Page 11 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
“Fine!” Laird MacQuarrie had roared, at the clandestine meeting, and Edward could see, clear as day in his mind’s eye, the tears sparkling in his father’s eyes. “Fine! I will nae make an open move against the English––against this devil, Bolton. Instead, I’d like a man amongst ye to step forward and volunteer to hunt this fiend and study him.”
Edward had been on his feet and shouting before his father had even finished his sentence. A smoldering rage had burned hot and bright in his chest, as he had stood before the secret gathering.
“I’ll do it, Faither,” he’d said. Each of his words as hard and sure as the Highland basalt beneath their feet.
His father, rather than object to his standing for the dangerous task, had nodded his assent.
“I thought it’d be ye who would be the first to raise his hand, lad. To speak it true, I’m glad. I think it fittin’. Go out and hunt us this bastard, who has robbed me of me most treasured and irreplaceable possession.”
So, Edward had set out, through the Highlands, over the border and into England. He had been trained briefly into putting on a rude sort of English accent, so that if he were caught by sentries he might be able to explain his way out of it by saying that he was simply a wandering trapper.
His task was to gather intelligence on Captain Bolton and the troops that he had with him. To find out where he was going and what he had planned for Scotland. Then, when the time was ripe…
* * *
Charlotte was careful to keep one eye on Edward while he went about his task of preparing the poultice. He seemed to sink in bitter memory. Her heart was still thundering in her chest. Whilst, he did not strike her as a man with a violent temper––not in the same way that her father was––there could be no denying that he was a powerfully strong man and that something had riled him. She had learned caution at the brutal hands of her own father.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as her beating heart started to wind down slightly, “if you have suffered any trials at the hands of the English––of my fellow countrymen.”
Edward sneered at her. “I doubt very much whether ye ken too much of trials, Miss Bolton,” he said, taking a good pinch of the old ashes from the very edge of the fire and sprinkling them into the paste.
You might be surprised.
Charlotte thought of the last time that her father had lost his temper. He was a man possessed of a short fuse, and it did not take much to light it. When he went off, it was usually she who bore the brunt of the explosion.
“I have suffered,” she said meekly, looking down at her hands.
These simple words seemed to touch some tender spot inside the fuming Scotsman. He looked up then, something besides rage glimmering in his brown eyes.
Pity, maybe?
“Pass me that flask next to ye,” Edward said. His voice was still brusque, but Charlotte got the impression that whatever fire had flared in him at the mention of the name of Bolton had been banked up again.
“What is it?” she asked tentatively, passing him the leathern flask.
Edward added a splash of the liquid into the rough bowl. “Honey mead,” he grunted. “Works well with the comfrey leaves and slippery elm fer abrasions and the like.”
Do I risk running?
Charlotte pondered this, even as she craned forward interestedly to take a look at what the Scotsman was doing.
I don’t even know where I am. Not knowing where you are makes running to something a fairly impossible task.
She saw that the mead, added to the herbs and the charcoal from the fire, had formed a thick paste.
Edward ground the stone he was holding hard into the paste one more time. Then he looked up Charlotte. She could see that there was a muscle twitching in his temple. It reminded her of her father, of how he got just before…
“Right,” Edward said, his voice low and level, “the ointment is ready.” The heavy rock was still in his hand and Charlotte could see that his knuckles shone white in the light of the fire, so hard did he grip it.
“Come here, lass,” he said.
5
Charlotte swallowed. She cast an eye up the slope that ran back up towards the break in the blackthorn hedge. Her mind whirled as she tried to plan getting back to the English army from wherever it was she currently was. The only way she could imagine doing it was by getting to the River Rede.
And you have no idea where that lies anyway.
“Come here, lass. I will nae bite ye. Would ye believe me if I told ye that ye have nothin’ to fear from me?” Edward asked her. His tone was less sharp now. Charlotte might have almost been inclined to think that he felt a bit ashamed at his outburst.
