The first thing Moira noted was silence.

No rain. No wind. No noise from the horses.

Her eyes still closed, she smiled. Blessed relief, to rest in the quiet. With a warm, firm shoulder beneath her head…

It all came back.

She sat up, eyes now open wide.

Fergus smiled. “Awake, are ye?”

Her heart hammered wildly. “I… how long did I sleep? Why are you awake?” She stammered.

“I’m fairly certain we both slept through the day, lass.” He looked out, into the woods. “For ‘tis morning. I remember a storm, but that could not have been later than midday, for when I found ye it was early in the morning.”

“You must be right.” She rubbed sleep from her eyes, cursing herself for her weakness. What if he’d taken a turn during the night and she’d slept through it?

“Ye needed to rest, and so did I,” he reminded her with a rueful chuckle, as though he could sense her thoughts. “Ye did admirably well, lass.”

“Did I?” Her eyes shifted down to where the blanket covered his legs.

“Let us see, then.” He lowered it, revealing a burn which had scabbed over. The sight of it, the memory of what she’d done to cause it, turned Moira’s stomach and made her glad to be hungry.

Anything she’d eaten would have come back up.

“It looks fine,” Fergus assured her. “I’ve seen many such wounds burned closed on the battlefield, no time to stitch up with fighting raging all around,” he explained. “Sometimes, all a man could do was drag himself to the nearest fire and hope for the best.”

It all sounded too horrible to be borne. She’d hardly made it through treating just one wound, just one man. What would it mean to see so many such men bleeding to death in front of her eyes?

“What of the burn, now?” she asked, covering him again to keep anything from reaching his leg. “What shall we do?”

He grimaced, dragging a hand over his rough, stubbled cheek. “You make a fair point. The burn might fester if anything got into it before it closed over.”

“That was what I feared.” She got up, moving quickly in spite of stiffness and lingering pain.

“Where are ye going?”

“To the village. It is less than a day’s ride to and from, and that includes stops along the way.” She went to the stream, splashed her face, filled the flagon for him. There was dried meat left in his pack, and she brought it to him with the water.

“Ye wish to ride to the village?” he asked.

“I have to fetch supplies for you,” she explained. “Taking you on horseback would not be wise, for you might tear the burn open. But the longer the burn sits, the greater the chance of it making you ill. I cannot allow that, can I?”

She crouched at his side. “I shall return as soon as I can. I promise. But you must make a promise to me.”

He reached for her, taking the uninjured side of her face in his hand. She longed to lean into his touch, to close her eyes and allow for a moment of sweetness. Just one moment.

The problem was, one moment would not be enough.

“What can I promise ye, lass?”

“That you will be here when I return.”

He chuckled, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “It doesn’t appear as though I’ll be moving, lass.”

She chewed her lip. “You know what I meant.”

His eyes darkened. “Aye. And if ye think such a scratch as the one I suffered yesterday is enough to put me in the ground ye dinna know me a bit.”

Even so, she leaned in and kissed him. His hand moved to the back of her head, holding her fast so his lips could move against hers, drawing a sigh from the back of her throat.

Would that she could give in to him. That they might be together.

With all her heart, she wished it.

Even as she pulled away. “Now, now, lad. Save your energy.” She hoped her shaky laughter covered the note of longing in her voice.

He laughed as well, though his laughter was weak. “I shall be here, waiting for ye.”

“I will not be long.” She would hold fast to her vow if it killed her.

The agony of leaving him alone, beneath the tree, made it difficult to breathe. She forced herself to untie the mare, to mount and press her legs to the beast’s sides before she lost her nerve.

What if he died while she was gone?

No, no, he lasted the night. He is strong. He will be alive when I return.

If she said it enough times, it would be true. She repeated it again and again, chanting it in her head as she steered the mare out of the woods and onto the road. He will be alive when I return. He is strong.

When she reached the road, looking to one side and the other, she could not find anything to mark the spot where he waited. Another kirtle would simply have to suffer. She reached down, tore a strip from the bottom and tied it to a branch.

“Yah!” she bellowed, frightening the mare into taking off at a run. The sweet horse would need to keep running, and in the back of her mind, Moira wondered whether it could endure the strain.

If she had to steal a fresh horse from the village, that was what she’d do.

Sweat ran down her back before long, dripped into her eyes. The day was a hot one, the wetness in the air and on the ground after the previous day’s storm making it nearly unbearable. And yet she pushed the mare to greater speed, all but standing in the saddle though she knew it would only exhaust her to ride that hard.

Every beat of the hooves on the ground, every beat of her heart, all of it carried his name. Fergus, Fergus.

He would need food and healing herbs. Something to keep the pain at bay. Something to keep him alive for her, that she might ask him if he meant it when he said he loved her.

That she might profess her love in return.

Why had she not told him before she left? Because it would have meant admitting the chance of his death while she was gone, and she would not have it.

In the haze of panic, she did not notice a rider approaching the road from the woods.

The frenzied mare, however, did.

The horse came to a sudden stop, nearly pitching Moira over its head, then reared back with a startled cry.

Moira struggled to maintain her hold but lost control, tumbling to the ground.

“Whoa! Whoa!” The rider dismounted his horse to calm and control the mare, taking hold of the bridle once the front hooves touched ground again. “I mean ye no harm, beauty. Calm yourself, now.”

