Highland Thirst (34 page)

“Are
ye sorry yet?” he panted with a vile grin.

Lucy
stared back with incomprehension, and then glanced down as he had done. Her
eyes widened and her breath grew shallow as she saw his knife impaled in her
upper stomach. He’d stabbed her as he tackled her, that and not his weight had
been the source of pain.

“Nay?”
he asked, catching a handful of her hair to force her head viciously back until
she returned her stunned eyes to him. Once she met his gaze, he promised, “Ye
will be.”

He
then reached to begin dragging up the long skirts of the gown she wore. Lucy
immediately began to struggle, but her efforts were feeble at best. Her
strength was failing her as quickly as she was losing blood, and she knew it
was pouring from her quickly. She could feel it dampening the front of her gown
and smell it in the air. It smelled like death. Hers. And she slowly realized
that this was it. This was how it would all end, raped and murdered in a
Scottish bothy.

The
soldier had managed to drag the dress up to her waist and now turned his
attention to freeing himself. That’s when she became aware of the low growl
coming from the shadows along the side wall. For a moment, she thought a wolf
had somehow got into the bothy, and then Tearlach rose behind the man, a great
dark shadow in the waning light that swooped on her attacker.

Lucy
grunted as the weight of both men was briefly on her. She saw the fury on
Tearlach’s damaged face, saw his mouth open to reveal his fangs, then squeezed
her eyes shut and turned her head quickly to the side, shutting out the sounds
of the attack. When the weight of both men was removed a moment later, she
still didn’t open her eyes. It simply seemed too much effort. Instead, she
curled onto her side with a little moan and allowed unconsciousness to claim
her.

Tearlach
straightened from the man he’d been feeding on and leaned briefly against the
wall of the hut as his body repaired itself. The soldier wasn’t dead, but he
would be soon if no one tended to him. Tearlach planned to make sure no one
tended to him. He’d drop him into the pit under the bothy to breathe his last
breaths. It was little more than the man deserved for daring to touch his Lucy.

That
thought made him open his eyes and search out her prone figure, but he didn’t
immediately rush to her side. Tearlach found he was suddenly afraid to approach
her. Afraid she lay so still with her back to him because she now found him
disgusting. Monstrous.

It
was the scent of blood and his need for it that had roused Tearlach several
moments ago. Rage had quickly followed when he’d seen the struggling figures on
the other side of the bothy and realized someone was trying to rape Lucy not
more than a couple feet away.

Rage
and hunger fueling him, he’d shot to his knees and lunged on the man, growling
with his fury as he’d ripped into the man’s throat. It hadn’t been his usual
feeding; a kind bite, using his own thoughts to cover the benefactor’s pain. It
had been the attack of an enraged animal and he was sure he’d even snarled as
he’d dragged the man off of Lucy to feed on the blood gushing from the throat
wound. She was probably horrified, repulsed by the very sight of him.

In
one way, it may be for the best, Tearlach supposed. If she was now disgusted by
him, there should be no difficulty keep his distance with her from now on. But
that didn’t lessen the pain he felt at the thought of her now viewing him with
loathing and possibly thinking him an animal.

Sighing,
Tearlach stood and moved the few feet to her side, then squatted next to her
and gently touched her upper arm.

“Lucy?
Are you all right?” he asked, and frowned when her only response was a low
moan. For a moment he feared he’d been too late and had caught the man at the
end of raping her. The scent of blood had to have come from somewhere, mayhap
it had come from the raping. Horrified at the thought, Tearlach drew her onto
her back to get a look at her expression, sure it would tell him whether he’d
been too late or not.

The
moment he rolled her onto her back, however, he knew where the scent of blood
had come from. Lucy was covered with the warm liquid still oozing from a wound
in her upper stomach.

