Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(25)

A few minutes later, she entered the barracks with Robbie. Patrick's men had laid him on a pallet and were gathered around, staring at him indecisively. Lizzie waved them out of the way and knelt beside the unconscious man, feeling a strange tightness in her throat and chest—as if the swell of emotion inside her had suddenly grown too large to hold.

Why he should affect her so, she didn't know. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing such a big, powerful warrior blazing with life suddenly cut down. His face was bloodless. Fear trickled down her spine. It was easy to see why Robbie had feared he was dead: He looked it.

She put her hand on his cheek, shocked by the cold clamminess of his skin. Leaning over him, she put her cheek next to his mouth. Her chest heaved with relief when she felt the warmth of his ragged breath sweep across her skin.

Though faint, it was a sign of life—one that she intended to hold on to.

He would not die. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Fionnghuala, the healer, arrived, and with the help of Robbie and another of Patrick's men, they removed his cotun and shirt, slowly revealing the broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and powerful chest that looked as if it had been ripped from steel.

Jesu!

The shock was like a lightning bolt running through her body. Her mouth went dry and she stared at him, utterly transfixed by the naked display of blatant masculinity. She'd never seen his like—his arms and chest could have been chipped from stone. The shape of each hard muscle was carefully honed to lean precision, not an ounce of fat to mar the sharply defined edges.

His skin was dark and smooth but for the smattering of warrior's marks that gave testament to his profession. He was a man who lived by the sword, and his body bore the scars to prove it.

Her palms itched to feel him, to lay her hands on the hard muscle, to trace her fingers across the ridged bands that were packed in tightly formed lines across his stomach.

Magnificent. Her body flooded with awareness. With heat. With desire. With a sharp yearning that gathered with the intensity of a maelstrom inside her.

Until the healer peeled back his shirt enough to reveal the gaping wound at his side.

She gasped, and her stomach rolled in revolt. How could he have stood, let alone ridden for hours, with such an injury?

The cut sliced across his side from back to front, starting at his shoulder blade and ending a few inches above his waist. It was splayed open, red and raw like a side of beef, the edges crusted with thick globs of blood and tissue, and so deep that she could see the white of his bones. The meal she'd just eaten threatened to return, but she swallowed it back. A steady stream of blood trickled down his side, gathering in a pool on the pallet. His side and stomach were streaked with the stains of blood that he'd obviously made a recent attempt to clean away.

Her eyes sought the grim gaze of the healer, silently asking the question she dared not put to words.

“The blood still runs red, my lady,” the old woman said, offering some ray of hope.

It hadn't festered … yet. But they could both see that he'd lost too much blood.

The healer started peppering questions to his men and soon grew impatient with their vague responses. It made Lizzie wonder if the Murray clansmen had something to hide. Eventually, however, they were able to determine that Patrick had received the injury weeks ago. A rudimentary attempt had been made to stitch the wound closed, but it must have reopened during the fighting today.

He'd been bleeding for hours.

Her chest tightened, thinking of the wolf's attack. Of how the added struggle must have sapped Patrick's strength—yet he'd hidden it well. She'd never guessed.

Why hadn't he said anything?

Her mouth tightened. Patrick Murray was clearly a man who would not ask for help. What was the fascination with Highlanders and invincibility? Something in the blood, she supposed, along with a healthy dose of stubborn pride.

She squared her shoulders, determination set across her face. “What can I do?”

“We'll clean the wound as best we can and stitch it closed again. I'll apply a salve, and then 'twill be in God's hands.” The healer's voice did not hold much promise.

“Nay,” Lizzie said with a fierceness that shocked her. “It's in my hands.” She felt the weight of all eyes upon her, and heat rose in her cheeks. Despite the blasphemy, however, his men looked at her approvingly. Embarrassed by the outburst, she explained to the healer, “This man saved my life twice today, I can do no less.”

The healer gave her a look that said she understood more than Lizzie might want her to, then she turned to Patrick's men. “I'll need a few of you to hold him still while I work.”

The men did as they were bid, and the healer began her preparations. Once everything was in place, they began. Using damp swathes of linen, they carefully washed the blood from the wound. Anxiety made Lizzie's heart pound erratically. She was trying to be careful, but when he flinched at her touch, she gasped and pulled her hand back.

“You're doing fine, my lady,” the healer encouraged her.

“But it's hurting him.”

“Aye, and it will hurt much worse before this day is done. If you've not the stomach—”

“I'm fine.” Lizzie gritted her teeth and kept swabbing the red, angry cut, steeling herself for his flinches of pain. She wiped her hand across her forehead when they were done, relieved, until she saw the healer lift the flagon.