Beloved Stranger by PATRICIA POTTER

will merely bleed him,” Kimbra replied. “He has lost enough blood.”
    “Ye are willing to look after him?”
    “Aye.”
    “Why?” he asked bluntly, even suspiciously.
    “I think Will would want me to take care of someone wounded. I would hope that someone would have cared for him had he required it.”
    The Charlton frowned at that, then returned his gaze to the wounded man.
    The Scot mumbled something that she believed might be French.
    The Charlton’s frown deepened.“’Tis not English.”
    “He said he has fought against the French in Europe. Mayhap . . .”
    Charlton used a foot to stir the Scot. The Scot groaned but did not open his eyes.
    “He probably will not live through another day,” the Charlton said. “If he does, we will move him to the tower. I would not like your reputation darkened for helping an English soldier. It could destroy your chances of a good marriage. Even with the cottage as a dowry.”
    Which might be a way out.
    But she only agreed. “Aye.”
    He started for the door, then turned back. “The bay leaves? Do ye have more?”
    “They helped, then?”
    “Aye.”
    “Send someone over, and I will have some ready.”
    “Ye are doing well here, on your own?”
    “We have a cow for milk, and I have my garden. I trade my herbs for what I need.”
    “Ye still need a husband. Ye and Audra are alone here. The Armstrongs have been raiding isolated farms and cottages.”
    “I have Bear. And you know I can use a dagger.”
    “’Tis not enough. Ye need protection. I will send someone here to help you.”
    She hesitated. The last thing she wanted was someone to spy on her, and yet she thought he meant it as a kind offer. But until the Scot was lucid enough—if he became lucid enough—to realize what he was saying, she had to take care of him alone.
    “Audra is helping me. I will call if I need help.”
    He looked from her to the Scot and back again. “If he lives, I will send a messenger to the Howard family. Mayhap there will be a reward. It will be yours.”
    She said nothing. She couldn’t say anything. Pray God, the Scot would be gone before an answer came.
    She watched as he disappeared down the path, then returned inside.
    She made a new poultice of aloe for the burn, hoping it would relieve the pain when he woke. And he would wake. She was determined about that.
    Audra helped as much as she could, handing her cloths and taking used ones to a big pot where they would be boiled and used again to draw heat from the wounds.
    He woke again as evening came. Once she knew he would survive the night, her anger grew. He’d nearly killed himself.
    She tried to contain it when he opened his eyes. They fastened on her, and he grimaced. “You do not give up, do you, Mistress?”
    “And you do not stop being foolish,” she retorted.
    His eyes fluttered for a moment as he reacted to her anger.
    “I am . . . sorry. I thought I was stronger—”
    “So you decided to take a walk, fell, and lay in the bog and rain for God knows how long. If not for Bear you would be dead now.”
    “I tried to send him back.”
    “He has more sense than you. He knew you could not go far. You have no sense in your head, and not just from the blow on it.”
    He tried to move, lifted himself slightly, then fell back down, a grimace crossing his face.
    “You lost even more blood and tore open the wound that was about to heal. I had to burn it to stop the bleeding.”
    “You should . . . have left me.”
    “Bear did not think so. He would have stayed out there with you and broke Audra’s heart.”
    “I . . . did not want to put you in danger.”
    “And now there is even more,” she said, unwilling to forgive him after the night and day of such intense worry. “You were getting better. Now you will have to stay in England longer.”
    His eyes met hers. They were bloodshot. Full of pain. She knew that despite the salve she’d mixed, his leg must feel like white hot coals packed inside. She put her