the moment he lay down, but he continued to watch her as she prepared her plaster, putting the minced sicklewort leaves into a wooden bowl that she found hanging on one wall and mashing them to pulp with the dirk’s hilt. She had left the cleaner bit of cambric from her shift to drip dry over the lower half of the door, so she fetched it and wrung some of the remaining water into the cup, then continued to mash until the concoction resembled watery gruel.
“I’ll be as gentle as I know how to be, but I fear it will feel cold at first,” she said as she knelt to spread the damp cloth over his back. “Indeed, I do not know that it will do you the least bit of good, but I do not think it will do you any harm.”
“Stop fretting, lass,” he murmured drowsily. “Just be sure you wake me at once if you hear so much as a twig crack outside.”
“I will,” she promised. “It will get cold, though. Do you think it will be safe to build a fire in here later?”
“Nay,” he said. “Even if they cannot see the smoke, they may smell it. ’Tis better if the glen looks deserted.”
He fell silent then and did not stir as she carefully spread the cloth over his wounds, but when she moved to cover him with the second half of the blanket, he reached out and caught her hand.
“You need to rest, too,” he said. “If you leave the blanket spread, I can move over onto the floor and let you have the pallet. I’ve slept on the ground often, and I vow, nothing can keep me awake tonight, as tired as I am.”
“You’ll need warmth, sir,” she said, pulling her hand with reluctance from his. “Without good wool atop that cloth, you’ll feel only the chill, and the herbs will do you no good. With the blanket on you, your body heat will stir their vapors.”
Silence greeted her, and she said no more. When his breathing deepened to that of sleep, she covered him with the blanket and sat back on her heels. Wanting food more than sleep, she cut herself some cheese, glanced outside to find the glen gloomy with dusk and silent. Only the murmur of the burn and a distant night bird’s cry broke the stillness.
Knowing that at that time of year, the sky was unlikely to grow darker before midnight, and fearing that a watcher on the ridge might detect movement if she went for a walk, she sat down near the hut’s wall, ate her small meal, and leaned back to rest. She knew no more until she awoke with a start, shivering.
The temperature had dropped considerably, it was much darker than before, and a creeping dampness had settled around her.
Getting up carefully so as not to waken Michael, she tiptoed stiffly to the doorway and looked out into darkness nearly as dense as they had experienced in the cave. A deep breath and years of experience told her that a thick Highland mist had crept into the glen as they slept. Even if Ian MacCaig had reached Chalamine, he would bring no help tonight. By the same token, however, strangers to the area would not try to find them in such a mist. She could let herself relax and be fairly certain that, for a few hours at least, they were safe.
Making her way to the pallet, she felt for the blanket and made certain it covered him. Then, wrapping herself in her cloak, she lay down on the hard floor beside the pallet and fell asleep almost before she shut her eyes.
Reluctantly half-awake and vaguely aware of gentle warmth at his side, Michael gratefully moved closer to the source. When his movement stirred responsive movement beside him, his eyes snapped open.
The first thing he noticed was that the interior of the hut was lighter than it had been before he fell asleep. Mist seeped over the bottom half of the door, because apparently the lass had not thought to shut the top, and thus it was as chilly and damp inside as outside.
The warmth felt strongest along his right arm. Logic told him he had only to move his head to see the source, but something was in the way, something that tickled his chin.
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