Cursing,
Tearlach ripped open the tear in the dress where she’d been stabbed attempting
to get a better look at the wound. Part of his mind was puzzling over why she
was in a dress rather than the Carbonnel clothes, but staunching the flow of
her blood was a more urgent matter and he left it for now and glanced around
until he spotted the clothes she’d previously been wearing. Snatching up the
tunic, he tore it in strips and began to bind her wound. It was bad and she’d
lost a lot of blood. She needed a healer, a skill Tearlach knew nothing about.
His people had little use for healers.

“Betty,”
he muttered, suddenly recalling Lucy telling him that the woman was a skilled
healer as well as her maid. He had to get her to Betty. She was the only healer
he even knew of.

“Tearlach?”

He
paused in his binding to glance to her face when she whispered his name. Much
to his relief there was no disgust or loathing there for him, just a mild
confusion as she peered from the wound he was binding then to his face.

“Rest,”
he whispered, continuing his work. “Ye need tae save yer strength, lass. Yer
sore wounded.”

“Have
to tell you,” she breathed and a band tightened around his heart at how weak
her voice was. She was fading on him. He was going to lose her.

“Nay,
save yer strength,” he insisted. Nothing was as important as her surviving this
in his opinion, but she was just as stubborn now as when she was well and
persisted, gasping, “Heming escaped.”

That
brought his head up sharply.

“Escaped?”
Tearlach echoed, shocked to realize that after all they’d been through to get
here to save his cousin, he’d forgotten all about the man in the face of Lucy’s
injury.

“They
are searching...for him. He escaped...like us,” she got out faintly, but it
seemed to take the last of her strength and her eyes closed with a little sigh.

For
a moment, Tearlach feared she’d up and died on him, but when he pressed an ear
to her chest he could hear her heart still beating. It didn’t sound a very
strong beat, but it was a beat. She wasn’t dead, and wouldn’t die on him if he
had any say in the matter, he thought grimly, finishing binding her as tightly
as he could to keep any more blood from leaving her.

Lifting
her in his arms, he straightened then and turned to look for Trinket. The horse
wasn’t in the bothy and he felt a moment’s panic, fearing the mare was gone,
but then he spotted her through the open door of the hut. The animal stood
serenely in the waning daylight, munching grass in front of the bothy.

Grateful
he’d been too weary to unsaddle her that morning and he would not now need
saddle her, Tearlach took a deep breath and then stepped over the dead man in
the doorway and out into the dying day. Holding Lucy close to his chest, he
bowed his head to protect his face as much as possible and hurried to the mare,
hoping that if he got mounted and to the shade of the woods the sun wouldn’t
get the chance to weaken him terribly.

“We
need speed this night, Trinket,” he muttered as he struggled to get in the
saddle with Lucy still in his arms. “Yer mistress needs help. We moost travel
swiftly.”

He
didn’t know if the horse understood him, but she did set off for the woods at a
gallop the moment he took up the reins.

Eight

Lucy
was dreaming of Tearlach. She knew it was a dream because he wasn’t being cold
and silent with her. Instead, his expression was concerned, his voice deep with
worry. He also wasn’t keeping her at a distance or being stiff and unbending.
In her dream he was cradling her in his arms, whispering soft words in
Scottish. She didn’t understand a word he was saying, but his tone and eyes
were so soft and full of caring, she decided they must be words of love before
the dream faded into blackness again.

When
next she opened her eyes it was to find a woman bending over her. Lucy blinked
and then smiled uncertainly as she recognized her maid.

“Yer
awake.” Betty’s smile was full of relief as she withdrew the damp cloth she’d
been running over her face.

“Aye,”
Lucy said, or tried to. She frowned when her voice came out as little more than
a dry croak. She felt horrible, dried out and weak, her throat sore, eyes
gritty, and body aching. All symptoms of the aftermath of fever, she realized
with confusion. “What happened? Where am I?”

“You
are at Harold’s inn, my lady,” Betty said, her voice soothing. But her
expression became worried in the face of Lucy’s blank expression and she
prompted, “My husband, William? His brother, Harold? This is Harold’s inn on
the border of Blytheswood and Oswald.”

“Oh,
aye,” Lucy breathed, but had no idea how she’d got there. “What am I doing
here?”

