The Beauty of the Mist by May McGoldrick

They were no more than exposed pieces of flesh, as raw as newly butchered meat, oozing with blood and pus. To her dismay, and with a feeling of mild revulsion, she noted that some of the linen had already begun to stick to the inflamed wounds.
    He looked up, expecting her to faint. Truthfully, he thought, it would be better if she did.
    She continued to stare.
    “This will hurt.”
    “You gave me your word that it wouldn’t,” Maria protested quietly.
    “This is worse than I thought it to be,” he growled. John stood up, happy to have something he could be angry with, and stalked to a cabinet. She saw him take down a decanter and pour a liquid in a cup. He came back to her and laid them both on the table. “Mere scratches!”
    The Highlander sat down and pushed the cup across the table-board. “You’ll need to drink this.”
    “Boiling oil?” she asked, smiling weakly.
    “Drink!” he ordered. The young woman began to reach for the cup, but as she did, John saw the trembling fingers. His voice was softer as he continued. “It will not hurt you, lass.”
    Gently, he lifted the cup to her lips, and she leaned forward, taking a sip. It burned her lips.
    “It’s strong. Is this turpentine, too?”
    John chuckled. “It’s whisky. A good Scots drink. But it’s probably not strong enough.” He held the drink again to her lips, and she reached up, tipping the cup until it was gone. Lowering it, he noticed the amber droplets glittering like jewels on her full lips. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed his finger over them.
    His touch was so intimate. Maria knew that codes of behavior dictated that she pull back from his caress, but she didn’t. Somehow, here in this cabin, inside the darkened walls, she felt separated from her past. Her eyes captured his gaze.
    John stared at her for a moment, then withdrew his hand as if he’d been the one injured. She was married.
    Maria lowered her gaze in confusion and dismay. She didn’t know what was coming over her. Her senses were on fire, and she could feel her face burn. She watched him lift her hands and carefully lower them both in the water.
    Tears sprang to her eyes, and she tried to pull back, but he held on. The pain coursed up her arms, but she realized in a moment that she had the strength to bear it.
    Gently, the Highlander pressed on the torn flesh with the wet linen, and Maria’s mind focused on other things. Her eyes continued to stare, but not at the act of the cleansing itself, but rather at the hands that held hers so expertly. At the difference in size, in color, in the very strength of the fingers that cradled and gentled her injured flesh with the utmost care.
    “It must have come unexpectedly.”
    She snapped out of her reverie and glanced at him questioningly. A searing pain shot into her wrist, causing her to wince.
    “The attack on your ship,” he continued. “Why else would you be left with only one man to protect you in a battle?”
    The sharp pains were increasing dramatically in her hands. She shuddered and went back to staring at them. Each time the water moved, the flesh of her palms sent shafts of hot metal into her wrist and arm.
    “Where were you headed?”
    Maria didn’t look up.
    “What port did you sail from, at least?” Receiving only silence as an answer, he continued, struggling to retain a reasonable tone of voice. “They will be looking for you when your ship doesn’t arrive.”
    She pressed her lips tightly together.
    John turned back to his task. From the decanter, he poured some of the whisky into the bowl of water, causing her to flinch once again. He’d hoped to take her mind off her hands by involving her in conversation, but she wasn’t cooperating.
    “You know, lass, there is a possibility we might come across other survivors. Did the vessel have many longboats?”
    “A few.” She nodded slowly, her eyes never lifting from her hands.
    John pulled gently at a section of linen that would not separate