He looked at Moira, still dazed on the ground. “Are ye all right, lass?”

She ached in a dozen places but fought to regain her feet. “Yes. I need to be on my way. Please.” She took the reins, barely glancing at the man who’d slowed her down.

“Where were ye riding in such a rush? Is there an emergency somewhere?” the man asked.

She nodded, mounting quickly in spite of her bruised backside. “Indeed. Please. I must get to the village.”

Yet he would not release the bridle.

Frustration and fury and panic and desperation exploded from her all at once. She withdrew her dirk in one swift, smooth movement and held it to his face. “Release my horse or live the rest of your life without a nose, lad.”

Only then did she look at his face. Into his wide, stunned eyes.

He looked just like Fergus.

Her hand trembled as she lowered it. “Are you… Are you Brice MacDougal, by any chance?”

His mouth moved without sound at first. Once he cleared his throat, he replied, “Aye. And I would most like it if you’d leave my nose where it is, lass.”

She nearly fell from the saddle. “Your brother! Your brother is gravely injured!”

“Fergus?”

She pointed back to where she’d come from. “I was going to the village for a healer’s help!”

He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Two more men emerged from the wood on horseback.

“Fergus is injured,” he explained. “The lass was on her way for supplies.”

“A terrible cut to his leg,” she added. “I burned it closed, but he lost a great deal of blood, and now I’m afraid the burn will infect—”

“Breathe, lass.” Brice patted her leg. “Ye did well.”

“We can ride for ye,” one of the men offered.

“Aye, and ye can show me where ye left him,” Brice suggested. “We’ll go back together.”

“Take this.” The second man turned in the saddle and pulled out a small, canvas pack. “There is a tincture for the pain here. I doubt any of the herbs are fresh enough to use now, but the tincture ought to be good. Anything to help him.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, pressing the pack to her breast. “He will need herbs for the burn, as I said, and I suspect it will need opening if it is to be properly cleaned and sewn—a needle and thread, then, and food if you can manage. He only had a bit of dried meat left.”

“I’ve brought some from the village,” Brice assured her, “but they can bring more.”

“I tied a strip of my kirtle to the branch of a tree—that is where you’ll know to turn in and ride straight ahead.”

“A resourceful lass,” one of the men grinned. Before she could thank him, the pair rode off toward the village, kicking up dust as they did.

“Now, let us find Fergus.” Brice turned the horse about, bringing it up beside Moira as they trotted ahead.

Waves of relief washed over her, as cool and soothing as any river’s current. “How is it I came across you?” she thought to ask.

“We went to the village to check whether Fergus had arrived,” he explained. “Murphy told us of the task he’d set for him. We also heard word at the inn of cutthroats in the woods, and a pair of merchants they murdered less than a week ago.”

“Would that we’d gotten word of them ourselves,” Moira groaned.

“They did that to ye?” He touched the side of his face, then pointed to her.

She laughed in sheer surprise. “I had forgotten about it. Is it terribly ugly?”

His smile was warm. Kind. “Nay, lass. Ye could never be ugly. I suppose it’s Moira Reid I’m riding with, who I can thank for saving my brother’s life.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Yes. I suppose your friend Murphy told you I was riding with Fergus.”

“Aye, and a great laugh I had at my brother’s expense,” Brice admitted, chuckling still. “I remember a certain freckle-nosed lass who gave him a rather embarrassing time once, years ago.”

“He deserved it.”

“Aye. He did that. I would say ye made it up to him now.”

They reached her signal and turned right, into the woods. “Fergus?” Moira called out, leading the way.

“Aye!” He sounded weak, but his voice was clear.

“Lad, you’ve gone and nearly gotten yourself killed, I hear!” Brice’s laughter rang out, sending birds fleeing from the trees and squirrels scurrying to safety.

At first, it seemed odd to laugh at such a time, then Moira realized Brice strove to lighten Fergus’s spirits, and she liked him very much for it.

They reached the tree, Fergus’s feet the only thing visible beneath the low-hanging branches. Brice dismounted. “Ye dragged him beneath the tree?”

“Yes, there was a storm coming up. I had to shelter him.”

“A wee thing such as yourself?” He crouched down, parting the branches to reveal his brother. “Well, now. There ye are. I heard ye made the acquaintance of a band of cutthroats.”

“Aye,” Fergus grinned. “And they left me something to remember them by.”

“Rodric and Quinn are on their way to fetch supplies from the village, and I’ve brought food and a tincture for the pain. I shall build a fire and heat the roast, and we’ll fix a drink for ye that ye might escape the pain for a spell.”

Fergus sighed in relief. “I’m not ashamed to tell ye, the pain is something fierce.”

“I’m sure it is,” his brother murmured, patting his shoulder.

Moira watched this in silent awe, all but unable to believe the good fortune which had brought them together. If she had set out only minutes sooner, she would have missed Brice entirely. His brother and friends would have ridden on, unaware of Fergus’s grave condition.

She fell to her knees beside him, and he turned to her with a smile.

“You’ve met my brave lass, I see,” he grinned, touching her cheek.

His lass. Did he mean it, or was it pain and loss of blood speaking for him?

No matter. It sounded lovely, even if she’d never heard it again. She closed her hand over his, held tight.

“I have, and she’s a sight better than ye deserve.” Brice grinned.