Highlander's Touch (4 page)

The two on horseback circled the warrior, taunting him. Shona had to do something. This warrior was alone, and she couldn’t stomach watching him die. There was something about his eyes, something that compelled her to help him. Told her that he was a good man. She muttered a curse. Why was she so torn? She didn’t know. She should simply take care of herself and not worry over this man she didn’t know. Why should she risk her own neck for a stranger?

But as the two MacDonalds on horseback took swipes at the warrior on foot, she no longer listened to reason. He was bleeding from several wounds—though he’d been able to draw their blood as well. It wasn’t a fair fight with them on horseback. The two MacDonalds closed in, each stabbing their swords toward the golden warrior. In her heart, she knew she couldn’t sit back. Not when she was able to help. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it. She’d live out the rest of her days with his blood on her hands.

Shona blew out a deep breath. There was no more time to waste.

She glanced behind her and saw no one. Quietly backing away from the brush, she edged toward a tree twenty feet to the side of the fight. The men were so involved with their heinous battle that none of them noticed her. Shona nocked her bow with two arrows as Rory had showed her, and took aim. The feathers tickled her cheek. She blew out a deep, slow breath, forcing herself to block out the noise of the forest and the hateful words being tossed back and forth in front of her.

Her heart pounded so hard in her ears, she prayed the men couldn’t hear it. Prayed she met her mark, for if she missed, she would be the men’s next target. A last draw for breath, she let it out slow once more, closed her eyes, envisioned the men, adjusted her aim, and let the arrows fly.

They whizzed through the forest. Judging by a loud scream, she’d hit at least one of her targets. Shona opened her eyes in time to see the golden warrior react. He leapt up into the air and grabbed hold of the one man who’d not been hit, hauled him to the ground and shoved his sword deep into the man’s chest.

Still atop his horse, Shona’s arrow protruding from his chest, the second stubborn enemy warrior gripped tight to his reins. In a last act before he succumbed to his wound, he meant to trample her warrior.

Her
warrior?

Shona shook her head. She didn’t have time to contemplate such imaginings. She nocked another arrow and let it fly. The sharpened tip burrowed into the man just as he yanked back on his reins. The horse reared back on its hind legs, forelegs pawing at the air. So damn close to the warrior’s head.

“Look out!” she warned, but it was too late.

As the warrior looked toward where she stood, attempting to dive out of the way, the horse came down on him.

The golden warrior crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

The warhorse then bolted through the trees—his master hanging limply over the side, hopefully dead.

A scream stayed silent on her lips—the enemy had killed her warrior.

EWAN couldn’t move.

He couldn’t see, either.

His head pounded with pain, radiating down his spine. The only good part was that the injuries he’d sustained from those bastards on horseback didn’t hurt as much.

Was he blinking? He felt like he was blinking, but he couldn’t be certain. Everything remained black. He couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or not. He willed himself to keep them closed, just in case, and remained very still, hoping the bastard on horseback had thought him dead and left. Good thing he’d had the forethought to draw the MacDonalds away from Flynn, he only hoped the lad had been able to escape or find the other Grant warriors.

Wait!

His mind fastened upon one startling question—who was the woman?

She’d shouted a warning to him. Had she been the one to shoot the arrows?

He strained to listen, but the sound of rushing water was pronounced inside his skull. If he’d not felt the ground beneath him, he might have thought he was lying in a loch or the sea, waves crashing over him.

“Oh my god,” someone whispered nearby.

’Twas
her
. He was almost certain of it. There was a swishing noise and then a whoosh of air beside him.

“What have I done?” he heard her say.

Ewan tried to shake his head, but any subtle movement pained him, and he wasn’t even certain he was moving to begin with.

Who was she with? Was she part of the MacDonald gang? What was she so worried over?

He couldn’t remember what she looked like. But he was almost certain he’d never seen her before. She wasn’t from Gealach, so she could be a MacDonald. Though there was every possibility she was a fairy, too.

The pull of agony and the rushing water in his head drowned out his thoughts. And then the pain receded to a tingling numbness. He was falling deep inside himself.

And everything was…

SHONA hesitated, breathless with fear.

’Twas her fault the warrior had been hurt. With a darting glance from left to right, and seeing no one, she ran to the warrior’s side. He was even more stunning in person. Golden hair with brows that slashed in arches on his broad forehead. Angled bone structure and a strong, chiseled jaw. He was no stranger to fighting, that was apparent. His nose bore a distinct notch where it had been broken several times. Instead of tending to him, she found herself staring at his mouth. A wide mouth with full lips that made her dream of cold winter nights when those lips could be used to warm her. What in Hades was wrong with her?

Shona shivered, feeling shame. This poor man was crumpled on the ground, broken, discarded and she was thinking about kissing.
Him
. She tore her gaze from his lips to stare at his closed eyes.

