“Ye were drowning our Gavin,” she responded abruptly, but didn’t even bother to look at him as she said it. Instead, the lass turned to peer worriedly toward the bed.
Conran followed her gaze, but all he saw was a mountain of furs piled on it. Mouth tightening with irritation at her lack of attention, he growled, “If yer Gavin is the fellow who molested me while I was bathing, he deserved it.”
She finally deigned to give him her attention then, but Conran barely noticed. A muttered curse had made his head swivel toward the two soldiers in the room. His eyes narrowed on the smaller one this time. He looked somewhat familiar, but with his hair dry and clothes on, it took Conran a minute to recognize him as his attacker. Once he did though, he growled, “You.”
The man shifted uncomfortably. “I was asked to fetch ye out o’ the water. Me apologies, m’lord, if ye mistook me intentions and thought ye were under attack.”
“I was bathing, alone, naked and without me weapon when another naked man suddenly appeared and grabbed me,” he pointed out with disgust. “O’ course I thought meself under attack. Any man would.”
“Really?” the girl asked, and Conran watched the larger soldier glance her way and nod. He didn’t bother to look, but heard the frown in her voice as she asked, “Well, why did ye no’ tell me that?”
“The situation was somewhat urgent,” the larger man reminded her in a deep rumble of a voice. “We needed to hurry and could no’ wait for him to finish his ablutions.”
“Right. Urgent,” the girl muttered, and turned to peer at the bed once more.
Conran followed her gaze, wondering what she found so fascinating about the damned furs.
“Also,” the man continued, “I was rather hoping Gavin would talk fast enough to reassure him all was well ere the Buchanan resorted to violence.”
“No one talks that fast,” Conran assured him dryly. “And I would no’ have heard him anyway over the rush of the waterfall.” When the man tipped his head in acknowledgment, Conran glanced back to the girl and asked shortly, “So? Why have I been kidnapped?”
“Ye’ve no’ been kidnapped,” she said quickly, turning back with something like alarm. Managing a somewhat strained smile, she added, “Truly, m’lord, we mean ye no harm at all. We are no’ enemies. In fact, we are admirers of yer skills in the healing arts.”
Conran snorted, and then growled, “I was knocked senseless, trussed up, tossed over a horse and unwillingly transported away from Buchanan to Maclean. Lass, that is kidnapping.”
“She is a lady no’ a lass,” the large man said sharply. “Ye’ll afford our lady the proper respect she is due and address her as Lady Evina.”
Conran raised a doubtful eyebrow at the words. The lass looked far and away from a lady at the moment. More like a dirty street urchin in that filthy blue dress. He narrowed his eyes as he recalled the blue draped over the leg he’d bitten. Then what she’d said moments ago finally sank through his head.
“Healing arts?” he asked sharply.
“Aye, the tales of yer skill have spread far and wide, Lord Buchanan, and we are in desperate need of those skills. Me father, Fearghas Maclean, is very ill. Please, just come take a look.”
Conran shook his head, realizing it was Rory they wanted. Obviously, they’d grabbed the wrong brother, he thought, but hesitated to say as much for fear it would see his brother treated as roughly as he had been.
While he stood, uncertain of what he should do or say in this situation, the lass grabbed his hand and drew him toward the bed. Her voice was desperate as she begged, “Please, just look at him. There must be something ye can do.”
“Nay.” Conran tugged his hand from hers. He was not the healer.
“Aye.”
Conran scowled. “Ye kidnapped me. Why would I help ye in return for such rough treatment?”
Several expressions flitted across her face—dismay, anger, desperation—and then Lady Evina took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Raising her shoulders, she said quietly, “Please, m’lord. I apologize if Gavin’s approaching ye in the waterfall frightened ye. That was no’ our intention.”
Conran scowled at the comment, disliking the suggestion that he’d been afraid.
“In fact, we ne’er intended for any o’ the unfortunate events that followed to occur,” she continued. “The truth is that we rode to Buchanan to approach ye to beg yer assistance in saving the life o’ me dear father. However, it all went terribly wrong when ye attacked Gavin.”
Great, now he was the bad guy, attacking a man who just wished to gain his attention, Conran thought, and almost shook his head in wonder at how skillfully she’d turned the tables.
“And once ye were unconscious, we could hardly leave ye there, naked and vulnerable. Anything might have happened to ye should the wrong sort have found ye like that.”
That was clever, Conran acknowledged. Not only was he now the bad guy, but she had been saving him by kidnapping him.
“But I felt I could no’ leave me father alone fer too long fer fear he would die before I could return,” she continued. “It meant we could no’ stay to guard ye until ye woke. So, instead, we brought ye back with us to keep ye safe . . . hoping that once ye woke and we could speak with ye that ye’d agree to help.” Bowing her head, she added, “I would be pleased to offer ye anything ye desire that ’tis within me power to give ye, if ye would only try to help me father. He means everything to me. I cannot lose him.”
Well, hell, Conran thought with irritation. She was a clever wench. Not only had she swallowed her pride and made a pretty plea, she’d managed to twist everything so that her kidnapping him seemed almost a kindness. More than that though, she’d revealed her very real caring and concern for her father. If he refused to at least look at the man now, he’d feel a complete ass.
Sighing, Conran ran a hand through his long hair, and then frowned as he felt something. Plucking it free, he lowered his hand and peered at the small prickly branch he’d pulled from his hair.
“Please?”
Conran shifted his gaze to Lady Evina. Her eyes were shiny now, though whether with tears or anger, he couldn’t tell. He was leaning toward tears though, and supposed the least he could do was look at the man. He could decide what to do from there.
“Fine,” he muttered now. “Take me to him.”
“Perhaps ye could dress first,” the old woman suggested in arid tones.
Eyebrows rising, Conran followed her glance down to see that his plaid and a fur were lying on the floor on top of and in front of his feet, but otherwise he was completely naked.
“They fell off when ye woke and leapt up,” Evina said, her gaze never dropping below his face. The way she said it suggested that he’d been wearing the plaid at least, but he recalled being naked on the horse. The damn thing must have been draped over him and slid off when he stood.
Shaking his head, Conran bent to snatch up the plaid and moved to the other side of the bed where there was room to kneel and pleat the item of clothing on the floor. His movements were economical, but not rushed. Conran was not embarrassed by nudity, his or anyone else’s. He’d skinny-dipped with his brothers two or three times a week for the first twenty-odd years of his life and still did on occasion. Between that and helping Rory with his work with the ill and injured, which necessitated dealing with people in all states of dress and undress, he saw no shame in the human body.