Betty’s
eyebrows drew together. “Tearlach brought you. Do you not remember?”

Lucy
frowned as she searched the foggy memories jumbling in her head. She remembered...For
a moment her thoughts were blank and then she was suddenly bombarded with
memory after memory, most of them featuring Tearlach MacAdie.

“I
was stabbed,” she whispered finally.

Betty’s
concern cleared from her face, chased off by relief. Straightening where she
sat on the edge of the bed, she set aside the damp cloth she’d been using to
wipe her down, and then turned back and admitted, “I was worried the fever had
affected your mind. It got so very high a time or two I feared we would lose
you. When it passed, I still worried that you might not come back to us as you
were.”

Lucy
gave a weak nod of understanding. Fevers could be dangerous. Even did they not
claim a body, they might take the mind and one never knew if that would be the case
until the person recovered. She was pretty sure all her faculties were still
intact, however. Her gaze slid to the flickering candle beside the bed and then
to the window and the darkness beyond.

“Where
is Tearlach?” she asked, grimacing over the pain it caused in her throat.

“He
is downstairs helping Harold’s wife in the kitchen while William helps Harold
with serving the guests.”

When
Lucy’s eyebrows rose at this news, Betty explained, “He does not show his face
to the guests lest someone recognize him, but insisted he wanted to help out
while here so settled on working in the kitchens.” She paused and gave a soft
laugh before adding, “Harold’s wife, Louise, was fair surprised to have a man
underfoot in the kitchens, but he’s been very helpful.”

Lucy
smiled faintly, somehow not surprised that Tearlach would be willing to do what
she was sure many lords would refuse to do. From all their talks and the time
she’d been with him, she was quite sure that Tearlach would consider no chore
beneath him and would simply set out to do what he could where he could.

“He
is a good man,” Betty said solemnly and then added, “he has been terribly
worried about you. The man was a sight when he arrived with you in his arms. He
was pale and trembling from his time in the sun, but would not let you go. We
had to tend you in the cellar out of the sun because he insisted on holding you
the whole first day while I tended your wound.”

“He
arrived in daylight?” Lucy asked, eyes wide with alarm, but then confusion set
in. She had seen the effects of sun on Tearlach and pale and trembling wasn’t
it. The man burned under the sun’s harsh rays.

“Aye.
He had several blankets wrapped around and over both of you. We had no idea who
the two of you were when he first rode into the courtyard and straight into the
stables. William followed him in and came running out shouting for me.”

“Blankets?”
Lucy echoed faintly, suddenly having some recollection of being tight bundled and
finding it hard to breathe in a warm cocoon.

“Aye,
Lord Tearlach said he’d come upon a sleeping search party near dawn and stole
the blankets so he could continue on to the inn with you.”

He’d
probably fed at the same time, Lucy supposed and then glanced worriedly at
Betty, wondering if they’d realized what he was.

“He’s
a vampire,” Betty said, answering the question she hadn’t asked. She then
frowned and gave her head a little shake. “I’ve heard stories of them, but didn’t
think they really existed.”

“Vampire
or not, he is a good man,” Lucy said firmly. “Wymon is the monster.”

“Aye,”
Betty agreed at once and then added, “and he loves you. That is clear from the
way he’s fretted over you.”

Lucy’s
eyes filled with tears at these words, hardly able to hope they were true after
how cold and distant he had been with her during the last night of travel that
she actually recalled clearly.

Betty
patted her hand gently and stood. “I shall tell him you’re awake and fetch you
something to drink to ease your parched throat. You just rest.”

Lucy
nodded and relaxed back in the bed, her eyes closing as Betty slid out of the
room. She must have fallen asleep then, for when she next opened her eyes, the
candle on the bedside table had burnt down to a stub and Tearlach was seated in
a chair next to the bed, his head turned toward the window and the night
beyond. Lucy’s gaze slid back to the table and the goblet she’d noted sitting
beside the candle. She unconsciously licked her dry and cracked lips as she
wondered if there was liquid in it.