Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Eleven

Isobel did her best to support Ian as alertness left his eyes and he slumped back against the tree. But he was too large, too heavy for her to manage alone.

She looked up to call for help, but the request fled her tongue as Kieran crouched beside her, taking Ian by the shoulders and gently lowering him against the ground. Ian’s passive face was peaceful in his sleep, and Isobel hoped that implied that he wasn’t in pain. It was a blessing, perhaps, that the man had fainted. She was certain her ministrations would revive him though if they failed to do so, the sleep would likely do him good.

“We must stop the bleeding.” She’d located the exit wound from the bullet, gratified to discover that it seemed to have cut straight through the flesh and had avoided the bone.

Isobel lifted her skirt and took hold of her petticoat, trying to tear it from the bottom so she could obtain a strip to tie around Ian’s arm, but the fabric wasn’t budging. She gritted her teeth, found a new place in the petticoat and tried to tear it again, but had no luck.

“Help me,” she said, looking up and catching Kieran’s eye.

He looked down at the fabric bunched in her hands, his eyes widening in bewilderment. “I canna tear yer skirt.”

“Ye must.” Did he think it inappropriate? It was a necessity. She lifted it slightly toward him, careful to avoid revealing too much of her legs. Kieran looked behind her, as though searching for someone else to complete the task. She glanced over her shoulder to find Rupert tying horses to a branch and Hugh filling canteens with water. Ian’s arm continued to bleed. Isobel didn’t wish to bring Kieran closer to her in this way either, but it had to be done. She swallowed her frustration. “I need a strip of fabric to tie around his arm.”

He looked back at her then, resolve hardening his gray eyes. He nodded once and reached forward, tentatively taking the petticoat in his hands. He gently gripped the skirt before pulling at it, the muscles on his arms bunching beneath his shirt as he strained against the fabric. A tear rent the air, and Isobel grabbed his forearm to stop him. She didn’t want the rip to go too high.

“Right here,” she said, pointing to how wide she needed the strip of fabric.

Kieran nodded and tore. This time, the action appeared easier. He ripped off the bottom few inches of fabric around her entire petticoat and yanked it free at the last before handing it to her.

“Thank ye,” she said, arranging her skirt around her ankles again.

Kieran nodded, his eyes shifting uncomfortably, and Isobel ignored her racing heart and got to work. She unfastened the cloth button at Ian’s wrist and pulled his sleeve clear up to the top of his shoulder, rolling it under to keep it in place. His arm was covered in blood, sticky and dark, making it impossible to get a clear picture of the wound.

Isobel reached for her flask, but it was too far away. She pointed to it, and Kieran leaned over Ian, grabbing it with his long arm and handing it to Isobel. Uncorking the top, she spit the cork on her lap and poured the clean, cool spring water over Ian’s arm, gently rubbing his skin to remove the blood around his wound. She needed to clean it so she might gauge the flow of fresh blood.

“Can ye lift him by the shoulders?”

“Why?”

“My father taught me to raise the place which bleeds. It helps to slow the blood.”

“He taught ye to handle a knife and how to tend to a wound? What did he not teach ye?” Kieran asked, a faint trace of awe in his tone.

Isobel held his gaze. “He ne’er taught me to depend on others for what I can do myself.”

Kieran chuckled but quickly sobered. He lifted Ian by the shoulders and drew him onto his lap, Ian’s head lolling to the side. Isobel worked quickly and methodically, taking a fresh canteen from Hugh when her own ran out of water and cleaning Ian’s arm until the blood was gone. She lifted the bottom of her skirt and dabbed at his arm until it had mostly dried and was grateful to see that the new blood seeping from the wound had slowed. Lifting Ian’s arm, she wadded one end of the fabric and pressed it lightly to his wound before wrapping the trailing end around the arm to keep it in place and tucking the final bit securely through the wrap.

Sitting back on her heels, Isobel surveyed her work. There was nothing more she could do. No juniper at her disposal to stop the wound from growing ill and no willow bark to ease the pain.

“Now?” Kieran asked, watching her closely, his eyes fastened to her.

She held his gaze. “Now we wait and pray he awakens.”

Kieran looked up as though he’d be able to see the placement of the sun through the trees. He was judging how many hours they had left of daylight if Isobel had her guess, and even she could tell that they didn’t have enough time to make it to Bongary and back before nightfall. Not after the run-in they’d had with the Duncans. Their journey had just become decidedly more dangerous.

And neither could they leave Ian in this condition.

Running a hand over his face, Kieran released a sigh.

