Page 45 of Laird of Wrath

Pulling up his sleeve, he revealed a bruise that was already forming on his right forearm—a nasty purple that would take a long time to fade. But at least the bone wasn’t broken and his head hadn’t suffered in the fall. With time, he would heal.

“Can ye walk?” Rhea asked.

Callum nodded as he hobbled over to the saddle.

Rhea followed him, her hands held out to steady him, though he didn’t seem to need it. When he crouched down next to the saddle, she did the same, her gaze tracking his fingers as they brushed over the leather straps.

“Here,” he said, picking up a piece of torn leather. “This is the culprit.”

“What is that?” Rhea asked with a frown as she leaned a little closer, trying to get a better look.

“Torn strap,” Callum said. Then he fell silent for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of the torn piece. “Nay, it wasnae torn. It was cut.”

It was indeed too clean a tear to be accidental, as if someone had deliberately cut the strap to cause this accident.

Laird Barclay… he must be the one behind this.

If the dark frown on Callum’s face was any indication, he had reached the same conclusion and was already thinking about that damned war of his.

In order to distract him, Rhea moved a little closer, laying a hand on his left arm. “Are ye certain ye’re nae hurt?” she asked, anything to take his mind off war. “Let me see.”

As she spoke, she lifted her hands to his shoulders, gently pressing and prodding them. When he didn’t make a sound or a grimace, she continued to search him for injuries, her hands moving gently down his chest, over his back, down his arms. He only winced when she reached his ribs and his right forearm, and she knew he was injured there more than he wanted to admit.

Her hands lingered on him, and that alone was enough to bring a faint flush to her cheeks. She could feel every muscle under his jacket and shirt, his shoulders and chest bulging with every movement, his body rigid and hard under her fingers. He was like a statue carved from marble, just as solid, just as impenetrable.

She flattened her hands against his chest and pressed slightly, waiting for something even she couldn’t name. Then she pulled back, lest she be tempted to do something foolish. As she turned away and walked back to her horse, she heard Callum clear his throat and follow her after picking up his saddle.

“Should we head back?” she asked, concerned for his well-being.

“Nay,” he said, much to her surprise. “I’m fine. We should keep goin’.”

“But Callum… ye’re hurt,” she pointed out, turning around to face him.

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

Rhea wondered if there was any point in arguing with him, but in the end, she decided it was better to let him do as he pleased. He was injured, but it was also clearly not bad enough to stop him. He could walk on his own, he hadn’t hit his head, and though he seemed to have a little trouble walking, he didn’t wince with every step.

“Well, how will ye ride without a saddle?” she asked.

“I can ride without a saddle,” he scoffed. “What do ye take me for?”

“A man who is used to saddles,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “It cannae be easy for ye. When was the last time ye did it?”

He thought for a little too long before responding. “A while. But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It’ll be harder now that ye’re hurt,” she argued. “Come, ye can share mine.”

He let out a soft snort of amusement and disbelief. “Yers.”

“Aye,” she said. “Why is it so strange?”

“Ye willnae be comfortable. I’m a large man.”

“Ye willnae be comfortable without the saddle,” she pointed out. “And it’s more than likely that Slàinte willnae be comfortable with ye on his back.”

That gave Callum pause, then he sighed.

“Fine,” he relented. “But I’ll steer.”