“I’m no’ hungry. Or tired fer that matter,” Evina growled, which wasn’t completely true. While she wasn’t hungry, she was a touch tired. Much less tired than she’d been when they’d finally arrived here, but her blood was up and a lot of her exhaustion had been chased away by her anger.
“Well, the Buchanan said ye were to do both or he’d leave,” Tildy reminded her firmly.
Evina turned on her with dismay. “Surely he did no’ mean that?”
The maid nodded solemnly. “I think he did. He said he has no desire to look after ye as well as yer father do ye make yerself ill, and I was to see ye ate and rested or he would leave.”
“He acts as if he thinks he can order me about!” Evina snapped furiously.
“He can,” Tildy said firmly. “Unless ye’re willing to risk his leaving and no’ tending yer father?”
Hands clenching at her sides, Evina growled under her breath, and turned to walk to the high table.
“That’s me good lass,” Tildy said with obvious relief. “Ye just relax a bit. I’ll go order the bath fer yer father, and have food sent out to ye.”
Evina dropped onto the bench at the high table with a disgusted mutter. She disliked being told what to do at the best of times, but being ordered about by the Buchanan just rubbed her nerves raw. No one had mentioned in the many tales about him that he was a dictatorial bastard. It was always about how wondrously skilled Rory Buchanan was, and how he was a miracle worker, snatching the ill and ailing back from the jaws of death, and returning them to health. He’d practically been painted a saint by those she’d spoken to, but Rory Buchanan was no damned saint. He was rude, mean, uncaring and thought so highly of himself he believed he had the right to order her around. To blackmail her into doing as he said.
“M’lady.”
Evina glanced up to blink in surprise at the maid waiting for her to sit up so she could set down food and drink. It was only then that Evina realized she’d rested her elbows on the table to prop up her chin with her hands. Sighing, she sat back and smiled wearily as the woman set a trencher of beef and roasted vegetables, as well as a cider, before her.
“Do no’ fret, m’lady,” the maid said encouragingly. “The laird’ll get well now the Buchanan is here. He’ll be up and about in no time. Ye’ll see.”
“Aye,” Evina said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure he will.”
Beaming, the maid nodded and hurried away, leaving her to her meal.
Evina watched her go, and then glanced around the tables, noting the way the people of Maclean were casting glances both her way and toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms where their laird lay in his sickbed. No one approached her though, and she was grateful for it. She wouldn’t be good company just now anyway, Evina thought, her nose twitching as the scent of the food that had been set before her reached it. The beef smelled good. Delicious. Especially after more than two days with naught but oatcakes and apples eaten on horseback.
Sitting up a little straighter, Evina retrieved her sgian-dubh , pulled the trencher closer and began to eat.
Chapter 3
Conran leaned forward to check his patient’s forehead again, and was rather proud to note that the fever, while still present, was much reduced. The Maclean was only a little warmer than he should be. The man’s color was also better, his cheeks pink, but not as flushed as they’d been when he’d first seen Fearghas. Both were good signs and Conran hoped they meant that he’d got all the infected flesh when he’d cleaned the wound he’d found while bathing the old man in the cold bath he’d sent for.
He’d had Donnan and Gavin remain to help him bathe the man. It was as they’d stripped away his nightshirt that Conran had spotted the large, angry wound on the old laird’s behind. It had been impossible to tell what had caused the infected, enflamed and oozing scabbed wound. Conran had asked about it, but neither soldier had seemed to know when or how their laird had suffered the injury.
Leaving the matter for the time being, Conran had concentrated on just submerging the Maclean in the cold water and keeping him there. Of course, the moment the water had closed around his overheated body, the man had begun to thrash and cry out as he tried to escape the cold.
Weak as Fearghas had appeared in his sickbed, it had taken the three of them to keep him in the water. But the effort had been worth it. The man had cooled relatively quickly, and then Conran had had the soldiers help get him out, dry him off and lay him on his stomach on the bed. Donnan and Gavin had then helped further by holding the old man still while Conran had cleaned the wound he’d noticed on his arse. Fortunately, he’d accompanied Rory on enough healing jaunts to know the unknown wound was probably the source of the man’s fever, and that the infection needed to be cleaned out to bring it down permanently.
In the end, Conran had to cut out a large section of the man’s arse to get it all. He’d then packed the wound as he’d seen Rory do with other patients, and bandaged it before covering the old man and letting him rest. That had been hours ago and Conran had been watching the man alone for most of that time. He’d released Donnan and Gavin to go have their sup and get some sleep after catching them yawning a time or two. He’d realized then that while he’d been unconscious and rested during the ride here from Buchanan, the two men had ridden straight through both ways and were no doubt as exhausted as their lady.
Now it was close to dawn. At least that was Conran’s guess by a glance at the gray sky outside the open window shutters, and he found himself now yawning as weariness crept up on him. He was also hungry, Conran acknowledged with a frown, and glanced toward the door, wondering if there would be anyone up or around who could at least lead him to food, if not bring him some.
He slid his gaze back to Fearghas Maclean and leaned forward to feel his forehead again. Finding it little different than the last time he’d checked, Conran shifted impatiently and then stood and moved to the door. The old maid had offered to fetch him food before retiring, but he hadn’t been hungry then. He was now.
Opening the bedchamber door, Conran started out into the hall and then paused as he noticed the woman on a pallet lying across the doorway. Lady Evina. She was sleeping as he’d insisted, but not in her room. Instead, she’d chosen a spot as close to her father as she could manage without entering his bedchamber.
Mouth softening, Conran peered at her silently for a moment, noting how small she really was. Considering the force she’d used in slamming her sword hilt into his head, he would have expected there to be more to her than the whip-thin figure he could see where this gown lovingly hugged her. But she was truly a petite little thing, he noted as he gave her the once-over.
Conran could see a resemblance to her father. Evina had her father’s eyes and hair color. He’d noted the red threads of hair sprinkled among the gray on the father’s head as he’d tended him. She also had his strong chin though, he saw now. But she must have got her slightly tipped nose from her mother. Fearghas had a much larger, hawkish nose. And her face was a soft oval with high cheekbones, while the Maclean’s was long and lean and presently scruffy with several days’ beard growth.