Once a Warrior (20 page)

Then he slowly limped into the courtyard, burning with humiliation, and unable to straighten his back.

Ariella shifted her basket to her other arm as she wearily climbed the hill. She had been with Glynis since late the night before, helping her endure the long hours of her birthing pains. Finally the baby had decided it had kept its mother waiting long enough, and out came the sweetest little boy Ariella had ever seen, with a scowling face and a brilliant thatch of red hair. Glynis seemed to recover from her ordeal almost instantly, and the two women laughed as they examined the baby’s tiny fingers and toes, and debated whether he resembled his father or his mother more. Ariella stayed with them until they fell asleep, then quietly left the cottage. She was anxious to find Kenneth and tell him his little family was waiting to see him.

MacFane’s training must have ended for the day, for there were no sounds of fighting as she approached the castle. She entered the courtyard to find the clan milling about, speaking to each other in hushed voices. Evidently they had been overly concerned about Glynis’s long labor. Kenneth hurried toward her, followed by Duncan, Andrew, Angus, and Dugald.

“It’s a boy, Kenneth!” she announced happily. “A fine, healthy boy. Glynis is tired, but well. You may go see her now.”

Relief lit his face. “Thank you, Ariella!” he called, racing out the gate.

She gazed round at the solemn faces of her clan. “I don’t know why you all look so gloomy,” she teased. “Tonight we must celebrate the arrival of a new MacKendrick!”

“Ariella,” began Duncan grimly, “MacFane is hurt.”

Her smile vanished. “What happened?”

“He fell off his horse, lass,” said Angus.

She looked at him in disbelief. “He fell off?”

“Actually, he was thrown off,” qualified Dugald.

“There was a spur under Cain’s saddle,” explained Andrew. “And when MacFane sat on him—”

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“He has retired to his chamber,” said Duncan. “Gavin took him three pitchers of wine, and then MacFane ordered him to get out. Alpin suggested he might have some medicine that would help, but Malcolm refused him permission to enter. When Alpin tried to go in, MacFane smashed one of the pitchers against the door. That was over two hours ago.” He hesitated. “He is unable to straighten his back, Ariella.”

Ariella turned and ran toward the castle.

“Touch that door again and I’ll kill you.”

Ariella cautiously opened the door to find Malcolm lying curled on the bed, two empty pitchers abandoned on the floor beside him. He grabbed one as she entered, preparing to hurl it at her. On seeing who she was, he dropped it.

“Go away,” he mumbled thickly.

“No.”

She closed the door behind her and deposited her basket on the table.

His lids were heavy, his blue eyes clouded with alcohol and pain. “Then bring me more wine,” he commanded. “Now.”

“I think you’re drunk enough, MacFane. I know you’re in pain, but getting sotted is hardly the answer.”

He laughed, a bitter, jeering sound. “What the Christ would any of you know about pain?”

“I haven’t experienced as much of it as you have,” she conceded, unpacking the jars from her basket, “but I know something about alleviating it.”

“Dear God,” he murmured helplessly, “she’s going to make me take another bath.”

“I doubt at this moment you could get yourself off that bed and into a tub,” she said, moving toward him. “Do you think you’ve broken anything?”

“I think I’ve broken
everything
.”

“Let me see.”

His expression grew menacing. “Don’t touch me.”

“You know, I remember saying the same thing to you when I had that arrow in my arm.”

“That was different,” Malcolm assured her.

“How?”

“I will kill you.”

“So you keep saying.”

She laid her hands with infinite gentleness on his injured right arm and began to feel her way slowly along the bone. Despite his threats, he did not attempt to hurt her. Once she reached his hand, she carefully moved each of his fingers, watching to see if he grimaced. Then she examined his left arm.

“Well, you have a few bones still intact,” she announced. “Let me ease you onto your back so I can try your legs.”

“My legs aren’t broken.”

“Are you sure?”

“I walked in here on my own, for Christ’s sake.”

“So the injury is mostly to your back?”

He attempted to nod but was stopped by the flash of pain down his spine.

Realizing he couldn’t move, Ariella went to the other side of the bed. She began to lift his shirt, and saw his body stiffen.

“I will be gentle, MacFane,” she promised. “Try to relax.”

“I can’t bloody well relax. I can’t straighten my goddamn back.” His voice was rough, but she could hear the despair in it.

