“How?” Tildy asked at once.
The question made Evina change direction. They’d arrived during the evening meal and the tables were full of Maclean people eating and drinking. Evina grabbed one of the nearest pitchers of ale distributed so generously among the tables, and then hurried to follow Donnan as he carried the Buchanan above stairs.
“M’lady?” Tildy rushed to keep up with her. “What—?”
“All will be well, Tildy,” Evina interrupted firmly. Sparing the maid a glance, she frowned and added, “Ye look exhausted. Ye’ve no’ rested at all since we left, have ye?”
“Have you ?” Tildy countered, eyebrows arched, and when Evina looked away toward the top of the stairs and let the subject drop, she added, “I thought no’. Ye must ha’e ridden day and night to get there and back so quickly.”
Evina didn’t deny it, but merely grunted with irritation as they reached the landing. She moved around Donnan then and led the way to her father’s door.
It was midsummer, the days hot enough that even the castle became uncomfortably warm at times, but her father’s room was positively stifling when they entered. It also smelled of rot and, for a minute, she feared her father had passed, but a moan from the depths of the furs piled on the bed told her otherwise and Evina released a relieved breath as she rushed to his side. Frowning at his flushed face, she set the pitcher of ale on the table next to the bed and reached out to touch his cheek. Concern claimed her as she felt the heat radiating from his skin before her fingers even touched him.
“He’s boiling. Why is it so hot in here?” she asked with dismay.
“He kept complaining he was cold, and asked us to build up the fire,” Tildy said quietly.
Evina eyed the roaring blaze in the fireplace with concern, and then turned to watch Donnan carry the Buchanan into the room.
“Set him here,” she instructed, gesturing to the chair she’d had moved next to the bed when her father had first fallen ill. Donnan did so at once. He then took the time to cut away the rope binding the unconscious man’s hands and ankles before stepping back.
Evina stared. The Buchanan was slumped in the chair, his chin on his naked chest, his legs spread and his family jewels dangling between like—
“Good Lord!”
Blinking, Evina glanced around in time to see Tildy drag a fur off the bed. The woman then rushed forward to lay it over the Buchanan’s lap, covering the more important parts. Standing back then, she shook her head and turned to arch an eyebrow at Evina.
“What kind of incident sees a man naked and unconscious?” she asked, tight-lipped.
Evina automatically opened her mouth to answer. It was habit more than anything. Tildy had been her nursemaid as a child. She’d been answering to her since she was born, but before she could explain, the woman added, “And why is he wearing his plaid as a cape rather than in the proper fashion? He looks ridiculous.”
“We tied the plaid around his neck and his knees, originally,” Evina muttered, moving forward to untie it. It had come undone from his knees when he’d fallen from the horse the second time. “’Twas to keep it on him while we were traveling. He was lying across his horse’s back on his belly at the time.”
“Because he was unconscious,” Tildy suggested.
“Aye. ’Tis hard to dress an unconscious man in a plaid.” Evina got the material untied and then glanced around at Donnan. She didn’t have to say anything; he was already moving forward. He lifted the man just enough so that she could tug the cloth out from under him, but not enough to dislodge the fur. Once he set the Buchanan back down, she draped the thick material over him on top of the fur, tucking it around him like a blanket.
“And how is it he came to be unconscious?” Tildy asked as Evina finished her task and stepped back.
She hesitated briefly, but finally admitted, “I hit him in the head with me sword hilt.”
“You—!”
“He was drowning Gavin,” Evina explained defensively. “I had to do something.”
“So, ye knocked him senseless? And then what? Ye did no’ kidnap him, did ye?” Tildy asked with alarm.
“Nay!” Evina snapped, and then frowned guiltily as she admitted, “Well, aye, mayhap a little.”
“Mayhap ye kidnapped him a little?” Tildy asked with disbelief. “There’s no such thing as kidnapping someone a little, lass. Either ye kidnapped him, or ye did no’.”
When Evina didn’t respond, but simply frowned at the unconscious man, Tildy asked, “Did he agree to come, or no’?”
“Nay,” she grumbled unhappily, and then quickly added, “But he did no’ disagree either.”
“Oh, Evina,” Tildy said on a sigh. “I raised ye better than this, lass. Ye can no’ run about kidnapping naked men and bringing them home, no matter how handsome and strapping and well-hung they are.”
“Tildy!” Evina turned on her with a scowl. “What he looks like and how he hangs had nothing to do with it. I brought him home to tend Father.”
“Well, a bloody lot of good he’s going to be at tending yer father, unconscious as he is,” Tildy pointed out with disgust.
Muttering under her breath, Evina grabbed up the pitcher of ale she’d set on the bedside table and turned to pour it over his head. This was why she’d stopped to grab the ale to begin with; she’d hoped it would help revive him . . . and it appeared to be working, she noted as the man came to sputtering, cursing life.
Conran was dreaming he was frolicking with a redheaded beauty with blue eyes when liquid splashed over his head, tearing him from his dream girl’s embrace. He wasn’t happy about that and came to roaring life, cursing and bellowing as he lunged to his feet, only to fall silent and still as he found himself staring at the very same redheaded beauty he’d just left.
Well, not quite the same, Conran realized as he looked her over. She had the same face with full, luscious lips that gave him ideas, and bright blue pools for eyes. But instead of long, flowing, dark red hair and a lovely gossamer gown that revealed her round, burgeoning breasts and the curve of her hips, this one had her hair tugged back tight in a bun and wore a filthy, plain, ill-fitting dark blue gown that seemed to emphasize the shadowed hollows of exhaustion under her eyes.
Movement drew his attention to the pitcher she was even now setting on a bedside table and Conran scowled and ran his hands quickly over his face to wipe away the liquid dripping down it. Ale. He could smell and taste it. Not bad ale either, he acknowledged as he licked it off his lips. But a damned rude way to wake him.
“Where am I?” The question popped out as he scowled over the group standing around him—a poor copy of his dream woman, an old female servant and two soldiers, he noted—but paid them little attention, instead scanning the room quickly. It was a bedchamber, but not one he recognized.
“Maclean,” the younger woman said. “Ye’re a guest of the Macleans.”
“Guest?” His voice was dubious. The last thing Conran remembered was a naked man attacking him while he was bathing. Well, no, he realized, his eyes narrowing on the redheaded woman again. He also recalled her, riding up on a horse while he grappled with his attacker in the river. She’d slammed a damned sword hilt into his head, he remembered, his eyes narrowing on her. “Ye knocked me senseless.”