Rupert stood, fingers resting on the hilt at his waist. “Ye go on to Bongary, and I will remain here with Ian.”

“We canna leave ye, lad,” Kieran said, resigned.

Isobel had to appreciate his willingness to take her on, but even she could see how impossible this was.

“If ye go now, ye can return tonight,” Rupert pressed. Hugh stood behind him, his mouth pressed into a firm line, worry on his brow.

“Not by nightfall,” Kieran argued.

“Nay, but shortly after, surely.”

“He’s right,” Hugh said, stepping forward. “Go now and we’ll see ye before midnight, surely. It canna be so far as to make that impossible.”

Kieran looked unconvinced, and Isobel didn’t allow herself to hope. She wouldn’t press him for this, not now that Ian had been so injured. Her heart warred with the need to complete her task and the loyalty she felt to her kinsmen. To leave Ian in a state of such injury felt callous.

A beat of silence passed between them before Kieran let out a breath, shaking his head again. “We canna be sure we’d make it back tonight.” His gaze swung to Isobel. “I canna be positive we’d no’ have to make camp for the night elsewhere.”

His implication was as clear as the water from the stream. Her reputation wouldn’t survive a night alone in the woods with Kieran, even though he was too much of a gentleman to actually ruin her. After everything she’d done, she couldn’t knowingly put herself in a position that might sully her reputation beyond repair, not when McEwan was relying on her to make a match with the laird of Dulnain. She’d given him her word, and she was good for it.

Isobel bit her lip, angry that she’d come so close to Bongary but had no way to reach it. She could steal away in the night, but after everything she’d endured, that idea now frightened her. She couldn’t risk coming upon redcoats or Duncans alone, and she didn’t want to leave the safety of her kinsmen.

“I’ll go wi’ ye both,” Hugh said with little pleasure. “No one need learn that we separated at all. But if they do, yer reputation will be safe from wandering tongues.”

Hope bloomed in Isobel’s chest. Kieran didn’t look as pleased by the turn of events, but he nodded once. “Rupert, help me make him comfortable, will ye?”

“Should we bring him back some of yer healing water?” Hugh asked.

Rupert shook his head. “It doesna work that way. He’d need to go himself and leave an offering, but he canna in his condition. Besides,” he added, shooting an indulgent look at the sleeping invalid. “It willna work for a man who lacks faith.”

“Perhaps if he’s better tomorrow…” Hugh didn’t finish his thought. If Ian was better tomorrow, they would still need to be on their way to Moraigh as soon as possible in order to make it back before the feast. They each knew it.

Rupert fetched a bedroll and laid it out on the ground. Pulling the saddles from Rupert’s and Ian’s horses, they wadded up the saddle blankets and placed them under Ian’s head and shoulders before laying him on the ground.

“I’ll construct shelter over him, but ye best be off,” Rupert said. He looked at Isobel, and she held tight to Teine’s reins, anxiety running over her skin and making her jittery.

“Will ye be all right here alone?” Kieran asked, uncertainty coloring his words. He was nervous, it was clear, to leave them behind.

Rupert grinned. “Aye. We’ll be well. Get on wi’ ye.”

A smile tugged at Kieran’s lips, and he slapped Rupert on the back. “We’ll see ye in the morning, if not tonight.”

Rupert nodded. Kieran crossed toward Isobel, and she watched his motions, careful and quiet as he picked over the leaf-strewn earth. Even now, his movements were cautious, as if he were fully alert to his surroundings.

“Do ye need a hand?”

She nodded. There was no convenient stump or rock in the vicinity from which she could mount her horse. She had run into this problem a few days prior and had merely walked Teine until she found a decently sized fallen log, but today she didn’t need to do that, not when Kieran was there to help. He laced his fingers together and bent, giving her a place to put her foot. She tucked her thin leather-clad foot in his open palms and jumped up toward the saddle, using his lift to seat herself.

“Thank ye,” she said when Kieran hovered beside her. She avoided his gaze, busying her hands with arranging her skirt around her legs and pulling her wool plaid over her head to cover her hair.

“I’m glad to be of service,” Kieran muttered.

When she finished securing her gray arisaid over her head and shoulders, tightening her belt to keep it in place, Isobel was keenly aware of Kieran’s presence beside her horse. He still hadn’t walked away. She glanced down at him, doing her best to keep her face neutral.

“I dinna think we’ll make it back tonight.” Kieran sighed. “Are ye certain ye’re comfortable with this arrangement?”