Without hesitation, Shona pressed her hand to his stubbled cheek, feeling the bristles scrape and tickle over her palm. His skin was warm, and when she held her thumb beneath his nose she felt his breath.

He lives
.

Blood soaked his shredded shirt. She needed to find out how many wounds he had sustained beyond the injury to his head. And fast. Though he survived for now, there was still a chance he could die considering the amount of blood seeping from his wounds.

But how could she get him away from here? He wasn’t going to walk, and she wouldn’t be able to carry him. A few feet away, the warrior’s mount bobbed his head, as if nodding that he could help. When had he arrived?

Shona did not know much about warhorses, but she’d heard they held a great bond with their masters. ’Haps the animal had heard his master fall and made certain to come and find him.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She didn’t know if it was nerves or that she was being watched, but instinct bade her to be careful and quick. Shona checked to make certain there were no other warriors lying in wait. The only thing that appeared to accompany the three of them was a slight breeze that rustled the trees. She stared up at the limbs as they swayed, the branches hiding then revealing the blue, cloudless sky.

Fortunately the weather was agreeable. She couldn’t imagine trying to heft this mountain of a man in the slippery mud.

Holding out her hand to the animal, she blew a low whistle. The horse eyed her with suspicion, his head down, ears flicking back and forth. She clucked her tongue, appearing to pique the animal’s interest all the more. The horse walked steadily forward, eyeing her with caution.

“’Tis all right,” she crooned, making certain to keep her hand out and the rest of herself still. She wanted the animal to know she wasn’t a threat. Last thing she needed was to be trampled, too.

The warrior did not move nor did he make a sound—and thank goodness for that else the man might unconsciously spook his horse.

The horse came closer and nudged her palm, lipping her until he realized she was without a treat. With a disgusted snort, he turned his attention to his master. The warhorse lowered his head and with his muzzle, nudged the warrior in the shoulder. The man groaned, but did not stir.

Before the horse could retreat, Shona slid her hands over his neck and mane then wrapped the reins around her wrist. She had hold of the warrior’s horse. But what was she going to do? Bring them back to her cottage? That would be dangerous for many reasons. One, the warrior would know where she lived. Two, if anyone was watching them they could follow her home. She really needed a plan. But there was no time to think. What was she going to do?

Shona frowned. How was she supposed to even get him on the horse?

She stared down at his bleeding body. Though it was a gamble, by the look of things, taking him home where all her healing supplies were was the only chance he’d have at living. If she didn’t get him back there soon and begin treatment, he would slowly bleed to death.

No matter the risk, she couldn’t let that happen.

Once he was well, she could easily drug him with a potion and take him back into the woods and leave him—that was, if no one found them first.

With that semi-solid plan in place, her thoughts were drawn back to the warrior, and how exactly she’d be able to get him onto the horse. What good was having a noble steed if said steed couldn’t pick a man up? The warrior was huge. Easily a foot and a half taller than her and likely weighed nearly twice as much. His muscular thigh alone was as thick as her torso.

As if reading her thoughts once more, the horse dipped down onto its forelegs and softly neighed. Shona stared at the magnificent animal, speechless. She’d not had much interaction with warhorses other than Rory’s mount. He’d trained him to do a fair many tricks, but not this. How did the animal know he was needed to carry his master?

Forcing herself to recover her surprise, she tucked her hands beneath the warrior. Her fingers met damp warmth—sweat and blood, no doubt. She heaved, not moving him one inch. Lord, but he was heavy. Muscles the weight of iron. She heaved again, digging her feet into the ground and bending her legs. She dragged him about six inches before stopping to take a break. Then she braced herself again and put all her strength into moving him toward the horse.

Somehow, with a lot of grunting, Shona managed to get the warrior’s back up against his mount, his head resting on the saddle. Standing, she straightened her back, trying to catch her breath. Her limbs screamed from the exertion, for he was solid sinew. She’d never seen a man so brawny in her life. Not even Rory had been so full of muscle.

Shona blew out a sigh. She had to finish this. The longer she tarried the more likely they were to be in danger. Shoving hard, she rolled him onto his belly, then came over to the other side of the horse and adjusted his arms, so they lay over the side of the saddle.

The man groaned, a sound so woefully pain-filled, tears welled in her eyes.

“I’m sorry to cause ye even more pain, sir,” she said. “But if I dinna get ye out of here, ye’ll die.”

Standing on the opposite side of the lowered horse, she gripped beneath his armpits again and yanked as hard as she could, bracing her feet and using all of her slight weight to help her.

At last, the warrior was draped over the horse. Feeling his master’s weight, the horse stood and nudged her elbow.

Shona took hold of the reins and led the horse back to the brambles where her herb basket still lay hidden. How fortunate for the warrior that she’d gathered comfrey and wolfsbane, and that she still had a good supply of garlic, lady’s mantle and bog moss at her cottage.