“I know,” said Ariella softly. “But I cannot help you if you will not let me see exactly where your injury is.”

She eased down his plaid so the whole of his scarred back was exposed to her. Then she gently laid her fingers against the base of his spine. He flinched, indicating the pain there was great.

“It’s all right,” she told him, her voice low and soothing. “I won’t hurt you.”

He exhaled the breath he was holding.

Ariella gingerly proceeded with her examination, moving her fingers up the massive wall of his back, rib by rib. The muscles were locked in spasm, making his body feel as if it were carved of stone. Each time she touched a hard knot of pain, he flinched or inhaled sharply, indicating where the worst areas were. She was gentle but thorough, feeling her way up each segment of his spine, along his shoulders, then down both sides of his rib cage.

“I think you’ve cracked at least two ribs,” she told him as she finished. “The muscles in your back are badly bruised, and as a result they have contracted, which is why it hurts so much when you try to straighten yourself. The bones in your spine feel as if they are not aligned properly, which means they are pinching you, and that is also causing a great deal of pain.”

“Wonderful,” he remarked tautly. “Now that you’ve finished torturing me, bring me more wine.”

“You must learn other ways of dealing with your pain,” she told him, easing down his shirt. “A warrior cannot get blinding drunk every time he doesn’t feel well.”

“I’m no longer a warrior,” Malcolm reminded her bitterly. “So I can do whatever the hell I like.”

“Not while you are here, you can’t,” she countered. “My clan believes you are the great Black Wolf, laird of the Clan MacFane. It is most unseemly for you to drink and throw things at those who are trying to help you.” She went to the door. “Try to rest. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Are you all right?” demanded Duncan as she went into the corridor.

“Of course I’m all right.”

“How is he?” asked Andrew.

“He is in a great deal of pain,” she said quietly. “His back was bad before, but this fall has made it much worse.”

“Will he get better?” demanded Gavin.

His expression was harsh, betraying the depth of his concern. In that moment Ariella realized just how devoted Gavin was to Malcolm. MacFane had once been his laird, and loyalty had been expected of him. But when Malcolm had been stripped of his position and banished from his clan, Gavin had gone with him, to live an isolated existence in a miserable hut. Whatever offense Malcolm had committed, it had not been enough to sever the bonds of their friendship.

“He will get better, Gavin,” she assured him. “But I need your help. Please go in there and build a fire so the chamber is warm. I don’t think he will throw anything at you. Duncan, please fetch two swine’s bladders filled with a mixture of warm water and oil. Also, bring a pitcher of fresh, cool water for drinking. He has consumed more than enough wine for one day. Andrew, tell Alpin I require a jar of the ointment he makes for relaxing muscles and easing pain. Bring it to me in a pot, so I can heat it over the fire. I will also need some long strips of linen to bind around him when I have finished.”

“Are you going to bleed him?” asked Gavin. “The MacFane healer always bled him when the pain got bad.”

“Did it help?” asked Ariella curiously.

He shrugged his shoulders. “After a few days the pain would generally ease. I don’t know if it was because of the bleeding or not.”

“My mother didn’t believe in bloodletting, so I am not trained in it. If you aren’t certain that it helped, I won’t try it. Come,” she said, opening the door, “let us get the room warm.”

Within a short while a blazing fire burned in the hearth, and Duncan and Andrew had returned with everything she had asked for.

“Drink this,” Ariella ordered, handing MacFane a goblet. “All of it.”

With great effort Malcolm raised himself onto his arm and accepted the cup. “What is it?”

“Water mixed with a powder that will help ease the pain. Because you have consumed so much wine, it may also make you sleepy.”

Malcolm awkwardly tilted his head and swallowed it. “How long before it works?” he demanded as she took the goblet from him.

“Not long,” she promised. “I need to take off your shirt. Do you think you can sit up a little?”

Humiliated by his helplessness, he forced himself to a hunched sitting position. Ariella quickly stripped off his shirt, then helped ease him against the mattress.

“I am going to begin by rubbing this ointment into your back,” she told him, fetching the pot from the fire. “You may stay on your side for now, but eventually you will be relaxed enough to lie on your stomach.”

“I doubt that.”

