Page 4 of The Guardian

“Good dog,” Ailith called out, hopeful that it was a large hare, which she would prepare for supper.

Upon throwing the door open, Teller was not in the opening. She quickly looked to the right, nothing. To the left… all the air left her lungs.

There was a man slumped over, and Teller was licking his face.

It had to be the man. The dead man. The one those men most assuredly had killed. Her mind swam as she scanned the area trying to figure out what she should do next. Noting a horse grazing not far off, she immediately recognized the beautiful golden-brown steed. It belonged to Hendry.

Her heart caught in her throat, and for a long moment she was frozen to the spot. Then slowly, she stepped out of her cottage and lowered to look at him.

He was very still, eyes closed, head lolled to the side. Hendry’s face was covered in sweat and dirt, but still she couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was. Examining him for injuries, she noted that blood seeped from his side forming a dark pool on the ground.

With shaky fingers, she reached to touch his exposed neck and was relieved when a steady pulse vibrated where she touched.

“Hendry,” she gently patted his cheek. “Can ye hear me?”

His eyelids fluttered, but there was no other response.

“Hendry, ye must wake. I cannae possibly bring ye inside on my own.”

Again, there was no response. Ailith looked to Teller. “I suppose we will have to find a way. And ye will help me.”

After rushing inside and grabbing one of her threadbare blankets, she came back out and spread it on the ground next to Hendry. Then as carefully as she could, she pushed and pulled him until he lay, for the most part, atop it.

“Come, Teller,” she called to the dog. “Pull.”

Thankfully, she’d taught him the command since a pup, pulling with rags, teaching him to tug. It had come in handy many times when she’d required help dragging bundles of wood and such back to their home.

The dog obediently bit into the end of the blanket she’d held out to him and together, little by little, they were able to drag the unconscious man into the cottage.

By the time Hendry lay just past the entry where she could close the door, both she and the dog were panting from the arduous task of dragging the heavily muscular warrior inside.

She made several trips to the well, filling two buckets with water then her pot and setting it over a newly started fire to boil. Ailith pushed hair back from her face as she began the work of cutting away his tunic.

To her surprise, the injury wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. It was a clean cut and should have missed anything vital. She’d practiced healing long enough to know what was and wasn’t life-threatening, and this stab wasn’t. However having lost so much blood was concerning.

After cleaning the wound, she packed it with a poultice and clean bandages, then wrapped his midsection.

If she didn’t find the reason for his loss of consciousness, he could perish. Her heart thundered with dread.

Despite it being an examination to possibly save his life, Ailith couldn’t help feeling awkward when running her hands down his chest, then his sides. Finally, she turned him onto his side and did the same to his back until she came to the belted britches he wore. She found a shallow cut on his right side, but it wasn’t bleeding.

“It cannae be helped,” she said out loud as she pushed down the clothing from his hips.

There were no visible injuries that she could see. Ailith took a deep breath as she lowered him carefully onto his back.

Her eyes went directly where they shouldn’t… Gulping at the intrusion, she quickly looked away.

There had been a time when she’d had his body pressed against her. When they’d spent stolen moments together, exploring one another, touching each other’s bodies until there was a familiarity between them. Hendry had been her first love. The man she’d been sure she’d spend the rest of her life with.

It was not meant to be, and yes, as she studied his handsome face and powerful body, she couldn’t help the thoughts, as she often had, of what could’ve been.

The fire in the hearth crackled bringing her out of her musings.

Ailith quickly finished removing his blood-soaked britches and boots, leaving him bare as the day he was born, and began inspecting each muscular leg. Once again, she’d not found any injury.

Working with care, her cloth glided swiftly from his neck to his ankles, wiping away sweat and dirt with gentle strokes. Every pass of the damp linen gave her another chance to search for other wounds, yet again she found nothing. No gashes. No bruises. Just the lean, powerful form of a man who had been perfectly created.

Then her gaze snapped to his head.