Highlander's Redemption: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Book Two (8 page)

Jossalyn clung for
dear life to Garrick’s back as they plowed through the dense forest as fast as
the horses could take them. She vaguely registered that they were headed
northeast, even though Burke and Garrick had traveled northwest the day before
to get to their home.

But that was a
foolish thought, for these men clearly weren’t who they had pretended to be. She
had barely recognized him when he had come charging toward her. He moved with
the same lightening speed and deadly grace she had noticed in him before, but
his face had been twisted in rage and bloodlust, and the way he wielded his
sword—she swallowed and tried to push the images out of her mind, for she
feared she would be sick if she recalled the blood, the limbs, the blades
cutting through flesh like butter.

The forest blurred
and spun as it rushed by, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Why was she clinging
to this man—this stranger? He was a killer and a liar. Despite all their
conversations, their stolen kiss, and the silent glances that she thought spoke
volumes, she didn’t know him at all.

But, she realized
as she forced her eyes open again, she was trapped now. If she flung herself
from his horse’s back, she would likely break her neck on landing. And she
couldn’t command him to stop. He was in complete control of the horse, steering
it through trees and bushes with lightening-fast reflexes. There was no chance
that she could simply wrest the reins from him.

So she held on,
praying that she would live to see the sun rise again even as darkness seeped
into the forest and night fell.

What must have
been hours later, Garrick—if that was even his name—whistled to Burke and reined
in his horse. Every bone in Jossalyn’s body ached. The riding had been
merciless. They had kept up their grueling pace, navigating through the dense
forest in the dark without stopping. She felt like her limbs had turned to wood
from the tension of holding onto Garrick’s back and gripping the horse with her
legs.

Garrick threw a
leg over the horse’s neck and swung down, though he stumbled slightly when his
feet hit the ground. He reached up toward her, but she instinctively withdrew,
trying not to let this killer’s hands grab her. Evasion was impossible, though.
He took her by the waist and pulled her down to the ground next to him. Before
he could do more, though, she jerked out of his hands.

“Who are you? Where
are you taking me?” Her voice came out higher and more frantic than she had
intended, but she didn’t care. She was not too exhausted to feel a surge of
fear spike through her now that they had stopped.

“Christ,” he said,
his eyes locked on the front of her dress.

She looked down
and nearly screamed. She was covered in blood, which was dark against the
fabric of her gown in the dim moonlight filtering through the trees.

“Are you hurt,
lass?” Garrick’s voice was nearly unrecognizable. Instead of the soft Scottish
lilt she had picked up on earlier, he spoke with a thick brogue.

Without waiting
for her to answer, he began running his hands over her, looking for the source
of the blood. His calloused fingers brushed her neck, ran down her arms, then
skimmed across her chest and waist. She inhaled sharply at the contact, but not
in pain.

“I…I don’t think
I’ve been cut…” The shock of first seeing Garrick turn from a blacksmith to a
warrior, then being whisked away, and now having Garrick’s hands all over her
was too much. She couldn’t straighten out her thoughts or even form words.

Suddenly a dim
memory came back and tugged at the corner of her brain. “Your back…”

“What?”

“Your back. That
soldier with his sword…” She took a step past him so that she could look around
his shoulder. She inhaled sharply at the sight. A gash ran down the middle of
his back, and the fabric of both the leather vest and shirt he wore were cut
clean through and covered in dark blood. She had been plastered to his back,
clinging on for dear life, and had gotten his blood on her dress.

“I need to treat
this.” Suddenly she shifted from scared and confused girl to skilled healer. It
didn’t matter that Garrick and Burke might very well be her enemies. She had to
help.

Just as she
reached for his vest to pull it off, she heard a thump and a groan. Several
yards away, Burke had reined in and dismounted, but was now crumpled in a pile
at his horse’s feet.

“Burke! Are you all
right, man?” Brushing past her, Garrick moved to Burke’s side and knelt down.

“Ach, just a
little stiff is all. This damn cut is bothering me.” He was gripping his right
leg, and as Jossalyn approached, she saw that his breeches were dark with
blood. Burke tried to stand, but winced and groaned again, and would have
fallen if it weren’t for Garrick’s support.

“Burke, you
mustn’t push yourself. Let me see to your leg.” Jossalyn knelt and put her face
close to where the blood seemed to be coming from so that she could see better
in the moonlight. Gently, she prodded the area, which drew a sharp inhale from
Burke. She could see a deep gash running down the outside of his thigh, and
though it was a clean cut, the wound still bled.

“Do you mind if
I…remove the fabric from this area?” she said, looking up at Burke, who still
leaned heavily on Garrick.