She could not blame him for his skepticism. She rolled up the sleeves of her gown and spread some of the heated ointment over her palms. Then she gently laid her hands against his back and began to massage him. Her touch was light at first, giving his body time to accept her ministrations. Gradually his flinching and sharp intakes of breath lessened, telling her she could increase the pressure. She moved across his back slowly, gently, swirling her fingers and palms over the taut muscles with languid persistence, feeling the warmth of the ointment as it penetrated his skin and brought relief to his aching flesh. She worked in silence, listening to the sound of his breathing, using it as a guide to tell her where the pain was great and where she was having an effect. She kept his body slick, making it easier for her to slip across the bronzed shimmer of his skin, feeling his powerful form rise and fall beneath her soothing touch. After a long while he finally sighed and shifted his position, straightening his spine.

“Turn onto your stomach, MacFane,” she instructed quietly.

He did not argue but simply did as she told him. Ariella suspected the powder she had given him had taken effect.

Now that he was on his stomach, it was far easier for her to massage him. She focused on the valley of his back for a while, and when she was finished, she placed one of the warm swine bladders on it, so the muscles could absorb the heat. Then she moved up, gently kneading the solid layers of spasm on each side of his spine. Little by little the hardness beneath her fingers began to yield. Her touch grew firmer, delved deeper, encouraging the muscles to release their grip. When her hands began to ache, she retrieved the other swine bladder, which she had kept warm before the fire, and gently placed it on his upper back.

MacFane’s eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply, his head resting against his arm. Wanting him to be as comfortable as possible, Ariella removed his boots, examining his injured leg as she did so. He had told her it had shattered when his horse collapsed on it. She ran her hands up the muscled calf, bent it slightly at the knee, then continued her journey along his thigh. The bone seemed straight enough, and from what she could tell, he had not lost any length. But she knew a bad break could plague a person with pain for the rest of his life. The leg was stiff, so she rubbed some ointment into her palms and began to massage it. After watching him limp this past month, she wondered if there was anything that could be done to ease the ache and strengthen the muscles. Perhaps with exercise—

“I didn’t fall.”

She looked up at him, surprised that he was still awake. “Pardon?”

“I didn’t fall,” he repeated thickly. “Someone put a spur under my saddle.”

“I know.” She continued to massage his leg.

He nodded with satisfaction and closed his eyes again. “I’m not in the habit of falling off my goddamn horse.” The words were slurred, but she could hear the anger in them.

She thought of him thundering into her camp wielding his sword in both hands. No, MacFane was not in the habit of falling off his horse. Someone was trying to drive him away. The arrow hadn’t worked, so a spur had been placed under his saddle, apparently in the hopes that the fall would not only injure him physically, but humiliate him in front of the entire clan.

“I think it was Niall,” he mumbled.

She paused. “Why do you say that?”

“He has never tried to hide his contempt for me.” He lifted his lids and regarded her a moment, his blue eyes suddenly intense. “And I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” His expression was dark, as if the matter angered him. Then he sighed and closed his eyes once more.

Ariella considered this. Niall had shared her loathing of MacFane when he had failed to answer her father’s missive. She had even encouraged his fury when her clan had been attacked and MacFane had failed to come. She could understand his expressing his contempt, but could Niall actually be trying to drive MacFane away? To do so would not be in the best interests of the clan. Was it possible his rage was that great?

Deeply disturbed by the possibility, she removed the cooling swine bladders from MacFane’s back. He shifted onto his side, his head still resting on the hard pillow of his arm, his dark-brown hair spilling loosely over his massive shoulder. Deciding she would bind his ribs with the linen strips tomorrow, she drew a blanket over him, then stayed there a moment, studying him.

He exuded an extraordinary aura of power and vulnerability as he lay there, injured and drugged, yet somehow still formidable. How cruelly ironic, that after fighting so many battles as the great Black Wolf, his greatest enemy now was his own body. Perhaps she had asked too much of him by bringing him here to train her people. From early morning to late evening he labored—training, planning, overseeing the fortifications to the castle. His demanding days would exhaust a man at the peak of his physical abilities, never mind one for whom it was an effort to cross a room or mount the stairs. And now someone was determined to make him leave, even if it meant injuring him in the process. It was wrong to expect he should remain under such circumstances, even if he had promised to remain until they found a new laird. She must send him away as soon as he was fit to ride, before he was injured even worse that he had been today. In his current state he could do nothing more to help them. It was now up to her to find a warrior who had an army and who could wield the sword.