Page 6 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
“How did ye hear about the position here?”
“I… the caravan…” She could feel herself shivering, and it was hard to think.
“An’ why did ye decide tae make the journey?”
“I…” Lydia broke off with a pained gasp as the healer prodded the bruise on her side.
“Och, me laird, I dinnae wish tae be rude, but can ye nae see the poor lass is in shock, an mayhap unwell into the bargain? Certain sure, she’s lucky nae tae have cracked ribs, from the look o’ her side. An’ she’s too pale… when was the last time ye had a proper meal, lass?” The healer’s question was stern, but kind.
Lydia flushed. “I… do not know.”
She had always taken the last of whatever was left in the caravan cook pots - too wary of drawing attention to try and take food earlier, especially not with the glowers and whispers that followed her for ‘eating what she’d not earned through labor’.
“An’ the last proper sleep?”
“I… cannot say.” Sleeping on the ground was difficult for her, and even when she was permitted to take a bed in the wagons, the hard planks made for a poor and restless slumber.
The healer clicked her tongue. “Och, ‘tis what I thought. Ye’ve nae had enough sleep or food o’ late, an’ on top o’ the injury, yer mind’s so hazed ‘tis a wonder ye can even understan’ what the laird is askin’ ye. Especially as yer nae a Highlander, with that odd accent o’ yers.”
The healer began to spread an ointment on her side, and Lyida recognized it as a bruise balm, though not all the scents were familiar to her. Likely, the healer used different herbs than the ones she knew from home. When that was done, she wrapped a clean bandage around Lydia’s ribs and helped her back into a skirt and blouse that she produced from a cupboard. “Yer clothing’s yer own, but ‘tis so filthy it needs a good washin’ afore I have it back tae ye. These will fit well enough.”
The garments were loose, but Lydia donned them with relief, glad to finally have something clean after over a fortnight wearing the same outfit and scarcely able to even wash the worst of the dirt from it. She was just finishing with the laces of thebodice, her hands shaking with weariness, when the door to the healer’s cottage banged open and two men strode it.
The first stalked up to Laird Ranald with a scowl, and punched him hard on the shoulder. “Donall, ye bloody fool! What the devil were ye thinkin’, goin’ riding alone? I would have come with ye if ye’d asked.”
Laird Ranald scowled, though Lydia thought there was a hint of chagrin in his expression as he responded. “I thought ‘twas safe enough. Borders have been quiet…”
“An ye ken as well as I that quiet borders dinnae mean safe. Just means tha’ trouble hasnae made itself kent yet.” The man shook his head. “An’ now ye’re injured…”
“’Tis naething, Alex….”
“Bollocks. Ye’re bleeding worse than a hog at harvest butcherin’ time.” The man switched his glare to the healer. “Och, Evelyn, did he tell ye nae tae bother with him again? Because ye ought tae be clouting him round the ears an’ putting him on a stool, nae listenin’ tae him.”
Laird Ranald’s scowl deepened. “There was a lass injured as well. I told Evelyn tae see tae her first.”
Alex and the other man exchanged a look that Lydia was far too weary to guess the meaning of, then the other manstepped forward. “Me laird, nae tae be forward… but whoisyer companion?”
“Never mind. Ye can tell us while Evelyn sees tae that bloody gash in yer side.” Alex pointed to the rent shirt and the blood still seeping across it.
The second man looked, and his eyes widened. “Aye. Me laird, ye should have tha’ seen tae at once.”
Laird Ranald shrugged his broad shoulders. “’Tis only a cut, Ewan…”
“’Tis naeonlyanything, the way ‘tis bleeding.” The second man stepped closer and put a hand on his laird’s shoulder, to push him firmly toward a chair. “As yer second-in-command, I insist ye let Evelyn tend the wound and stitch it.”
“Ewan…”
“Let the healer mend ye, or I’ll pin ye down, an’ Ewan and I will dae it meself. An’ ye ken well enough tha’ I dinnae have Evelyn’s gentleness, nor skill.” Alex glared at the laird and crossed his arms.
Laird Ranald—Donall Ranald, Lydia reminded herself—clenched his jaw so tightly she fancied she could hear his teeth grinding from where she sat. He did, however, take the seat his second-in-command had urged him to take. “Fine.”
He undid his cloak and set it aside, removed the sash and cross belt he wore, then pulled his shirt free of the waist of his leggings and dragged it over his head, before tossing the ruined garment onto the healer’s table. Then he turned and raised his arms. “Dae whatever ye need, an’ be quick about it.”
Lydia stared.
She had seen her rescuer was well-built and strong, but even knowing that, she was still unprepared for the sight of his naked torso.
Laird Ranald was lean, and not a bit of excess flesh marred the lines of his well-defined muscles underneath the skin. The sinews and tendons of his wrists were clearly visible, flexing smoothly under the skin with every movement of his strong, callused hands. His forearms and upper arms were defined by smooth swells of muscles that rippled like water with every shift of his broad, powerful shoulders. His chest was an almost solid mass of muscles, his masculine nipples tight and hard on the broad expanse of tanned skin, and his abdomen looked so firm and taut she imagined that a blow would both bruise her hands and resonate like a drum-beat.