“I’ve never said
no to a pretty lass asking to take my pants off before,” he said with a
chuckle, but his voice was tight with pain. Garrick produced a short dagger
from his boot, and she went to work cutting some of the fabric off of Burke’s breeches.
When the blood-soaked material was out of the way, she could see the long, deep
cut even clearer. She frowned, but tried to keep the worry from her voice for
Burke’s sake.

“I need to clean
the wound, and then stitch it and wrap it with yarrow to help stop the
bleeding. Then you’ll need to rest and stay off the leg for several days.”

Garrick and Burke
exchanged a look, then Garrick said flatly, “That’s not going to happen.”

She felt her ire
rising. “Then you risk continued bleeding, infection, and fever. Burke, you
could die if this goes untreated.”

“And the three of
us are guaranteed to be dead if we stay here much longer,” Garrick said coldly.
His eyes were locked on hers, and in the darkness they looked almost black. She
shivered, reminding herself that she didn’t know these men in front of her. And
she had already witnessed just how dangerous and deadly they could be.

“What could we do
quickly, lass? Just for the short-term,” Burke said, breaking the tense
silence.

Her eyes shifted
back to his leg. “We could wrap the wound tightly and hope that it stops
bleeding on its own until I can stitch it and get a proper poultice on it,” she
replied reluctantly. She hated the idea of being so sloppy in her work,
especially if it meant endangering a patient’s life.

“Use the material
of his breeches,” Garrick said, then turned to Burke. “We should have changed
earlier outside of Dunbraes anyway. It would have been…entertaining to see
Warren’s face as he recognized the Sinclair plaid.”

This brought a
chuckle from Burke and a wry smile from Garrick. At first Jossalyn let the
words pass over her head, assuming that it was some inside joke meant to lighten
Burke’s spirits. But something tickled her mind, and as the gears ground
together, Jossalyn’s mouth fell open.

“Are you
saying…How do you know my brother? And what do you mean by ‘Sinclair plaid’?”

Garrick sobered
and gave her a long look, but then started to turn away. “You’ll see soon
enough about the plaid, lass. And as for your brother, we can discuss that
later.” He reached first into Burke’s saddlebag and pulled a bundle of cloth
from it, then strode to his horse and withdrew a similar-looking dark fabric
from his own bag.

Burke, standing
with all his weight on his left leg, began undoing the ties to his breeches. Jossalyn
spun on her heels, not wanting to see these men disrobe in front of her. Several
minutes elapsed, and she felt a blush creep up her neck as she thought about
the fact that Garrick might be naked behind her.

“It’s all right
now, lass.”

She jumped at
Garrick’s voice. He was standing right behind her. As she turned, she was met
with the staggering sight that confirmed what she had suspected. Both men were
now dressed in kilts. The fabric was the same dark shade of red as the blood on
their clothes had appeared in the moonlight.

She shivered
unconsciously and took a step back. These weren’t English-sympathizing
Lowlanders. These men were Highlanders. Suddenly all the pieces fit into
place—Garrick’s abruptly thickening accent, the enormous swords both men had
wielded back at Dunbraes, and now these kilts.

She had met many
Scotsmen over the years living in the Borderlands, but they were almost all
Lowlanders who were sympathetic enough to the English to at least do business
with them.

From what she had
always been told by her brother, though, Highlanders were a different sort. He
had always said that Highlanders were proud, stubborn, and hell-bent on not
being controlled. He had called them barbarians, savages, and animals. She
could recognize the vehemence and hatred in her brother’s voice whenever he
spoke of Highlanders, and she normally didn’t trust his word or opinion, but
without any other information to go off of, she had always been apprehensive
when it came to the people who lived in the far north of Scotland. And now she
found herself alone in the middle of the wilderness with two Highland warriors.

Her face must have
clearly shown her unease, for Garrick gave her a wolfish grin that held no
mirth, only a raw warning.

She broke their
stare, unnerved and unsure of herself. She still needed to see to Burke’s leg
as best as she could given the circumstances, so she skirted Garrick’s large
form and walked toward Burke. When she reached him, he handed her a few strips
of what used to be his breeches. Taking them, she knelt next to his right leg
once more and, after he shifted his kilt out of the way, wrapped the bandages
tightly around the wound. He winced and let a few muffled curses slip, but
didn’t complain. When she was done, she turned and found Garrick watching her
closely.

“I should tend to
your back as well,” she said carefully.

“I’ll be fine. We
need to keep moving.”

As if his words
concluded the discussion, he went to Burke’s side and helped him into his
saddle, then turned to his own horse. Unsure of what to do, Jossalyn simply
stood there. She certainly didn’t want to be left in the middle of the woods,
hours of riding away from anything, but she also couldn’t just go north with
these men—these Highland killers—willingly.

