What was she on about?

What had she been thinking?

How did he not see how ill she’d become? Why did he not ask why she hadn’t worn stockings? He should have known better. He should have seen. Should have asked.

Instead, he’d waited, even as it was clear she’d begun to favor her left leg. When she’d settled in for sleep the night before, she’d even winced on pulling the blanket over herself. Even that slight touch had stung.

Why had he said nothing?

Only half a day had passed since then, but who was to say what good it might have done to get her to a healer sooner? She might already be getting better. At least she would no longer be on the back of a horse, galloping down a road neither of them had traveled before.

“Try to stay awake,” he demanded, his mouth close to her ear. “Do not allow yourself to fall asleep.”

“I’m very tired,” she whimpered, and when her cheek touched his, the heat from her skin alarmed him. Her entire body seemed to burn like an ember. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck, soaking into her hair and the back of her kirtle.

It had a foul smell. A smell which reminded him of nothing so much as the battlefield.

The stench of dying men.

How had she become infected so quickly?

“Yah!” he cried out, urging the horse to greater speed. The next village had to be coming up soon. There were breaks in the trees every now and again, revealing rolling fields and a small house or two, but there was no one there who would be able to help him.

Would there be anyone in the next village? He could only hope there was. For both their sakes.

“Why do ye have to be so stubborn? Why are ye so difficult? I would not have been angry with ye for being injured.”

She leaned against him, and he bore her weight as well as her heat. Her eyes were open, but she gave no answer.

“Do ye think me as bad as all that, lass? That I would have… How did it happen? The thief I killed. Was that it?”

He stole a glance at her, just in time to see her nod.

“Would that I might kill him again,” Quinn snarled. “The wretched thing. He dared place his hands on you, and then to do this. Mind ye, if I had known before now…”

There was nothing more to say. The lass knew she’d done wrong. Or she would once she could think clearly. That was not the case at the moment, when she was barely conscious.

“Please, lass. Please, hold on somehow. I need ye to stay.”

“I know you do,” she groaned. Her head lolled on his shoulder, toward his chest. “For your brother. I am sorry. I did not think.”

He looked down at her, finding her over-bright eyes staring at nothing. As if she were dead. Ice-cold fear gripped his heart.

“Ysmaine!” He did the unthinkable. He nudged her wound to rouse her.

“No, please…” she whimpered. But it did shock her into wakefulness again.

“I’m sorry, lass. I do not wish to cause ye pain.” He pressed his lips to her burning, sweat-coated forehead. Why he did so, he was not certain. He told himself it was to check her fever, but he did not need to touch his lips to her head to know she was burning.

The knife that did it must have been dirty. It was the only reason for her to become this ill, this quickly. Perhaps the man himself had been ill with some terrible disease which she now carried because of him. He knew little about the art of healing, but he knew enough to realize anything on the blade could have gotten into her blood.

If she died…

He ought not to have left her alone. Why had he done it? She’d been tired, and so had he, and he hadn’t wished to allow her to slow him while he hunted.

He’d been irresponsible, when he was responsible for her. She was his prize possession until their journey came to an end, but he’d left her on her own.

With her hands still bound. He could not have done a better job of leaving her open to attack if he had tried.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her ear. Her eyes had closed, meaning it was more than likely she could not hear him, wherever she was. In blessed darkness, away from pain and fever.

Though he’d suffered a high fever once, and the dreams he’d had then were nothing pleasant. She suffered, either way.

The rain began then. Big, fat drops which splashed on the road until what had only just been hard-packed earth turned to thick mud. It poured off the brim of his hat, made it difficult to see. Keeping hold of both horses was more difficult, as well, the footing uneven and slick.

But she could not be left out in the rain, either. Not for long. She would only become more ill.

The horses were beginning to tire, but a trio of small, stone cottages just off the road gave him hope. One of the doors was open, likely to allow the smoke from a cooking fire to leave the house even though the rain fell in sheets.

“Hello!” he called out. “Is there a healer somewhere near the place? I have a sick lass here.”

A withered old woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on an apron. When she took sight of Ysmaine, slumped backward against Quinn’s chest and shoulder, she gasped and pointed further down the road.

Her voice barely carried over the pounding of the rain. “In the village! Around the bend!”

He saw the bend of which the woman spoke and did not take time to thank her before he urged the geldings to continue. They could rest once they reached shelter.

Great, deep puddles had already formed, sending filthy water splashing up to meet the water pouring from the sky. Quinn merely gritted his teeth against it and urged Ysmaine to have patience. “We are almost there, lass. Ye needn’t be in pain for much longer.”

She did not hear him. She was elsewhere, far away, though the continuing heat from her body told him she was still alive.

The infection would not kill her that quickly, after all.

Would it?

More houses, and more, and once he rounded the bend in the road, he found a modest village laid out before him. He might have wept with relief if not for the task still at hand.

The downpour had sent many of the villagers scrambling for cover, leaving the roads empty save for the presence of abandoned carriages, wagons, horses tied to posts. He chose a wide, squat building with several horses waiting outside and called out at the top of his lungs.

“Help! I need a healer!”

The door opened, revealing the faces of several concerned men. That concern turned to suspicion when they spied Quinn’s clothing and sword.

“She is gravely ill,” he shouted. “Is there a healer somewhere about?”

One look at Ysmaine, soaked to the skin and unflinching even with water pouring onto her face, decided them.

“Aye, she lives on the other side of the village,” a ruddy-faced man exclaimed, pointing down the road. “In the house with the wooden fence about it. The last house before entering the woods.”

Quinn nodded his thanks and tapped the gelding’s sides once again, praying in his inexperienced manner than the beast did not collapse before they reached safety. “Almost there,” he shouted, uncertain whether he reassured the horse or Ysmaine or himself.

