efforts likely be futile, but he was a savage, warring Scot. A MacGillivray. One of the beasts who had attacked Lord Reginald’s lands—now her lands.
But gazing at his face, which looked no older than five and twenty, she rather thought he did not look much like the savage brutes she’d been imagining before leaving Sussex.
Conflict warred within her. She should be a good and loyal wife, and turn this injured MacGillivray man—who happened to be at death’s door anyway—over to her husband. Her head told her so. Her heart, though ... her heart told her something very different. It told her that she could not let this helpless young man die. It told her ... what ?
She stroked the dark hair that was pasted to his brow off his forehead and began to clean the dried blood and dirt from his face. A head wound, it appeared, accounted for much of it, but the wound there did not look infected like the more critical one he’d sustained on his side; it had already begun to heal, in fact.
As she dabbed his face, she sang. She did it not for his sake, but for her own. She sang the only song that came to her mind, one which her mother used to sing when she was small. The words left her lips no louder than a soft murmur.
If I were an eagle and I had wings to fly
I would fly to my love's castle and there I would lie
On a bed of green ivy I would lay myself down
And with my two fond wings I would my love surround
The words of the song had never meant much to her as a child. But now, so soon past her own wedding day to a man she did not love, could not love, the words triggered a budding sorrow deep in her heart. She would never know the love of which the song told. Tears escaped her lids as she sang and dabbed tenderly at the man’s forehead.
Unexpectedly, her lullaby seemed to do the man some good—he appeared to be a bit more peaceful under the spell of her voice. His restless fidgeting, fuelled by his delirium, subsided. For his benefit, she continued to sing. If this was all she could do for him in the end, she would do it to the best of her abilities.
And so she sang until the dying Scot had passed into a state of deep slumber.
A long and restless night ensued. Jane, lying on her own quilt which, for good measure, she’d spread the distance of the hearth away from the man, found she could not sleep but for an hour or two at a time. It was just as well, for that was how often she needed to administer the infusion of thyme and to force him to drink water.
Even as she slept, she was mindful of the night sky, vigilant in monitoring the changing indigo canvass. She would need to return to the castle when it was still dark if she hoped to slip past the sentries that kept guard on the wall walk again.
By the time she had to leave, the Scot was sleeping much more peacefully. The fire flickered low in the hearth, and though it was probably not the wisest idea to leave it burning unattended, she thought it unlikely that the flames would flare up and burn the rotting hut down.
Besides, she was not the man’s keeper, she reminded herself. She could not be entirely responsible for his life. He had been the one who had gone charging into battle, attacking a castle that no longer belonged to his chieftain and his clan. He had been the one who had gotten himself into the condition he was presently suffering in. Her help did not oblige her to become his guardian.
She told herself these things—and yet they did little to alleviate her worry as she stood to leave the hut.
Squatting over the man’s sleeping form Jane pressed the back of her hand to his forehead to check his fever. It was still burning intensely, but not quite as intensely as it had been. The thyme infusion must have been doing him some good.
Without thinking, she allowed her hand to travel down his temple to caress his smooth cheek, which still retained a measure of boyishness in his youth. His face was serene now, much different from the face she
But gazing at his face, which looked no older than five and twenty, she rather thought he did not look much like the savage brutes she’d been imagining before leaving Sussex.
Conflict warred within her. She should be a good and loyal wife, and turn this injured MacGillivray man—who happened to be at death’s door anyway—over to her husband. Her head told her so. Her heart, though ... her heart told her something very different. It told her that she could not let this helpless young man die. It told her ... what ?
She stroked the dark hair that was pasted to his brow off his forehead and began to clean the dried blood and dirt from his face. A head wound, it appeared, accounted for much of it, but the wound there did not look infected like the more critical one he’d sustained on his side; it had already begun to heal, in fact.
As she dabbed his face, she sang. She did it not for his sake, but for her own. She sang the only song that came to her mind, one which her mother used to sing when she was small. The words left her lips no louder than a soft murmur.
If I were an eagle and I had wings to fly
I would fly to my love's castle and there I would lie
On a bed of green ivy I would lay myself down
And with my two fond wings I would my love surround
The words of the song had never meant much to her as a child. But now, so soon past her own wedding day to a man she did not love, could not love, the words triggered a budding sorrow deep in her heart. She would never know the love of which the song told. Tears escaped her lids as she sang and dabbed tenderly at the man’s forehead.
Unexpectedly, her lullaby seemed to do the man some good—he appeared to be a bit more peaceful under the spell of her voice. His restless fidgeting, fuelled by his delirium, subsided. For his benefit, she continued to sing. If this was all she could do for him in the end, she would do it to the best of her abilities.
And so she sang until the dying Scot had passed into a state of deep slumber.
A long and restless night ensued. Jane, lying on her own quilt which, for good measure, she’d spread the distance of the hearth away from the man, found she could not sleep but for an hour or two at a time. It was just as well, for that was how often she needed to administer the infusion of thyme and to force him to drink water.
Even as she slept, she was mindful of the night sky, vigilant in monitoring the changing indigo canvass. She would need to return to the castle when it was still dark if she hoped to slip past the sentries that kept guard on the wall walk again.
By the time she had to leave, the Scot was sleeping much more peacefully. The fire flickered low in the hearth, and though it was probably not the wisest idea to leave it burning unattended, she thought it unlikely that the flames would flare up and burn the rotting hut down.
Besides, she was not the man’s keeper, she reminded herself. She could not be entirely responsible for his life. He had been the one who had gone charging into battle, attacking a castle that no longer belonged to his chieftain and his clan. He had been the one who had gotten himself into the condition he was presently suffering in. Her help did not oblige her to become his guardian.
She told herself these things—and yet they did little to alleviate her worry as she stood to leave the hut.
Squatting over the man’s sleeping form Jane pressed the back of her hand to his forehead to check his fever. It was still burning intensely, but not quite as intensely as it had been. The thyme infusion must have been doing him some good.
Without thinking, she allowed her hand to travel down his temple to caress his smooth cheek, which still retained a measure of boyishness in his youth. His face was serene now, much different from the face she
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