Apparently reading
the war on her face, Garrick reined his horse around so that he loomed over her
in the darkness. But instead of threatening her or simply throwing her over his
saddle and tearing off into the night, he spoke in a low voice, quiet enough
for only her to hear.

“Burke needs you,
lass.”

His words shook
her to the core. He was asking her to help them, to use her healing skills. He
believed in her ability to help Burke, and in her sense of duty to aid someone
who needed her.

Yet, she still
didn’t truly know these men. They had lied to her and deceived her. They were
clearly dangerous, and they presumably meant to wage war against the English,
based on what she had seen back at Dunbraes. And now they were fugitives,
fleeing from her brother and the English army in the dead of night. Would they
harm her? Would they use her against her brother and the English? Or could she
trust this kilted Highland warrior, who had kissed her with so much tenderness
and heat that she blushed at the mere memory?

He extended his
hand toward her. Reluctantly, she placed her hand inside his, and he swung her
up onto the saddle in front of him. He spurred his horse, and they were
charging north once again.

The hours of
darkness and tense maneuvering through the woods blurred together. Jossalyn
felt her hold on alertness slipping as the exhaustion from a night in a bumpy
cart, another day on horseback riding back to Dunbraes, the battle there, and
now a long and frantic night of riding caught up to her.

By the time the
sky started to lighten with the first signs of dawn, she felt like she was
holding herself together by mere threads. Neither of her companions made a
sound or an indication that they, too, were exhausted, and injured as well, but
then again, they were hardened Highland warriors.

She had only made
her exhaustion worse by chewing on that fact for hours as they rode. Why had
they lied to her and deceived everyone back at Dunbraes village? How did they
know her brother? And perhaps biggest and most bewildering of all, why had they
taken her with them?

The sound of a
soft whistle from Garrick snapped her out of her tangled thoughts. He and Burke
both pulled their horses to a halt, and Garrick dismounted behind her. Burke
stayed in his saddle, though, and even in the bluish light of pre-dawn,
Jossalyn could make out a grimace on his normally smooth and congenial face.

Garrick went to
his side, and as Burke began to let himself slide from the saddle, Garrick
caught him and supported his weigh. Burke got his good leg under him, and was
able to stand upright as long as he put all of his weight on his left leg. Even
still, the wound must have been throbbing and aching terribly; it needed to be
properly tended to, and he was risking infection every minute that the wound
was open.

Without realizing
it, Jossalyn had slid from Garrick’s towering horse and was now in front of the
two men, her eyes tugging toward Burke’s leg. It was plain to see that blood
had already soaked through the makeshift bandages she had wrapped around the
wound. She pressed her lips together.

“This cannot wait.
I need to see to Burke’s leg,” she said softly, turning to Garrick.

He only nodded. He
didn’t even argue or insist that they had to keep going, which worried her. It
meant that he could see as clearly as she could that Burke was in trouble.

“We can rest here
for a few hours,” he said simply.

Jossalyn glanced
around the dimly lit forest. It looked the same to her eyes as the rest of the endless
woods through which they had been traveling for the last several hours, but
Garrick seemed to have chosen this place to stop. As if reading her thoughts,
he said, “There is a shelter just over there, and a large creek runs a little
way past it.”

He propped his
shoulder underneath Burke’s arm and turned toward a large rock outcropping
tucked in among the trees and underbrush. Jossalyn took the two horses’ reins
and followed.

For some reason,
she was expecting to find a house or at least a shed, but she all she saw was
more untouched forest even as they halted in front of the rocky protrusion. She
shot Garrick a questioning look, but then she noticed that he had stopped right
next to the towering exposure of rock. Several dead trees had fallen against
the rock, and ferns and other small plants had sprung up on top of the logs,
creating a small covered crawl space between the rock and the leaning tree
trunks.

She felt her eyes
grow wide as Garrick helped Burke to the ground and got him scooted into the
covered nook. She had never had to work in such conditions before. But then
again, she thought, trying to shake away her shock, she had never been whisked
away by Highland warriors before either. She would just have to make do.

She approached the
little shelter and knelt down next to Garrick at the opening. There appeared to
be just enough room for her to scoot inside and work on Burke’s leg under the
cover of the dead logs and regrowth over them, which was good because even
though the sky was clear to the east where the sun was near rising, dark clouds
were moving in from the west.

Setting these
thoughts aside, Jossalyn let herself become totally engrossed in the task at
hand: Burke’s leg. She unwrapped the cloth that covered the wound, and forced
herself to suppress a gasp. The gash was deeper and longer than she had thought
when she assessed it in the dark earlier. Garrick didn’t bother covering up a
low curse.

“That bad, eh?”
Burke said, trying to lighten the mood, though he spoke through slightly
clenched teeth.

