Perhaps it wasn’t fair.

This thought struck her more than once as they rode through the day, Fergus behind her with his good arm snug around her waist.

Perhaps it wasn’t fair for her to use his injury—which she had a hand in causing—as a way to get under his brother’s skin.

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to feign innocence, to pretend as though she meant only to be of service.

There had been no mistaking Brice’s interest in her the night before, lying next to each other, as they had.

The seed had been planted. It needed only water and sunlight and careful tending to grow into something much larger.

A pang of fear struck her heart. Could she manage something much larger?

She had no experience with men. The previous night had marked the first in which she’d slept beside one of them. Had she not been so thoroughly fatigued, she might have spent half the night fretting over his nearness.

Exhaustion had proven itself a blessing, then.

No, she knew nothing of men. But she recognized jealousy when she saw it, and Brice was jealous of the way she rode with his brother.

Fergus, on the other hand, was either too far gone to notice—thanks to the tincture—or simply did not care that his brother rode several lengths ahead of the rest.

The day was gray, thick with clouds, and considerably cooler than the day before had been. She shivered involuntarily when a breeze blew past.

“Are ye chilled, lass?” Fergus asked.

The wind must have blown his question in Brice’s direction, for his back stiffened not a moment later.

“Aye,” she admitted, “though I’m certain it would be worse were ye not behind me. I’m grateful for your warmth.”

Was it her imagination, or did Brice let out something like a bark? It could have been a laugh—a rather bitter one, if so.

“Ye had both better make certain that warmth isn’t fever,” he called back over his shoulder.

A fair point. Alana looked over her shoulder, up into Fergus’s face. There was no flush on his cheeks, his eyes did not shine as though he were in the grip of fever.

Just the same, she had to be certain. “Whoa,” she murmured, pulling the gelding to a halt.

Quinn rode up beside them. “Why do you stop?”

She held up a finger to signal his silence, then bade Fergus lower his head slightly. She pressed her lips to his forehead, feeling for warmth.

Quinn gasped.

Even Fergus seemed taken aback.

“It is a much better method of testing whether a person is feverish,” she explained, facing forward once again. “The mouth is far more sensitive than the hand.”

Brice was glaring in their direction, having stopped when he noticed they’d come to a halt. “And?” he demanded.

“And, your brother is fine.” She bit the side of her tongue, straining to hold back her laughter.

Quinn’s jaw was all but trailing on the ground, Rodric merely looked pleased to hear that Fergus was doing well, but Brice looked fit to strangle someone.

Fergus was beyond the point of noticing. “You seem to know quite a lot about healing and taking care of others,” he noted. His arm tightened about her waist, and she was, indeed, glad for the extra warmth against her chilled skin as another gust of air blew past them.

“I had hoped to train with a healer,” she admitted. “Healing has always held an interest for me.”

“What prevented you from doing so?” Rodric asked, bringing his sleek, black horse in step beside her.

She sighed. “My father did not wish it so. His daughter would not heal the sick, for that would mean coming into contact with sick people. I suppose it makes sense in some ways, though I certainly do not share his opinion.”

“It seems unlike ye to simply give in to his wishes,” Quinn pointed out. “I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries by saying so.”

“Not at all,” she assured him. He seemed like a nice enough lad, but rough at the edges. He tried so hard to be gentle and sweet for her sake. “And there is truth in your words. I did go against his wishes, at first.”

“And?” Fergus asked.

“And, I did not sit without pain for a week.”

The men chuckled, likely remembering lashings they’d taken in childhood—she supposed they were no better behaved as children than as men, and likely much worse—but she did not share in their mirth.

For she remembered the pain, the humiliation as each stroke of the leather strap made contact with her skin. She remembered the sound of it cracking against her body, the blood which had pooled in her mouth and trickled down her chin as she bit her lip to stay her agonized cries.

There was a moment that day, in the midst of her beating, when she’d wondered if he worked as hard as he did simply to get a reaction from her. When she hadn’t cried out or begged for him to stop, she’d only enraged him further.

She’d borne the bruises for a fortnight.

