Caelen scowled but eased his grip and shoved her a foot away so that she bumped into the chest of one of the other men. She turned, intending to scramble away, but he took over where Caelen had left off and grasped her arm, albeit much more gently.
The leader knelt by the sleeping warrior and concern darkened his features. He ran his palm over the warrior’s fevered brow and then over his chest and shoulders as if seeking the source of his illness.
“Alaric,” he called out, his voice enough to wake the dead.
Alaric? ’Twas a fine name for a warrior. But Alaric didn’t so much as flinch. The man kneeling over him turned his worried gaze toward Keeley and then his green eyes, so much like Alaric’s, turned cold and stormy.
“What has happened here? Why won’t he awaken?”
She turned and glanced pointedly at the warrior holding her arm and then down to where his hand clamped around her flesh until he got the message and released her. Then she hurried over to where Alaric lay, determined that whoever this man was, he wouldn’t bully Alaric while he lay so riddled with fever.
“ ’Tis a fever he’s taken,” she said huskily, trying to ward off the fear that surrounded her just as these men surrounded her.
“That much I can surmise on my own,” the warrior growled. “What happened?”
Keeley reached to push aside the remnants of Alaric’s tunic where she’d stitched his side. There were several quick intakes of breath and Caelen, who’d squeezed her arm so hard it had nearly broken, advanced to stand over Alaric as he looked down at the stitched wound.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said honestly. “His horse bore him here, and he fell onto the ground outside my door. It took all my wits to get him inside so that I could tend his wounds. ’Twas a nasty cut to his side. I stitched it the best I could and have tended him well and kept him warm ever since.”
“She did a fine job of stitching him,” Caelen said grudgingly.
Keeley bristled but held her tongue. What she’d like to do is give him a swift kick in his arse. Her arm still hurt where he’d gripped her.
“Aye, she did,” the leader said softly. “I only wish I knew what transpired for him to arrive so grievously injured.” He turned his seeking gaze on Keeley, probing, as if he considered whether she was being truthful with him.
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” she grumbled. “ ’Tis shameful. He must have been ambushed or fought unfairly. He seems fit enough to handle himself in a fight.”
The leader’s eyes glimmered for a moment and she swore he almost smiled.
“I am Laird McCabe and Alaric is my brother.”
Keeley cast her eyes downward and bobbed an awkward curtsy. He wasn’t her laird, but still, a man of his position commanded respect, and it wasn’t as if her laird was a man deserving of any.
“To whom do I speak?” he asked impatiently.
“Keeley,” she stammered out. “Keeley … Just Keeley.” It wasn’t as if the McDonalds claimed her as kin any longer.
“Well, just Keeley. It would appear I owe my brother’s life to you.”
Her cheeks pinched tight as heat gathered and pooled there. She shifted uncomfortably, unused to such praise.
Laird McCabe began issuing orders to his men about how to transport Alaric back to their lands. Aye, she knew they’d want him home, but she felt pressing sadness that her warrior would no longer occupy her hearth.
“His stupid horse left,” she blurted, not wanting the blame for not taking better care of his steed. “I did what I could.”
Again, something that looked remarkably close to a smile flickered over Laird McCabe’s features.
“That stupid horse alerted us that Alaric was in trouble,” he said dryly.
She listened idly as they made plans for immediate departure and almost missed the mention of her. Nay, there it was again. A distinct reference to her.
She whirled around, gaping at Caelen, who obviously had to be another McCabe brother. He looked nearly identical to Alaric, though to be honest, Alaric was more pleasing to look at. Caelen frowned so ferociously, that she couldn’t imagine a woman wanting to go anywhere near the man.
“I’m not going with you,” she protested, sure she’d heard incorrectly.
Caelen didn’t respond to her statement, nor did he look impressed with her ire. He simply plucked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and began walking from the house.
In her outrage, she was momentarily stunned. Speechless and motionless. By the time he got to his horse, she understood his purpose and she began to kick and fight.
Instead of forcing her onto his horse, he promptly dropped her onto the ground and then loomed over her with a look of sheer annoyance.
She reached underneath her skirts to rub her bruised behind and glared up at the warrior. “That hurt!”
Caelen rolled his eyes. “You have two choices. You can get yourself up off the ground and give in gracefully. Or I can tie you up, preferably with a gag, and throw you over my saddle.”
“I can’t just leave! Why on earth would you want me to? I’ve done nothing against your brother. I saved his life. Where is your gratitude? I have people who rely on my healing skills here.”
“We have more pressing need of a healer at McCabe keep,” Caelen calmly explained. “You did a fine job at stitching my brother and keeping him alive. You’ll continue to do so on McCabe land.”
She leveled a mutinous stare at him, though she had to crane her neck to do so. “I’ll not ride with you.” She crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest for emphasis.
“Fine.”
He plucked her up off the ground and strode over to where one of his men had already mounted. She had no warning before she was literally tossed up for the other warrior to catch.
Caelen stared up at her. “Happy? You can ride with Gannon.”
Gannon didn’t look pleased with the task.
She scowled her own displeasure and then decided she’d inform Caelen just what she thought of him.
“I don’t like you. You’re a complete boor.”
He shrugged, clearly telling her he had no care whether she liked him or not, but she could swear she heard him utter “good” under his breath as he turned and stalked away to see to the litter that was being fashioned for Alaric.
“You be careful not to rip his stitches,” she called.
She strained forward and Gannon gingerly wrapped his hands around her waist to prevent her from tumbling from his lap.
“ ’Tis a better idea if you sit still,” he suggested. “ ’Tis a long way to the ground for a lass as small as you.”
“I’ve no wish to leave!” she protested.
Gannon shrugged. “The laird has decided to keep you. ’Tis better if you accept with good grace. The McCabes are a fine clan. And we have need of a healer since ours passed on just weeks ago.”
Her gaze narrowed and it was on the tip of her tongue to tell the daft man that they couldn’t just go around stealing people, but his words took hold and she quieted.
He seemed to relax, and she felt a sigh of relief release from his chest.
A clan. A position in a clan. Was it really that simple? She frowned. Would she have status in the McCabe clan, or would she be a prisoner with no more privilege than a captive? Would she be treated well until Alaric’s recovery and then turned out?
And what if he didn’t recover? Would she shoulder the blame?
A shiver took hold at the thought, and she instinctively burrowed closer to the warrior’s warmth. The wind had a bite, and she was ill-prepared for the elements.
Nay. She wouldn’t allow Alaric to die. She’d determined it from the moment she’d laid eyes on the handsome warrior.
Behind her Gannon cursed.
“Get the lass something to shield her from the cold,” he called out. “She’ll freeze before we hit McCabe land.”