Page 43 of The Beast of the Highlands
And if ye come for me or Autumn or me clan again, this whole forest will run red with yer lifeblood…
For though he had made a mistake in dropping his guard, he was not the sort of man who made the same mistake twice.
27
As it turned out, trying to bear some of the weight of Flynn’s fearsomely strong body through night-shrouded forest, and then through a network of waterlogged tunnels, was not quite the evening she had anticipated. Autumn had never known exhaustion like it.
Fortunately for her searing muscles, Desmond had taken the brunt of the heavy lifting, and Willis and Natters had hurried to help partway through the tunnels, having been instructed to stand guard there until Autumn came back. Evidently, it had not been the evening they had expected, either.
“What happened to ye, M’Laird?” Natters asked, as they hurried Flynn to his bedchamber. Autumn had run on ahead as a scout, to ensure they were not seen by prying eyes.
“English soldiers,” Flynn said simply. Apparently, that was all the explanation needed, for Natters’ expression darkened with anger.
“Should we send the cavalry out?”
Flynn shook his head. “I’ll give the orders in the mornin’, when there’s light to see by. It willnae do the lads any good to be searchin’ in the dark, and those bastards will be long gone, anyway.” He leaned up against the wall as they finally reached his bedchamber. “But strengthen the guard on the walls and have them keep the portcullis lowered.”
“Aye, M’Laird,” Desmond replied, being the man-at-arms.
Autumn opened the bedchamber door and ran to the bed, throwing back the blankets. Flynn’s most trusted men led him the rest of the way and helped him onto the straw mattress. That done, they stood back awkwardly, casting confused expressions at one another.
“I guess we cannae fetch Mary for ye,” Willis said, breaking the strange silence. “Do ye want us to ask around the castle, see if there’s anyone else who can heal ye?”
Flynn waved a hand. “I just need to rest. Daenae fret.”
“I can tend to him.” Autumn volunteered, though not without ulterior motive. After what they had been through, she did not want to leave his side. And this provided the perfect excuse, should anyone—namely Keira—find them together.
The three men looked sheepish.
“Daenae fret, lads.” Flynn mustered a chuckle. “Lady Keira doesnae ken I left the castle, so she willnae ken I was attacked. Even she wouldnae dare to accost me in me own chambers.”
Desmond cleared his throat. “Still, M’Laird, I’ll keep Natters posted at the end of the hallway, so he can signal if Lady Keira should come lookin’ for ye.”
“Aye, very wise,” Flynn conceded, his gaze lifting to Autumn.
In the warm glow of the fire and candlelight that bathed his bedchamber, she could finally see the full extent of his injuries. A wrench of guilt tugged at her stomach, for she knew he would not be in this state if he had not been waiting for her. Though she blamed Keira far more. If that cold woman had not placed her spies within the castle, Autumn and Flynn could have continued to meet inside these safe walls, and none of this would have happened.
It is not as though she loves him. If she did, I would be more sympathetic. But it is his power and his title she wants, not him.
“Well then… we’ll be goin’, M’Laird.” Desmond grabbed Willis and Natters and pulled them toward the door. “Rest well, and daenae do aught to… um… exert yerself. Ye’ll only make yerself worse.”
A rush of warmth heated Autumn’s cheeks, for she knew precisely what he was inferring. “I shall be gentle, Desmond. Fear not.”
It was the man-at-arms’ turn to flush at her remark. “Aye… uh… good. Aye.” Stumbling slightly, he shoved the other two men out of the room and ducked out after them, closing the door behind him.
Alone, at last, Autumn fetched a vial of witch hazel, a tincture of willowbark and another of feverfew from Flynn’s shelves, then took the basin of water from the stand in the corner, and a few cloths to clean away the crusted blood on his face.
“It has been a long while since I have done this,” she admitted, setting everything down on the small table by his bed.
Indeed, the last time she had tended to someone in this manner, it had been her brother. From dawn to the following dawn, she had stayed by Orwell’s side, after he had returned from war with his life-threatening injuries. They had not been able to afford a physician for more than a couple of days, and so it had fallen to her to heal him.
But I cannot tell my beloved that…
“I trust ye,” Flynn insisted. “I already ken ye’ve got healin’ hands.”
She smiled, concentrating on dipping the cloths in the water to loosen the twist of shame in her stomach. She was not being dishonest, per se. It was merely a complication that did not need to be spoken about. Orwell was not Flynn’s enemy. He was a soldier, true, but he served on the Continent, not on this warring island.
“This will hurt,” she told him, adding a few drops of witch hazel to the damp cloth.
