“Lad.”

Quinn woke at the healer’s touch. She shook his shoulder, crouched beside him. For the briefest of moments, he forgot where he was, why he was there.

All around him hung dried and drying herbs, their scent both comforting him and turning his stomach. Something burned in the fire as well, something more than simply wood. His nose wrinkled in distaste and he wondered why anyone would burn something so foul.

Who was the woman crouching by his side?

The sight of Ysmaine just over the woman’s shoulder brought everything back.

He had fallen asleep while sitting up against the wall, it appeared. It had not been his intention to do so, the last thing he wished was to sleep and miss something important. Something he might be able to do to help.

He refused to entertain the notion that she might die.

Why, then, could he not stop fearing she would?

“How is she?” he asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes. What if she had died while he was sleeping? What if he had awoken to find her gone?

The healer pressed a mug of something warm into his hands. “Drink this. It will strengthen ye.” When he raised an eyebrow, she smiled. “Beef broth. Strong. Very good, in my opinion.”

It was good, and he drank deeply of it. The lingering chill which had seemed to make its home in his bones thanks to the cold rain melted away, leaving a pleasant warmth behind. It made the stiffness in his back and legs after spending so much time seated against the wall fade into the background of his mind.

She drew up a stool. “The lass will be well. The fever has reduced, but it has not yet left her entirely. I suspect she was weak, tired, unable to fight off the infection as well as she might have otherwise.”

Quinn sighed. “She was, like as not.”

The woman, she might have been anywhere from twenty to sixty, with a sort of face which displayed wisdom but none of the signs of aging, touched a finger to his tunic. “Where did ye get this? I know it does not belong to ye. A Highlander, as ye told me.”

“Aye. There is much to the story.”

“I have time.” She jerked her head in Ysmaine’s direction, indicating the fact that she was still deeply asleep. There was little more visible than the top of her head, the rest of her bundled tight in blankets by the fire after having been washed down. She would need more bathing, the healer had told him, but not until she had sweated out as much of the infection as possible.

He looked the woman up and down. Her modest, plain kirtle, the elbows and knees worn. The modest dwelling in which she lived and worked. “How do I know ye will not take this story to one who would pay for such information?” he challenged.

Her dark, sharp eyes widened before she let out a deep laugh. “Does it appear as though I have any need for riches, lad? I have never cared much for money. I’ve seen what it does to men, and to women. My mother, and her mother before her, were healers who traveled from place to place because of war, because of mistreatment. Forced from their homes, their villages, everyone and everything they ever knew. I am content to live a simple life among people who need me. That is enough.”

So, he told her his story. His reasons. The agreement he and Ysmaine had come to, that she would travel with him without giving him away.

“Because you saved her from the thief in the woods,” the healer murmured.

“Did I save her?” He looked to Ysmaine again, her head rolling from side to side as she whimpered in her sleep.

“Aye. Ye did, and ye know ye did. Now, if ye would bathe her forehead with cool water to provide her some relief while I look at her leg,” the woman commanded, pointing to a bowl and a stack of linen.

He did as he was told—he’d met army commanders who did not inspire such rapid action—kneeling beside Ysmaine and dipping the linen into the fresh, cool water.

She opened her eyes at the first touch. They were no longer shining with fever, and it was clear that she was able to see him without struggle. “Quinn?”

“Aye, lass. Who did ye expect?”

“I… suppose I was dreaming…” she whispered, closing her eyes again as he stroked her forehead with the damp cloth. “I dreamed you were gone.”

“I would not leave ye. I told ye as much already, did I not?”

“You did?” She frowned, as though struggling to grasp the edges of a memory.

“Ye needn’t trouble yourself with it,” he chuckled. “Ye were not feeling like yourself.”

The healer unwrapped the blankets around Ysmaine’s legs. Quinn dared to look, then grunted in surprise. What had been an oozing, pus-filled wound, swollen and purple, had turned to something looking much more manageable. There was still a red, angry-looking line where the blade had pierced her, but the swelling and seepage had gone down to nearly nothing.

“I can hardly believe it,” he murmured, shaking his head in wonder. “All of this in a matter of a few hours?”