Brice did not laugh, but then he pretended as though he did not hear a word being spoken behind him.

He might understand, she thought. If he were speaking to her. She might have explained it to him, recounted the humiliation for the first time. He would not have laughed.

But he was too far away.

There had to be a way to bring him back to her. The idea was not to repel him but rather to pull him in. If she was to do what she planned and do it successfully, she had to place herself in his good graces.

“Tell me about you and Brice,” she suggested, looking up at Fergus.

“What do ye want to know?”

“Why did you join the army?” she asked. “He told me ye did not wish to live in the village for the rest of your life.”

“He did, did he?” Fergus grinned. “Aye, he would.”

This sparked her interest, as it was not what she’d expected to hear. “Oh? Was there another reason?”

“I was the one who didna wish to remain there,” he explained. “Do not get me wrong, neither of us was ever cut out to be a cobbler. I canna imagine sitting at the bench from sun-up until sunset and beyond. I’d rather be hanged, truth be told.”

“I cannot imagine either of you engaged in such a vocation,” she admitted. They both looked as though they’d spent their entire lives out of doors.

“I approached my father with the intention of joining the army. He wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Why not? You’re the younger son, are you not?”

“Aye.”

“Did he not see the honor in serving his king?”

Fergus bristled at this.

Alana blushed. “I did not mean to insult him.”

“He served his king,” Fergus explained. “Which was why he didna wish either of his sons to do so.”

“Why not?”

She regretted the question when a cloud seemed to pass over his face. He took his time with replying. “He saw many things. Terrible things. I never knew him as a younger man, ye ken, but I always heard he was changed when he came back. Older, haunted about the eyes. Small noises made him jump more than they should have. He loathed the sight of blood.”

She clicked her tongue in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

“So, when I announced my wish to join up, he was against it. Putting it gently. It was a terrible row, lasted for days. I’d never heard my father raise his voice prior to that. There were times when I wondered if it were even possible for him to do so, since he never had. And his sons gave him more than enough reason to do so over the years.”

Alana smiled. “I would wager on it.”

“Och, how he bellowed,” Fergus murmured, half-lost in memory. “Mother wept, told me I was going to tear the family to pieces thanks to sheer stubbornness. I didna understand it, not all of it. Now that I’ve been through some of what he went through and know somewhat of all he wished to spare me from, I see why he reacted as he did.”

“What was the alternative?” she asked. “Did your family not have a responsibility to send one of its sons to the army?”

“He’d rather I live with the priests,” Fergus snarled, spitting on the ground as if to curse the very idea.

Alana fought against the laughter which bubbled up in her throat. “The Church?” she choked.

“Aye. A silly idea, I know.” He grinned. “It’s all right, lass. Laugh, if ye like. I would, if I were ye.”

“What decided him, then?” she asked, since he had certainly fought in the war.

“Brice.” He nodded in his brother’s direction. “He promised to look after me, to ensure no harm would come to me. It was the only way either of our parents would consent. I would either run off on my own—they both knew it—or they would send him along with me and hope for the best. They could hardly keep the both of us locked away, ye ken. They knew they were beaten—after all, once the two of us joined up on anything, we managed to get our way.”

“He did not have to go,” Alana mused aloud, staring ahead. “He might have claimed he needed to stay behind, learn his craft as the eldest son.”

“Aye. Many did,” Fergus agreed. “Brice did not. He knew how important it was to me that I go—and, as I said before, he did not wish to follow our father’s path. In a way, it worked out well for the both of us.”

“And did he make good on his word?” she asked. “Did he watch over ye?”

He let out a soft laugh. “I’m alive to tell the tale thanks to him. He’d never agree with me, ye ken, always insisting he had nothing to do with both of us making it out in one piece. But I know he played a role in my safety on the field of battle.”

A strange mixture of emotions stirred in Alana’s heart as she stared at the broad back and shoulders of the man Fergus spoke.

He had risked greatly to protect his brother.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to do so. Perhaps he had given up a life of, if not comfort, at least security and safety.

He’d likely broken his parents’ hearts as well.

What a strange man he was. Not nearly as easy to understand as she’d first assumed.