Page 46 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt stared at Sorcha. “He must have put the word out the minute we left Selkirk. These men will do anything for coin. We must make haste.”
“What about him?” she asked.
Brandt felt loath to kill the man, even though he had most definitely intended to carry out Malvern’s orders and killhim. He looked to be more desperate than he appeared to be a killer, though. His plaid was ratty and threadbare.
“Remove whatever weapons you’re wearing,” he ordered. The man quickly threw down a blade from his waist and one from an ankle sheath. Brandt then reached into the pouch tied at his hip for a few coins and offered them to the man, with the hope that the obviously desperate Scot would take the money and abandon any notion to come after them again. His eyes widened at the sight of the gold. “Go with your life, and remember the kindness I showed you.”
The man took off, limping on foot, since both horses had disappeared.
“That was a generous thing you did,” Sorcha said. “Though foolish. If there’s a price on our heads, more will come. Scots like that one have likely lost their lands and homes, and Malvern’s gold will be an easy lure.”
“We’ve only half a day’s ride to Montgomery,” he said, but as he walked toward Ares, the horse shied away. His eyes rolled in his head and a pained sound emerged from his mouth. A streak of worry speared Brandt. He scanned the animal carefully, noticing the way Ares was favoring his foreleg.
“He’s been hurt,” he said, crouching to examine the leg with care. “There’s a shallow cut here. One of the arrows must have nicked him.” He sat back on his haunches and looked behind him to make sure the man was gone. They were in a field with little cover, exposed on all sides. “Damn it!”
“Can he walk?” Sorcha asked, also alert. “I spotted a thatch of trees a mile or so back near a stream. I could tend to it there.”
But Brandt did not want to go back, not knowing if the man had more friends. “Where did you see the stream?” She hooked a thumb to the east, and Brandt pointed to a thatch of trees to the northeast. “We go that way and hope to intersect it. I’ll walk him.”
Ares did not complain, but after a short stretch, it was obvious that the animal was in pain. “I’ll have to bandage it until I can clean it properly,” Sorcha said. “Or it will only get worse.”
Brandt kept watch with Sorcha’s bow at the ready as she tended to the animal. At first, Ares nickered and tried to take a bite out of her shoulder, but the horse calmed at a quiet, though firm, word from her. Sorcha dug in her pack for a few bottles and then proceeded to mix together a hodgepodge of ingredients—moss, lichens, and bark—to make a poultice for the injury. She worked quietly and quickly, and Brandt couldn’t help but be impressed at her knowledge.
“What is all that?” he asked as he traced a citrus-like scent.
“Lovage root and bog myrtle,” she said, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. “I cannot use my mother’s salve until the wound has been washed. It heals so quickly that one speck of dirt can cause sepsis. These herbs will ward away the pain and help with the swelling.”
“Have you always been a healer?”
Brilliant blue eyes met his, startling him for a moment, before they flicked back to their task. “I’m not a healer. I’ve learned bits and pieces over the years, that’s all. My mother’s the true healer.”
She was being modest. The deft way she had tended to her own wound and the care that she was taking with Ares was remarkable. Brandt was surprised that the horse stood so quietly. Ares was a dependable animal, but his reaction to any type of laceration was to bite and kick. It was perhaps due to the weals he’d sustained as a colt. Horses had long memories.
“There,” Sorcha said, tying a linen strip. “That should hold until we get to the stream. I’ll ride ahead to make sure.”
He watched as she rode away, and followed gingerly with Ares, who seemed more confident with each halting step. Though Brandt worried for Sorcha’s safety, he knew she could defend herself. He didn’t likehowit felt to watch her leave, as if a part of his own body was riding away upon Lockie. He scowled. Where hadthatthought come from? That wasn’t it. Her safety was his priority, that was all. And who knew if other bandits would be in hiding, waiting to ambush them?
It wasn’t long, though it felt like an eternity, until she came back over the rise, her expression triumphant. “It’s not far,” she said. “Just over this hill.”
The stream, more of a river now as it turned out, was enough for Sorcha to clean the wound and apply her mother’s salve. Once more, Ares stood patiently, even rubbing his nose into her face at one point. Jesus. The horse was in danger of turning into as much of a ninny as he was.
“We should let him rest,” she said, coming toward him. “Montgomery’s not far.”
“It’s dangerous out in the open.”
A level gaze met his. “Ares is your family. We’ll keep watch. By the morrow, he’ll be well enough to ride.”
Her quiet words shocked him into silence. She knew how much Ares meant to him. Not many did. Ares was a horse…but hewasthe closest thing to family that Brandt had.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Her slim hand found his, slipping around his palm and squeezing. “I’m sorry Ares is hurt, Brandt,” she whispered. “This is my fault. I’m so sorry.”
Overcome with emotion, he could only grip back. Brandt knew what she was sorry for, that she felt all of this was on her because of Malvern, but deep down, he felt like a fraud to accept her apology. He’d gone into it with his eyes wide open. It had started with wanting her horse, but over the last few tumultuous days, it had become so much more.
He wanted to help her.
And he also wanted to know who he was.
