Highland Healer by Willa Blair

shrinking from the cold. He rested his arms on his knees, and dropped his chin, making his upper body as compact as possible for a man as large as himself. It would be a long day, and an even longer night, even if he wrapped his plaid about him.
    But the position had the added advantage of allowing him to worry at his bonds with his teeth while appearing to simply rest his head on his hands. He’d made some progress when riders leaving camp had awakened him at dawn, but the damage he’d done to his wrists was greater than the damage done to the leather before the Healer arrived.
    As for what she’d done when she’d seen the condition of his wrists, Toran didn’t understand what he’d been feeling then, but even the brief touch he’d allowed her had helped heal the worst of the damage inflicted by the leather. In hindsight, he should have let her finish the job. He’d be in better shape, and he might have a better understanding of what exactly she could do.
    Or perhaps not. If she used magic, her methods would be past his kenning. But if she truly used magic, surely it was benign or even good magic used to heal and help, despite the warlike setting. Perhaps her life depended on providing aid the invader by keeping his troops sound. If so, why was he, a captive, given to her to heal? Ah, the torc. If they thought he ruled as laird here, they would think he kenned a great deal about the lay of the land and the capabilities of nearby clans. Indeed. The invader wanted to learn more about the area.
    Several hours passed. The guards handed out a midday meal. While they ate, Toran questioned the men around him about the battle the day before and the invaders who now held them.
    “No one has seen the MacAnalen since the battle,” Angus told him, grief plain on his handsome face. “He’s the only brother left to me and I fear he’s among the dead. The men are calm for now, but their rage over their losses will not be denied much longer. When your men come, the fighting could start again.”
    “Nay,” Toran advised, “there are not enough of us to take them all. We need to get away so that we can return to fight on our own terms. Where are they keeping their horses?”
    “On the other side of camp,” Angus replied. I saw a line of them tied out in the trees when I was brought here.”
    “All together? That’s convenient, and sloppy. It will be easier to cut them loose. Steal those ye can. Scatter the rest. If ye make for the hills, ye can hide out where ye can re-arm and strike at a time of yer choosing. We’ll stand with ye o’course. But it may be as ye said. With their leader out of action, or dead, this army may disperse on its own, saving us all the trouble.”
    “Ye speak sense. We’ll be glad of the chance to chase them south into the arms of the Sassenach.”
    “And if they won’t go, we’ll take care of them, together.”
    Angus, thoughtful, nodded before speaking again. “Most of these guards pay little attention to us, preferring to stay by the fire. We could let the men farthest from them start to slip into the woods when they get free of their bonds.”
    “Nay,” Toran answered. “The risk is too great. If they’re seen, the guards will stay closer and more alert. Better the guards are lax in their duties. Donal will have time to cut several loose to help the others before we’re noticed. And my men will be armed and able to defend us.”
    “Aye, that’s sensible,” Angus agreed, still tugging and twisting his bonds to stretch and loosen them.
    Toran approved of the young MacAnalen lieutenant. If the MacAnalen was truly among the dead, Angus would be a suitable successor to lead his clan, though that must be confirmed by what remained of his people—if they could win free from the muddle they were in now.
    Toran’s thoughts returned to his own situation and that of his home half a day’s ride away. The fact that the invader chief languished here meant he had not been able to carry the