A Sword Upon the Rose

He was probably right, as the skies were clear, which meant it would not snow. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes again. He did not seem like an injured man just then. Although his left arm was in a sling, he wore a long sword and a dagger. Beneath his fur, she saw his dark blue, black and red plaid, pinned with a gold brooch above his right shoulder. She was very aware that he was not bedridden, that he was powerful, masculine and very much the enemy.

“I did not expect to see you on your feet so soon.”

“Did ye truly think I’d linger on a pallet in my tent?”

Was he amused? It was hard to tell. “Your wound must pain you.”

“I care little about pain. It is always a good day when one awakens alive,” he said. “Will ye break bread with me, mistress?”

“I am not hungry.” She did not wish to share a breakfast with him. “We have been delayed as it is. We must get to our kin in Nairn.”

He smiled. “Ah, aye. Ye have been summoned there, to heal someone, and ye cannot spare a moment to eat.”

She knew she flushed. “It would be best to simply go on.”

His brow lifted. “But ye had the time to attend my wound.”

She could not help staring at him and their gazes locked.

“I will learn why ye nursed me, mistress, just as I will learn why ye truly go to Nairn,” he said.

She had little doubt he would soon learn all that she hid from him and she was so tempted to blurt out the truth. Instead, she cried, “I do not even know, myself, why I wished so desperately to save you! I saw the terrible treachery, my lord, and I ran to your aid without thought!”

He started, his regard probing.

Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. “That is the truth, my lord.”

For one more moment he studied her. “Come eat.”

She decided not to argue, aware that he had not forbidden her from leaving. Alana glanced toward their tent, but Eleanor had yet to come outside. She followed him closer to the campfire, took the bread he offered and quickly ate it. He continued to stare and it made her uncomfortable.

When she was done, she looked up and saw him flexing his left arm in the sling, wincing. He seemed pale beneath his days’ growth of beard.

She knew her stitches would hold, if he undertook no abnormal activities. But men died from infected battle wounds more often than not. “Maybe I should look at your wound before I leave?” Alana heard herself say.

“So yer concern for a stranger in a time of war remains.”

She did not want him to die, and she had already said as much—she would not say so again, especially when such desire was insensible.

He gestured. His tent had been taken down, so she followed him to a large wagon, one containing a catapult. He leaned against it, shaking his fur from his wounded shoulder. Their gazes danced together, his appraisal this time slow and steady.

She looked away, deciding that she preferred it when he looked at her with suspicion, not with interest. She pushed the plaid farther back over his shoulder. She did not look up at him as she untied the sling, but she felt his gaze upon her face. She had the feeling he was scrutinizing her every feature as he had done the past night. It made her terribly uneasy.

She removed the sling, then pulled open the neckline of his tunic. Someone had secured the bandage. She lifted an edge, and was instantly relieved. “You are healing nicely.”

“I have been well nursed,” he said softly.

Aware of the heat in her cheeks, Alana tucked the linen back into the wrappings, and covered it with his tunic. She helped him put his arm back in the sling and tied it. But there was no avoiding contact—no avoiding the feeling of male muscle and bone. “I hope you will rest and heal for a few days, at least. I do not wish for my efforts to have been in vain.”

“War waits fer no man.”

She took a step back, to put some distance between them. “Surely you will rest for a few days.”

“I am a soldier. I have no time to rest, mistress.”

She was in disbelief. “Then you might die, for you can hardly wield a sword with such a wound.”

He began to smile. “I will wield more than one sword today, my lady, I will wield two.”

Alana gasped. “How can you raise a sword in your left hand? And you think to fight today?”

His smile vanished. “Why did ye come to help me yesterday? The truth, mistress.” Warning filled his tone.

She froze. “I truly don’t know. I have told you what I do know.”

“That ye desperately wished to save a stranger—with no previous thought?” He was dismissive. “Did ye shout a warning to me?”

She had no intention of telling him that she had visions, and that he had been in her most recent one. She would not tell him that she had foreseen the battle of yesterday, and the treachery committed by one of his men, so that she had, indeed, warned him, not once, but twice. “You could not hear anyone shout from the woods,” she finally said.

“Aye, no man could hear a shout from the woods. But I saw ye standing there—and I heard ye scream at me, in warning. I heard ye as clear as can be—two times.” His eyes blazed.

She wet her lips nervously. She had shouted at him to warn him against his assailant. But how had he heard her? It was impossible!

“Did ye try to warn me?” he demanded.

“Even if I did, you could not hear,” she began.

He seized her arm. “I already told ye I heard ye! Confess! Did ye shout at me?”

Helplessly, she nodded. “Yes.”

He shook her, once. “How can that be? How could I hear ye—and how could ye warn me of treachery before it happened?”

Alana cried out. “I don’t know!”

“Ye shouted at me and there was nothing—then ye shouted again, and that bastard traitor stabbed me. Were ye privy to the plot?” His grip tightened.

“I was not privy to any plot!”

“Then ye must be a witch!” he cried furiously, releasing her.

She backed away, rubbing her arm. She had to lie. “I am not a witch,” she finally said, panting. “And I do not know why I shouted, everything is a blur in my mind!”

His look was scathing. Clearly, he did not believe her.

“Ye flush, perhaps with guilt,” he snarled.

She started; wet her lips. “If I am guilty, it is of aiding the enemy.”