“I’ve given myself
worse with my fletching dagger,” Garrick said wryly for Burke’s benefit.

Ignoring them
both, Jossalyn pulled her satchel from across her body and began digging in it.

“Fetch me some
fresh water,” she said to Garrick, still rooting in her bag for her sewing kit
and the yarrow she would need when she rewrapped the wound.

By the time
Garrick returned with a full waterskin, Jossalyn had already laid out what she
needed. She poured water over the wound, washing it of blood so that she could
see it clearly. At least it had been made by a sharp sword, she thought grimly.
The cut was clean, so the skin had a better chance of healing. She threaded her
needle and took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“Hold him still,
please,” she said to Garrick. He leaned into their shelter as much as he could
and placed one large hand on Burke’s chest and his other arm across his legs.

Blessedly, the sun
had just cracked over the horizon, and a beam of light somehow managed to
filter through the trees and into the opening of the shelter to illuminate the
interior. Without hesitating and risking losing the light, Jossalyn bent
forward and began stitching the wound closed.

At the first tug
of the needle, Burke jerked and groaned, but Garrick kept him almost completely
immobile, saving Jossalyn from misplacing a stitch. She worked quickly to save
Burke from more pain, but kept the stitches tight and in line. She had done
this enough times to trust in the steadiness of her hand.

When the last
stitch was in, she tied off the thread and turned to the cloth bandages and
yarrow she had laid out. Normally she would have boiled the yarrow and soaked
the bandages in it to help stop the bleeding and heal the wound, but there was
neither the time nor a fire to do that, so she settled with crushing the yarrow
and spreading some of its paste and juices on the inside of the bandages. Garrick
helped her lift Burke’s leg so that she could wrap the bandage around his thigh
several times.

She had felt his
eyes on her the entire time she worked, but it wasn’t until the bandage was
securely tied that she allowed herself to register his stare. She was worried
that she would find him glaring at her, or looking at her suspiciously, as if
she might hurt Burke, but when she met his gray eyes, they penetrated into her
with a dark intensity. She wasn’t sure how to read them—they certainly weren’t
shooting anger or suspicion at her, but why was he looking at her like…like he had
right before he kissed her?

She broke their
gaze and turned to look down at Burke. “How do you feel?” she asked, trying to
shake the feeling of Garrick’s eyes still on her intently.

“A bit poked and
prodded, but actually better,” Burke said.

“You’ll need to
rest and stay off the leg if you want it to heal properly,” she said firmly,
but Burke and Garrick exchanged a look that made it clear that they wouldn’t be
following her instructions.

“We’ll rest and
let the horses catch their breath for a few hours at most,” Garrick said flatly
to her. He pinned her with those intense eyes again, and she found that even
though annoyance bubbled up at his refusal to listen to her, she couldn’t seem
to find her tongue.

Garrick withdrew
from the shelter and turned to see to the horses. When his back was to her, she
suddenly remembered his wound, which also needed to be tended.

“Your back!” she
called to him as she scooted out of the lean-to and stood. “I can stitch it as
well.”

He half-turned
back to her. “Nay, lass, I’m fine. It was only a scratch.”

She crossed her
arms over her chest in exasperation. Why did men so often insist that they were
invincible? “At least let me look at it.”

He quirked an
eyebrow, likely at her tart tone, but she wasn’t going to back down. Finally,
he took a step toward her.

Suddenly she felt
like he was a hunter and she was in his sights. He moved slowly, deliberately,
but with deadly grace. She had to will herself to keep her feet rooted in place
rather than take a step back from his powerful frame as he drew closer. When he
was standing directly in front of her, he slowly turned on his heels so that
his back was facing her.

Now that he wasn’t
bearing down on her like some perfectly honed warrior-god from a nightmare—or
dream, she thought fleetingly—she let out a breath she didn’t realize she was
holding. She prodded around the slit in his leather vest and shirt, but there
was too much dried blood to be able to see the extent of the cut.

“I can’t see it
very well. Perhaps I could wash some of the blood away.”

He looked at her
over his shoulder for a moment. “I was going to take a dip in the creek anyway.
You can look at my back there if you’d like.”

Though his words
were innocent, something in his tone held a dark invitation—and a promise. She
felt her cheeks grow hot and her stomach flutter. He would be naked, bathing in
a woodland creek, and he wanted her to come along so that it would be just the
two of them?

“N-no, I’ll stay
here and watch over Burke,” she said in a rush, her voice shaky.

He raised a dark
eyebrow but shrugged, not commenting on her uneven voice or the blush that she
was sure currently reddened her face.

“As you wish,
lass. But you know where to find me.” With that, he strode away in the
direction she assumed the creek was in, leaving her to stare after him,
red-cheeked and longing for something, but she didn’t know what.