Page 14 of Healing the Highland Sinner
“I told ye, I am in need of work. I heard ye pay well for skilled and talented swordsmen, and so, here I am.”
He’d replied with his usual cocky swagger, but he’d hesitated for a moment before speaking and looked away. But to Rosalind, that brief silence was telling and made her think that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was a lie. Or at least, wasn’t the full truth.
Ciar had questioned why she had brought him into the house when she knew she couldn’t fully trust him. He was cautious and wary, and with good reason. But by bringing him into the house, she would be able to keep a close eye on him and in time, she would hopefully be able to unravel his secrets. Maybe then she could find a way to trust him. Or decide she could have Ciar dispatch him. Until such a time though, she would keep him at an arm’s length and keep a wary eye on him.
“So, now that we’re better acquainted and I am officially in yer employ, dae I get the pleasure of havin’ yer name? Or are ye goin’ tae force me tae keep callin’ ye the Widow?”
Rosalind smiled softly. “Me name is Rosalind. Me friends call me Rosey.”
“Aye. Well then, Rosey?—”
“I said me friends called me Rosey. Ye may call me Rosalind.”
Her eyes glittered dangerously and she gave him a cruel little smirk as if challenging him. Ellair grinned and put a hand to his chest, clownishly miming a shooting pain through his heart like she’d wounded him deeply. But then he gave her one of his comical, flourishing bows while doffing an imaginary hat.
“Well, Rosalind, ‘tis a pleasure tae make yer acquaintance?—”
His words were cut off by a loud banging crash downstairs that was followed by the sound of Ciar’s agonized shout.
“Ciar,” she gasped.
Her eyes widened and her heart stuttering, she turned and bolted from the room, terrified and saying a silent prayer that Ciar was all right.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sword in hand, Ellair bound down the stairs behind and slid to a stop in the common room, expecting to find enemy soldiers filling the space. Instead, he found Ciar sitting at the table with Rosalind standing next to him. Blood poured from a gash in the big man’s hand, seeping out from beneath the cloth he had pressed to the wound.
“Get some water and put it ontae the hearth tae boil,” she snapped.
Ellair stood there rooted to his spot, looking around for the assailant who had attacked Ciar. But other than the three of them, the room was empty.
“Ellair,” Rosalind snapped. “Fetch some water and put it on tae boil. Now.”
“Aye,” he said, still not sure how the man had been wounded. “Aye. Of course.”
Still carrying his blade, his eyes darting left and right, Ellair grabbed a pail and dashed to the well outside, quickly filling it. Wary and watchful, he ran back inside and poured the water into a bowl then set it onto the grate in the heart the let it boil. Rosalind was sitting beside Ciar, who was grimacing as she poked and prodded at the wound with a wet cloth, trying her best to wash around the wicked gash in the palm of his hand.
“What in the bleedin’ hell happened?” Ellair finally asked. “Who attacked ye?”
Rosalind raised her gaze and rolled her eyes. “The only thing that attacked him was his empty, rumblin’ belly.”
Ellair cocked his head and looked at them, trying to understand. Ciar gave him a grin and his chuckle rolled like thunder out of his chest. He pointed to the knife on the ground in the kitchen area and the large hunk of salted meat on the cutting board.
“There’s yer attacker,” Ciar teased. “Can ye slay it fer me, oh champion of mine?”
Comprehension finally dawned on Ellair and he chuckled, feeling the fool for not putting it together sooner. The threat over, or rather, nonexistent, he slid his sword back into his sheath and leaned it against the wall. Grabbing a cloth, he took the pot of steaming water out of the heart and set it down on the table beside Rosalind. After that, he rummaged around in the small kitchen area and found some clean cloths, which he brought out to the table.
“Thank ye,” Rosalind muttered.
He sat down on the other side of the table and watched as she used the clean cloths, dunked in the hot water, to continue cleaning Ciar’s wounds. Ellair knew from his own experience that even wounds that seemed small and inconsequential had the power to kill. Shallow wounds were as prone to infection as deep gashes and if an infection took hold of a man, there was a mere fifty-fifty chance that he would survive.
“Go intae me room and grab the small silver pot sittin’ on top of me dresser,” Rosalind said. “’Tis the one with the black lid.”
Ellair got to his feet then paused. “Which one is yer room?”
“The one across from yers.”
“Right.”