When he came to the house with the wooden fence, he called out in the hopes that whoever was inside would come on the run. What if she was not at home? What if she had gone out to tend to a sick villager and decided to wait out the storm?

He was careful on dismounting, afraid Ysmaine might fall from the saddle without him to support her, but he managed to get both feet on the ground before pulling her into his arms. She stirred, eyelids fluttering as she worked her eyes open, flinching away from the rain which still pelted her face.

“Rest,” he crooned, his feet sliding through the mud as he carried her to the house. Before he reached the door, it opened to reveal a tall, proud woman as solid looking as the house she stood in.

“Are you the healer?” he panted.

“I am.” She looked at Ysmaine, curled against Quinn’s chest.

“She’s ill,” he explained. “Infection in her leg. Please, help. I am happy to pay any price for your help.”

The healer hesitated, like as not wondering why a man wearing a uniform such as his would be in the Highlands.

“I’m a Highlander, as is she,” he snarled, his brogue thick. “Please. Even if she weren’t, she needs ye. Her body is hot to the touch.”

The woman’s dark eyes widened when she placed a hand on Ysmaine’s forehead. That decided her. “Come with me,” she murmured in a low voice, motioning for him to join her at the fire on the other side of the room.

It appeared as though it were the only room in the house, with a straw tick in one corner to serve as a bed and a long table running along one wall which held a staggering amount of herbs. Their scents mixed together to create a spicy, musky odor that tickled the inside of his nose and made him want to sneeze.

Ysmaine stirred again as he laid her by the fire, though he took pains to be as gentle as he could. The healer’s hands were deft, raising the kirtle, fingers running along the outer edges of the wound’s purple bruise.

“She is quite grievously ill,” the woman murmured, shaking her head. “How long has she suffered this?”

He thought back. “Five days. She told me nothing of it.”

“And how was she wounded?” Her keen eyes met his, asking more than her words expressed.

“She was attacked in the woods. She will tell you herself. This was no doing of mine.”

She made a noise to quiet him. “I didna mean to accuse ye. The attacker. A blade?”

“Aye.”

She clicked her tongue. “Dirty, no doubt.” She stood and went to a nearby basin to wash her hands.

Quinn stayed at Ysmaine’s side, stroking back the dark hair which had stuck to her hot forehead.

“She will need a poultice for the wound after I’ve finished draining it,” the healer announced, going to her table and working with her back to the two of them. “She cannot wear that soaked kirtle. Has she anything else?”

Guilt plagued him. “Nay.” Because he hadn’t allowed her to bring anything but what she wore on her back.

“Blankets will do, then, until it dries by the fire. Even then, she’d like as not sweat through it.” She was quick about her work, the sounds of chopping and grinding mingling with Ysmaine’s soft whimpers.

She looked over her shoulder. “I’ll be needing ye to bathe her head, shoulders, and arms in cool water. Legs, as well, excepting the infected area. Will ye be able to do that?”

He nodded. “I will do whatever you ask, so long as it means she will survive this.”

“I do not think it is as bad as that.” For the first time, the woman smiled. “Though if it had waited another day or more, things might have grown much worse. You’ll note there are no angry, red lines stretching out from the wound.”

He looked down at Ysmaine’s bared thigh. knowing in the back of his mind that she would all but die of embarrassment at his familiarity with her body. “Aye.”

“The infection is not so advanced that it poisoned her blood and moved to her organs, thank the gods.” She turned toward them with a small wooden bowl in one hand and a knife in the other.

“What of anything that may have been present on the blade which cut her?” he asked, still fearful of what might come. Ysmaine shivered, her teeth chattering, and he felt pitifully useless as he took her hand.

The healer shook her head with a grimace as she knelt beside him. “There is no telling, I must admit. I take it the man in question is such that he might not be located?”

Quinn shook his head, his eyes still on Ysmaine’s flushed face.

“I do not blame ye,” the healer muttered, angry and sharp. “These roadside thieves are a plague which must be stopped.”

More guilt, perhaps the worst of all. What would the woman think if she knew who he truly was? Why Ysmaine was in his company? And how the dead thief had found it so easy to accost her?

“So, there is no asking the man if he is ill, or whether he’d washed the blade after its last use. We might assume that he hadn’t,” she admitted. “The most we can do is hope that her body is strong enough to fight back the illness. I will treat her with the poultice, as I said, and a tincture in hot broth to bring down the fever and aid in lessening the pain. She will likely sleep a great deal for a day, perhaps two.”

Their eyes met. “Are ye prepared to hold her down while I drain the wound? It will hurt a great deal. She may thrash, may scream. Ye must be prepared.”

“I am.” He took her shoulders, pinning them to the floor, wishing he did not have to do it. That they might be taking shelter somewhere, warm and dry, and that the most pressing concern was answering Ysmaine’s incessant questions.

Would that she might ask him a question now, instead of shivering so.

Her eyes opened at his touch and stared up into his. It was clear she could not quite see him. “Quinn?” she croaked.

“Aye, lass,” he smiled, doing what he could to sound encouraging.

She blinked slowly, her bright eyes searching his face. “Am I dying?”

“Nay, you’ll not die,” he assured her over the lump in his throat. “Not today. Not for a long time to come. But ye must be brave now.”

“My dear.” The healer leaned in. “I must drain the wound to remove what infection I can. Ye must try to stay still, though it will pain ye greatly.”

Ysmaine’s chest rose and fell in sharp, rapid gasps. She was panicking, each breath a whimper.

“Do not fret,” Quinn urged, striving to keep his tone calm in spite of the fear which rose in his chest for her sake. “I am here with ye. I will not leave ye.”

“Of course,” she whispered with a faint, rueful smile. “You need me.”

Yes. He did.