Hiding her surprise, Isobel nodded. She wasn’t afraid of Kieran or Hugh. Quite the opposite, in fact, for in their presence, she felt infinitely safer.

“We’ve come so far, it seems a shame to return home now,” he said.

She agreed. “Ian canna travel yet anyway.”

Kieran looked at her sharply, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ye’re correct. We’d be waiting here tonight anyway.” He blew out a breath as though a weight had been lifted from his mind. “Thank ye for putting my conscience at ease.”

Isobel’s back straightened. “I didna realize ye had one of those, Kieran.”

He met her gaze, his gray eyes crinkling in amusement.

Hugh pulled his horse up alongside Teine and looked at them pointedly. “Is something wrong?”

“Nay,” Kieran said, moving away to mount his horse. Isobel couldn’t tear her gaze away from him now, and she enjoyed watching his effortless mounting, the way he whispered gentle words to his steed, keenly aware of the animal’s needs. He called a farewell to Rupert and sent the man a wave before taking off in the direction of Bongary Spring.

Hugh allowed her to go first, and he followed close behind as they filed from the wooded area and followed the stream. Eventually, it would meet up with the lane again. Isobel just hoped the Duncan men they’d fought wouldn’t be waiting for them there.

* * *

They’d made it to Bongary Spring, and Kieran could only imagine how relieved Isobel must feel. The trip took longer than they’d expected, and it was too late to turn back, for they’d never find their friends again in the dark. Kieran found a secluded area behind a dense copse of trees that butted up against a sheer rock wall. It backed up to Bongary Spring but provided enough privacy that they’d yet to see the actual holy well—though its bubbling water could be heard from their campsite.

The foliage surrounding them was lush, the damp in the air nearly palpable. Vibrant greenery covered the ground between the trees, and if he was skeptical before about the properties of the holy well, he could see now that something about this area of the forest was different.

Hugh had taken the horses further down the stream to water them and fill canteens, and Isobel flitted about, setting up her shelter and unrolling her thin blanket. She was adept at putting her tent up, and Kieran was impressed with her quick action. She didn’t wait for the men to do the work for her. She simply did what needed to be done.

He supposed that made sense—Isobel had cared for herself completely over her days of isolated travel. Still, other women he knew would have sat back and allowed men to assist them as soon as the option became available. Isobel didn’t, and it made him want to help her more, to ease her burdens.

Hugh returned with the horses and tied them to a nearby tree. “We set out at first light, aye?”

“Aye,” Kieran said, nodding once. He looked to Isobel, who froze beside her shelter, her hand pressed tightly to her abdomen. She looked afraid, her dark, round eyes fixed on Hugh. Kieran wanted to steal her attention. He wanted to inquire what she so greatly feared, but it didn’t feel like his place to ask. “Will that suit ye, Isobel?”

She looked at him sharply, her round eyes remaining wide. Swallowing hard, she nodded softly. “Aye.”

Her voice, though soft, was steady and strong, taking Kieran by surprise. Each time he imagined her to be a soft, wilting damsel, her strength emerged. It caused him to wonder what else there was about this woman that he did not know. What else would surprise him? He found himself watching her gather kindling for the fire, and intrigue washed over him.

She’d always been beautiful, that hadn’t changed, but her courage and fortitude made him wish to know her better.

If he hadn’t pledged his life to revenge, he might seek such an opportunity.

“Ye’ve got the fire?” Hugh asked, pulling him from his dark musings.

“Aye.” Kieran piled the wood he’d gathered from a dead tree.

“I’ll set to the shelters.”

Kieran nodded, watching Hugh set up their tents on the other side of the clearing, offering plenty of space between them and Isobel. Neither of them would return to Castle Moraigh with tales that could ruin Isobel’s reputation, but they gave her as much distance and respect as they could anyway.

The group worked quietly to set up camp for the night. The worry about Ian’s condition sat heavily upon them, though Kieran was certain that was not all which bothered Isobel. At least they had left Ian and Rupert safely on McEwan soil. Kieran slipped away for a short time to find dinner and managed to shoot a hare, which they roasted for their meal.

Night rolled in, and Kieran found himself watching Isobel to see when she planned to go to the holy well. They were so near it they could hear the water, and she’d made no move to slip away. They sat beside the fire on a fallen log Hugh and Kieran had dragged in front of their blaze, and Hugh nodded off, his head lolling before he raised it quickly.

A smile played at Isobel’s lips. “Ye ought to go lay down before ye find yerself falling in the fire.”

