lying in the grass.
But there were thirteen attackers, counting the man who escaped. Ansel cursed himself once again for not killing the man for laying a finger on Isolda.
He retrieved Eachann, who stood faithfully next to the wall where he’d first given the warning of intruders. Ansel secured the animal in the stables, then strode to the tower.
Isolda was already shaken from the night’s events. Now he’d have to tell her about Henry and somehow convince her that they must flee.
They were no longer safe here.
Chapter Thirteen
Isolda jumped as Ansel closed the tower door behind him with a soft thud. She hadn’t noticed him slip back inside at first, and for a horrifying moment, his movement and the sound of the door closing sent panic twisting like a knife in her belly.
Mary started as well where she crouched on the stone floor, cleaning a red gash across Bertram’s chest.
Isolda’s raw, shaking fingers fumbled with the needle she was trying to thread by the light of the kitchen fire. When at last she managed to thread the needle, she rose from the fire and turned toward Bertram, but when she stood, Ansel breathed a curse.
“Yer gown.”
She looked down. The fine green brocade of her surcoat was blotched with dark blood, some her attacker’s, some Bertram’s, and some from Ansel when he’d embraced her.
She involuntarily smoothed one hand down the silk brocade, but it only left another smear of blood. Aye, the expensive garment was ruined, but she still had her life—thanks to the grim-faced Highlander before her.
“It is naught,” she said softly, kneeling across from Mary on Bertram’s other side.
“How does he fare?” Ansel asked, coming to stand over her.
“The wound is deep but clean.”
“Do ye have any yarrow?”
She blinked up at him, but then turned to Mary in askance.
“Aye, I think so,” Mary said, rising and moving to the small kitchen.
“What does it do?” Isolda asked, shifting her gaze back to Bertram. His skin was white and his eyes were closed tight, but his chest still rose and fell gently beneath the vicious cut. She sent up another silent prayer for him.
“It will stop the bleeding and ward off infection,” Ansel replied.
Again, she found herself blinking up at him in numbed surprise. “How do you know about healing herbs and medicines?”
A weary darkness settled over Ansel’s hard features as he met Isolda’s searching gaze.
“I’ve been in many a battle. I’ve seen men bleed out from wounds, or die of infection from small scratches. I’ve also seen men’s lives saved by a few herbs or dried flowers.”
Though his face was set rigidly, his dark brown eyes flickered with a deeper pain for a moment before he shuttered them. Something stirred in Isolda’s chest, displacing her own fear and pain briefly. What had this man lived through? What had made him into the hardened warrior before her, and what old wounds still scarred him?
“Here is some,” Mary interjected, holding up a dried bundle of the little white blossoms.
“Add those to the boiling water ye have in that caldron,” Ansel directed. “Then soak the linen bandages in the yarrow water before applying them.”
Mary set about the task silently, her shock likely still buffering her from what was now settling over Isolda. Bertram clung to life. The castle had been attacked. There was no more denying that some powerful force was still hunting John—and now her.
She dragged in a fortifying breath. She could not let the emotions barraging her sweep her away. Yet as she raised the threaded needle over Bertram’s chest, her shaking fingers betrayed her.
Ansel crouched beside her, lowering his voice so that Mary might not overhear. “Have ye ever done that before, lass?” he asked, nodding toward the needle she held.
“Nay, not on a man,” she blurted. “But I’ve spent all my life stitching.” Just as she was about to say more, she caught herself. She sank her teeth
But there were thirteen attackers, counting the man who escaped. Ansel cursed himself once again for not killing the man for laying a finger on Isolda.
He retrieved Eachann, who stood faithfully next to the wall where he’d first given the warning of intruders. Ansel secured the animal in the stables, then strode to the tower.
Isolda was already shaken from the night’s events. Now he’d have to tell her about Henry and somehow convince her that they must flee.
They were no longer safe here.
Chapter Thirteen
Isolda jumped as Ansel closed the tower door behind him with a soft thud. She hadn’t noticed him slip back inside at first, and for a horrifying moment, his movement and the sound of the door closing sent panic twisting like a knife in her belly.
Mary started as well where she crouched on the stone floor, cleaning a red gash across Bertram’s chest.
Isolda’s raw, shaking fingers fumbled with the needle she was trying to thread by the light of the kitchen fire. When at last she managed to thread the needle, she rose from the fire and turned toward Bertram, but when she stood, Ansel breathed a curse.
“Yer gown.”
She looked down. The fine green brocade of her surcoat was blotched with dark blood, some her attacker’s, some Bertram’s, and some from Ansel when he’d embraced her.
She involuntarily smoothed one hand down the silk brocade, but it only left another smear of blood. Aye, the expensive garment was ruined, but she still had her life—thanks to the grim-faced Highlander before her.
“It is naught,” she said softly, kneeling across from Mary on Bertram’s other side.
“How does he fare?” Ansel asked, coming to stand over her.
“The wound is deep but clean.”
“Do ye have any yarrow?”
She blinked up at him, but then turned to Mary in askance.
“Aye, I think so,” Mary said, rising and moving to the small kitchen.
“What does it do?” Isolda asked, shifting her gaze back to Bertram. His skin was white and his eyes were closed tight, but his chest still rose and fell gently beneath the vicious cut. She sent up another silent prayer for him.
“It will stop the bleeding and ward off infection,” Ansel replied.
Again, she found herself blinking up at him in numbed surprise. “How do you know about healing herbs and medicines?”
A weary darkness settled over Ansel’s hard features as he met Isolda’s searching gaze.
“I’ve been in many a battle. I’ve seen men bleed out from wounds, or die of infection from small scratches. I’ve also seen men’s lives saved by a few herbs or dried flowers.”
Though his face was set rigidly, his dark brown eyes flickered with a deeper pain for a moment before he shuttered them. Something stirred in Isolda’s chest, displacing her own fear and pain briefly. What had this man lived through? What had made him into the hardened warrior before her, and what old wounds still scarred him?
“Here is some,” Mary interjected, holding up a dried bundle of the little white blossoms.
“Add those to the boiling water ye have in that caldron,” Ansel directed. “Then soak the linen bandages in the yarrow water before applying them.”
Mary set about the task silently, her shock likely still buffering her from what was now settling over Isolda. Bertram clung to life. The castle had been attacked. There was no more denying that some powerful force was still hunting John—and now her.
She dragged in a fortifying breath. She could not let the emotions barraging her sweep her away. Yet as she raised the threaded needle over Bertram’s chest, her shaking fingers betrayed her.
Ansel crouched beside her, lowering his voice so that Mary might not overhear. “Have ye ever done that before, lass?” he asked, nodding toward the needle she held.
“Nay, not on a man,” she blurted. “But I’ve spent all my life stitching.” Just as she was about to say more, she caught herself. She sank her teeth
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