The healer laughed, a good-natured sound without a hint of reproach. “Ye believe ye slept nothing more than a few hours, lad? It’s been nearly a day since ye came riding up to my gate.”

It could not be. And yet when he went to the door, opening it to look out on the road and down toward the village, he saw that it had to be true. The rain had long since stopped, and the sun had already begun baking away the mud, hardening it considerably.

He stepped out, looking to his right to find the pair of black geldings enjoying a bucket of oats, joined by a swaybacked sorrel mare he supposed belonged to the healer. They looked rested, even healthier, somehow. As though the healer had treated them, as well.

Impossible. Nothing more than a flight of fancy.

He had slept for so long, longer than he had at a stretch in as many years as he could remember. Had the woman given him something to make him sleep? Perhaps, he had been nearly beside himself with worry.

It was easier for the healer to treat Ysmaine while he was asleep, like as not.

He returned to the fire. “I will repay your kindness.”

“I expect ye will,” she murmured with a quirk of her lips. “But nothing more than what I’m truly owed. As I told ye, I have no use for a heavy purse.”

“You told her,” Ysmaine whispered with a knowing look.

“I had little choice. And I knew I could trust her, after seeing how well she helped ye.”

“You were weak,” the healer explained, washing her hands after applying a new bandage to the wound. “Tired. I imagine ye had little to eat and even less rest. There are blisters on your palms. You’ve been riding for a time, have yet not?”

“We have so far to go,” Ysmaine pointed out. “And the Marquis is expecting me.”

“I know, my dear.” She patted Ysmaine’s hand before pouring out a bowl of the same fragrant beef broth she’d shared with Quinn. “And in your haste, ye nearly died. If your companion had not ridden ye to me, there is no telling what might have happened.”

“Thank you,” Ysmaine murmured, sliding her hand into his.

He smiled and grasped her hand tight, then thought better of it, withdrawing his hand and putting it to work on wringing out the linen he’d used to bathe her forehead.

He had nearly forgotten the nature of their being involved with each other, hadn’t he? He’d come alarmingly close to feeling real affection for the lass. True, deep affection.

He knew that sort of affection, and he knew the trouble a man could find himself in as a result of it. Even if the lass were the sort he might be free to become entangled with—if she were not his captive, someone he expected to collect ransom on—he would keep her at arm’s length.

There were certain kinds of pain which did not fade thanks to a tincture in a bowl of broth.

Ysmaine’s eyes began to close, her face growing slack. “She will sleep now,” the healer predicted. “Sleep is the best thing for her, now that I’ve applied fresh poultice. She will heal better while her body is at rest.”

“When will she be fit to travel again?” Quinn asked, staring at Ysmaine’s peaceful expression. Her skin seemed to glow in the light from the fire, no longer flushed with fever or slick with sweat.

The woman thought about this, regarding him with a keen eye. “Perhaps tomorrow, or the next day.”

“Have ye any idea as to the distance between this village and Burghead?”

“That is where ye plan to find a ship to Cherbourg?”

When he looked at her in surprise, she merely smiled.

“She told me. Ye both have a way of revealing more than ye intend to. As I said, none of this is any of my concern. As far as anyone who asks questions is concerned, I never saw either of ye.”

“I hardly think anyone would come looking for us now, so many days after I met with the soldier,” Quinn reasoned. “There is nothing to fear.”

Even so, he was now concerned over the chances of the enemy catching up to him. What if that soldier had alerted others, perhaps rounded up a group of men to search for them? What if they found the healer, or spoke to one of the villagers who had witnessed Quinn’s wild ride through the rain?

“We shall take our leave at the first chance to do so,” he decided. “We can ill afford to spend more time here, as kind as you’ve been.”

“Aye, I had expected as much,” the woman admitted, nodding to a small canvas sack on her work table. “I’ve already prepared more of the poultice for her, along with a tincture to keep pain at bay. She will feel it rather acutely when she rides.”

He frowned at this. “What if I rode with her? She might sit sideways in the saddle, in front of me. Would that help, do ye believe?”

Was it his imagination, or did the woman smile slightly as she turned away?

“Aye, I believe that will help keep the wound from opening again. As far as it helping other things…”

She did not finish her thought, and Quinn did not press her to do so.