Highland Barbarian Part 34

Meredith heard the shuffle of feet and waited until she was certain they had gone. She lay under the bed and fought back the tears that threatened to choke her. She must do something. But what?

She pulled herself from her place of concealment and crawled to the other room where Brice lay. The tears that she had been fighting now spilled over, running in little rivers down her cheeks.

Brice. Her strong, angry, giant of a man was dead. She brought her hands to either side of his face and studied his proud, handsome features.

"How wrong I have been about you. You are not some cruel savage. You are a gentle giant, surprisingly fair with me, generous with your friends."

The tears began anew, and she struggled to hold them back.

"You were even right about Gareth. And I have been so wrong. Gareth is evil incarnate."

Tears streamed down her cheeks and she made no move to check them.

"What a fool I have been. If I had not been prevented by fateful circ.u.mstances from marrying Desmond MacKenzie," she said, pressing her forehead to Brice's,

"I would already be dead, and my land and people would be in the clutches of the cruel Gareth.

"Oh, Brice. I see now that it was because of you that I have been given a chance to discover the awful truth about the MacKenzies."

The tears came harder now, and she struggled to subdue her emotions.

She felt a tingling at her fingertips and studied Brice's face, so handsome in repose. She thought she saw a flicker of pain cross his face. Impossible. Brice was dead. And then she felt the tingling again. A pulse beat She touched a finger to his lips and thought she felt a slight breath. With a last flicker of hope she pressed her fingers to his throat a second time. Aye. A pulse beat Feeble. Thready. But a pulse beat all the same.

Alive. Brice was alive.

With a little cry she began to cut away the blood-soaked tunic. Tears sprang to her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. There was no time for tears now. There was work to be done. She would stem the flow of blood. She would warm him, with her own body if necessary.

And she would keep him alive until he was strong enough to fight his wounds.

And then, together, they would fight Gareth MacKenzie, the brute who sought to subdue her people and steal her land.

Chapter Eleven

Q^r^ps^Q Oo great was Meredith's determination to save Brice's life, she forced herself to ignore the smell of smoke that crept up the staircase and invaded his chambers.

She added a log to the fire and placed a large kettle of water to heat.

While it came to a boil she cut away Brice's garments and examined his wounds.

From the courtyard below she heard the sound of men being summoned, of horses being readied for travel. The sound of Gareth's voice calling out to his men set her teeth on edge. She forced herself to shut out all sound. For now there was only this room and this man.

She would not leave his side, she vowed, until she was certain he would survive.

And what of the fire that threatened? One glance at the man on the floor told her that she could never drag him to safety. She would remain here and defy even the raging flames to save his life.

She stared down at his bloodied, battered body and felt a tremor of fear. If a giant of a man like Brice could be cut down, could anyone survive?

She thought briefly about the men below who had died in this b.l.o.o.d.y battle. And about the many more who still lay wounded. What of the women and children? Had Gareth and his men terrorized them, brutalized them? Or had they simply searched among them for the one they sought and then left them? She whispered a prayer for their safety, then bent to the task at hand.

There was no time to think about whether or not Brice would be caused further pain by her ministrations. For now, she would be forced to inflict some pain in order to properly care for him.

Tearing a strip of cloth, she dipped it into the rapidly heating water.

With gentle strokes she sponged the blood that oozed from Brice's shoulder. Though the wound was deep, it did not appear to be life threatening, and she breathed a sigh of relief. When the shoulder was cleansed, she tied a clean cloth around it to stem the flow of blood, then moved to the next wound.

Blood flowed freely from a gaping hole in Brice's side. The tip of a sword had pierced cleanly through, then had been brutally withdrawn, tearing the flesh in jagged shreds.

Working quickly, Meredith washed the area, then pressed several thicknesses of clean cloth against the open wound and bound it tightly.

It would be important to keep this wound clean. But for now, the most important thing was to stop the excessive bleeding.

She moved on to other, less serious wounds, where sword and dirk had pierced the flesh of Brice's hand, arm and both legs. He was a ma.s.s of b.l.o.o.d.y flesh. Yet none of these wounds appeared mortal. Why was he so near death? Why the pallor, the feeble heartbeat? Something had sapped his strength. One of his wounds was carrying him to death's door.

She heard a great cry from below and recognized the voices of Brice's men and servants as they battled the fire that threatened to destroy Kinloch House. Black acrid smoke filled the air as buckets of water caused the flames to sputter and smolder.

As Meredith sponged, her hand paused in midair. She noted the dark stain that slowly spread across the fur throw beneath Brice's body. For a moment she could only stare at it in dread. Then, struggling to roll him to one side, she discovered the small deadly knife still buried between his shoulders.

"G.o.d in heaven."

She thought of her final words to him before the battle had begun and felt a s.h.i.+ver pa.s.s through her.

"Do not turn your back on your attackers, my lord. Or you may find a MacAlpin dirk between your shoulders."

Her gaze was riveted on the bloodstained hilt. It was little satisfaction to note that it was not a MacAlpin dirk that had gravely wounded him. It bore the mark of the MacKenzie clan.

The blade could not have pierced the heart or he would already have expired. But this wound was mortal.

There was no tenderness in her touch as she reached for the dirk. It must be removed, and the wound repaired quickly if she would save his life.

With both hands she pulled the knife cleanly from his back.

She looked up as the door to the sitting chamber was shoved roughly open. Smoke billowed inward and swirled like fog above a river.

Wreathed in smoke, Angus Gordon, blood streaming from a wound to the head, stood framed in the doorway, leaning heavily upon the arm of Jamie MacDonald. Both of them were coated with soot from the raging fire they had been battling. Their hands were bloodied and raw from handling heavy buckets of water and beating out rapidly fanning flames.

Their clothes were scorched. The pungent odor of burning wood clung to them.

Both of them stared at her, then at the b.l.o.o.d.y dirk in her hand.

Though he was obviously weak from loss of blood, Angus lifted his sword and faced her, his accusing eyes dark with fury, his lips a thin line of hatred.

"So. You would take your revenge even upon a dead man."

Before she could respond, he shouted,

"Step away from Brice's body, my lady, or I will be forced to kill you where you stand."

"You do not..."

With tears streaming down his face, Jamie rushed at her, knocking her to the floor. Once on top of her his grimy fingers locked about her throat. His young face was a twisted mask of fury.

"Was it not enough that the MacKenzies killed him?" he sobbed.