whiskey Sim had brought. Her hand trembled slightly as she prepared to dig into Harry’s ruined flesh.

At the touch of her needle, Harry roused. “My lady!” he cried, sitting up with no warning.

“Harry! Lie still!” Rowena reached for him, but he pushed her aside with surprising strength.

“Have to save her,” he cried, his eyes wild and unfocused.

“Easy, lad.” Lion grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders and forced the boy to look at him. “She’s safe, do you hear? We got to her in time. She came to no harm.”

“Praise God.” Harry sagged in Lion’s gnp, shivering as he was laid back down on the pallet. “So afraid for her.”

“As was I.” Lion lifted a cup of whiskey to Harry’s lips. “Drink deep, lad. You’ve a bit of a cut on your side that wants stitching. It’ll go a mite easier with this in your belly.”

Harry drained the cup, then sighed. His eyes closed; his breathing eased.

“Best begin,” Lion said softly. “I’ll just steady him for you, least he rouse and cause more damage.”

She looked up at him, too weary in body and soul to fight against his help. “Thank you,” she murmured. Curiously, the words did not stick in her throat. With steely determination, she began to ply her needle.

It was nearly nightfall by the time Rowena left Harry’s bedside. She was stiff from crouching over her patient, and so tired she could have curled up on the bare floor and slept. Felis had returned from a successful birthing, however, and insisted she would sit with Harry a spell.

As Rowena stepped from the sickroom, Lion came away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “Harry?” he asked.

Rowena tensed. “He yet lives. Why are you here?”

“I told you I’d be nearby.”

“And I told you to leave hours ago.”

“I quit the room, for my presence made you nervous. But I am not about to leave you undefended.” Before she could stop him, he seized a stray curl and tucked it behind her ear.

Rowena jumped back, uncomfortable with the thought that he’d been near all this time. “I do not require a guard.”

His grin was mocking. “You say that only because you do not know the men gathered at Blantyre as well as I do. Some of them have the manners and morals of pigs.”

He was protecting her. The notion was both comforting and frightening. “I can look after myself.” She started down the corridor away from him.

“Really? What business have you in the guards’ quarters?”

She stopped and turned. “What?”

“That is where you are headed.”

“I see.” She changed direction, brushing past him without touching him, yet the heat from his body singed her. Down the hall she went, conscious that he kept pace behind her though she could not hear his footsteps. At an intersection, she paused.

“The great hall is to the left.”

Rowena sniffed and turned toward the hall in search of Eneas. Loath as she was to see that turn-tail lout, she had to learn what plans he’d made for their accommodations. With any luck, he’d already spoken with the earl and arranged for the swearing to take place on the morrow. Pray God they could leave soon, for being in Lion’s presence was painful beyond bearing.

“Why have you come to Blantyre?” he asked.

“I have business with the earl.” Rowena quickened her pace. As she turned the next corner, she was assaulted by such noise: shouts and bellows, laughter and...was that the crack of breaking wood? It came from behind a double set of metal-banded doors at the far end of the corridor. “The great hall?” she asked weakly.

“The very same.” Lion moved up beside her, his grin flashing in the torchlight. “We could sup in my chamber instead.”

“Certainly not. I’ve no wish to be private with you. I must see my kinsman.” Ugh. To call Eneas that grated. “And pay my respects to the earl.”

“Mayhap you’d like to wait till you’ve bathed and changed.”

Rowena stopped and looked down at her gown. To say that it was the worse for wear after five days in the saddle and another spent crouched on the floor was an understatement. “Somewhere I have a pack with a clean gown.”

“Why not wait till the morrow? Alexander is likely deep in his cups by now and—”

“Nay. I would conclude my business quickly. I do not want to spend a minute more at Blantyre than I have to.”

“A wise decision. The men here are barbarous.”

Steeling herself, she met Lion’s amber gaze squarely. “You keep saying that Have you become a barbarian?”

“I hope not.” His smile was as compelling as ever.

“Why are you at Blantyre?”

“Like you, I have business here.”

She sensed evasion. He’d always been clever with words, able to wriggle out of a question quicker than the river salmon they’d fished for that long-ago summer could escape from a net “I see. Well, I hope to conclude mine the quicker, for then I can be the one to ride away from you.” When pain darkened his beautiful eyes, the heart she’d thought fortified against him tripped. Why? Why did you leave me without a word? Nay, she did not want to know, could not afford to care why. She lifted her chin. “Do we enter the hall or stand here trading barbs?”

“The slings and arrows of outrage are all yours, lass,” he said quietly. “I would have peace between us.”

“That can never be.” Rowena moved past him and flung open the right-hand door. The wash of light and noise stopped her in her tracks. Blinking, she surveyed the great hall.