Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(33)

“I must go now,” Genevieve said in a low voice to Taliesan. “I must see to the laird. I know not how seriously he was injured. There is much to be done below. The men will be hungry from their battles, and they must bury the dead. We will mourn our losses this eve, when an accounting is given.”

“You’re a brave and giving lass,” Taliesan said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “I know not how you manage it when Ian tried every conceivable way to crush your spirit. Your resilience is inspiring. I hope one day to be as you are.”

Genevieve’s response came out more as a sob. “Nay, Taliesan. Never pray for my fate. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

Chapter 16

Genevieve hesitated at Bowen’s chamber door. It was closed, and she wondered if she would even be permitted entrance. Brodie had looked at her with suspicion, but surely he didn’t believe she had anything to do with Bowen’s injuries.

Thrusting her chin up and scolding herself for being the coward she so easily labeled Patrick, she knocked softly at the door. There was a long moment of waiting, and she was debating whether to knock again when it opened the barest crack and Brodie stood frowning at her.

She thought to explain her presence, when he swung the door wider and motioned her inside.

“Have you any skill at healing?” Brodie asked as she stepped through the doorway.

She paused, blowing out her breath. “It depends on what he has need of. I’ve never done any stitching, and I have no knowledge of poultices or drams.”

Brodie’s lips pressed together in consternation. “He has need of stitching for one of his wounds, certainly, and I would give him something to make him less restless, to ease his pain so the stitching can be done, but I do not trust a McHugh healer with his life.”

Her hand went automatically to rub at the ragged scar on her face. “Nay,” she agreed quietly. “I’d not have the McHugh healer stitch him, either.”

As she spoke, she moved toward the bed, where another Montgomery soldier stood guard. Bowen lay there, eyes closed, but he fidgeted even in unconsciousness. His tunic had been removed, and she could see a ragged cut to his chest. The flesh lay open and was still bleeding, though the soldier wiped at it with cloths.

“Think you are up to the task?” Brodie asked. “Your hands are smaller and you would perhaps be more adept at a needle and thread than I or one of the other men.”

She swallowed hard, still staring at the open wound. Then she squared her shoulders. “Aye, I have skill with a needle and thread. Surely ’tis not more difficult than laying stitch to material. I can sew a tight seam. But I dare not sink needle into his flesh if he’s had nothing to calm him.”

“I’ll have the materials you need fetched to the chamber. If we give him enough ale, it will dull his senses enough for you to do the task.”

Genevieve wasn’t as convinced as Brodie was, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t want to anger the warrior, and if he saw no use for her, ’twas likely he’d bar her from Bowen’s chamber.

Brodie pulled a chair from the window and positioned it directly beside the bed before motioning for Genevieve to sit. He gave terse instructions to the warrior attending Bowen, and then quit the room abruptly.

Genevieve leaned forward, her hand going to Bowen’s forehead in an automatic gesture of comfort. He shifted beneath her touch and then quieted, rubbing against her palm.

“Bowen, are you feeling any pain?” she asked.

“He’s remained unconscious, mistress,” the warrior explained.

Genevieve turned her gaze on the warrior. “Aye, I know it. I’m trying to determine if he’s aware of anything happening around him.”

The warrior fell silent, abashed by her response.

She took the cloth that lay on Bowen’s chest and gently wiped at the blood still seeping from the wound. Upon further inspection, she found a long gash in his upper arm, though it wasn’t as deep or flayed open as the one on his chest.

Remembering the chain mail covering Bowen’s chest, she realized that the sword must have sliced through armor and flesh. Thank God he’d been somewhat protected. With a cut this deep, the blow would most certainly have been fatal were it not for the protective covering that was sliced through.

“Has the wound been washed?” she asked, taking note of the dry cloth stained only with blood.

The warrior looked uncomfortable. “Nay, mistress. We were concerned only with halting the bleeding.”

She nodded. “ ’Tis good, that. But fetch me water from the basin so that I may cleanse it before we set needle to flesh. It will help to remove any dirt or part of the armor that is embedded.”

Looking relieved to be assigned a duty other than standing within Genevieve’s view, the warrior hastened to fetch the pitcher by the window.

A moment later, he returned with a fresh cloth. He plunged it inside the clay jug and wrung it out, extending it toward Genevieve.

“By what name are you called, warrior?” she asked as she carefully began to cleanse the inside of the wound.

“Geoffrey, mistress.”

“My thanks for your aid, Geoffrey.”

He looked surprised by her thank-you, and he nodded solemnly.

Before long, Brodie returned with one of the Armstrong warriors. They both carried supplies in their hands, and Geoffrey scrambled to make way for them.