Hugh sat up straighter. He blinked at them, and a sheepish smile fell over his face. “’Tis probably wise.” He rose, stretching his arms high above his head. “Good night.”

They bade him a good night and watched him trudge across the small clearing before crawling under his makeshift tent. Silence descended upon them, punctuated by the popping in the fire and the crackle of wood. A large flake of ash flew up in the smoke and drifted down toward them, and Isobel leaned forward and blew it away before it could land on her.

“Are ye nervous?” Kieran asked, his voice quiet. He didn’t want Hugh to overhear his question, though he didn’t know why. He had nothing to hide.

Isobel pulled her plaid tighter around her shoulders. He’d noticed that she used the thick, gray garment as a shield, that she sometimes seemed to hide behind it as she so often hid behind Marion at home.

“I planned to go to the spring before first light when ye and Hugh were still asleep.”

He nodded softly, his eyes trained on the fire. “Ye wish for privacy.”

“That is part of it, certainly.”

“And the other part?”

“Fear.”

She said the word so quickly and softly that Kieran briefly wondered if he’d misheard her, but he stole a glance in her direction and decided he hadn’t. She seemed scared, and he wondered why.

“Ye’ve seen it work before,” he reminded her.

She gave him a soft smile. “But not for myself. I suppose I fear that it willna work, and all this will be for naught.” She lifted her hands beneath her arisaid as though she was indicating the campsite. “Ian’s injury will be for naething.”

“Dinna borrow worry, lass. Ye havna tried yet.”

She turned to face him, her knees pressing softly against his leg. “Have ye ever wanted something so badly it hurt?”

He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, unable to focus on much besides her leg absently pressing into his. “Aye.”

She didn’t look convinced. “So badly ye’d do anything to get it?”

Kieran tried to focus on her intent, dark eyes and not the pressure of her knee against his leg. He expected her to shift away, but she remained, peering at him with an intensity he’d never before seen in her eyes.

He looked to the fire, fastening his attention on the flame. “My father was killed by an ambush of Duncans—murdered for naething. He wanted no trouble from them, but they were angry, and they had naething to lose. They didna realize they were killing the wrong man. My father was peaceful. He wanted naething to do with the feud. His history and ability as a fighter didna mean he wished to use those skills against his neighbors. But they were afraid, and their fear took his life.”

Isobel’s lack of response proved that she was already aware of this. She had just as much reason as Kieran to hate the Duncans, to wish them dead.

“Ye understand,” he said quietly, his gaze trained on the flames.

Isobel shifted closer, more of her leg pressing against his, and Kieran nearly moved away, out of reach. But he liked it too much, enjoyed the warmth that permeated his leg and traveled up to his chest, heating him in a way the fire never could.

“My parents were victims in a similar manner. I was too young to understand their feelings on the feud, but I ken they were innocent. Two of our neighbors’ cottages also burned that night. I was the only person who made it out alive.”

“How did ye survive?” He’d heard the story before, knew the basics of what Isobel had gone through before coming to Moraigh. A story like hers didn’t cease to circulate for quite a while. But he didn’t know details, and it was in those details that he would understand her better.

“My father,” she said, and her smile turned sad. “He retrieved me from my bed and took me outside to safety. He returned to the house, I believe for my mother, and didna make it out again.”

Kieran reached for her hand under the thick woolen folds of her arisaid and wrapped his large fingers around hers. She stiffened at the contact, and he considered pulling away, but she gently and firmly pressed his fingers back, and warmth surged through him. “How did ye make it to Moraigh?”

“A neighbor had taken me in, but when McEwan heard what had happened, he sent for me. He was close to my father—they were cousins who grew up as brothers—and he took the death hard. I think he felt he owed my father something. I liked Marion—I had spent time at the castle nearly every year, and we were something of playmates during those visits—so her familiarity was a balm during that time, and I was grateful for the protection the castle provided.”

“I canna imagine the fear that must have plagued ye after that.”

“Do ye not?” Isobel’s delicate eyebrows pulled together.

He met her gaze.

“Indeed, I was plagued in my sleep,” she said softly. “The sound of fire and the overwhelming stench of smoke attacked me in my dreams, and I would wake and seek fresh air. Ye found me once, shivering in the cold near the loch. Do ye not remember?”

Kieran searched his mind for this memory but came up blank. He didn’t want to tell her as much, for clearly it had meant something to her.

“It wasna long after I came to Moraigh, and ye followed me outside one night.” She must have sensed that he’d forgotten, for she continued, telling him the story as she remembered it. “I was crying and embarrassed to be found, and ye comforted me. Ye made me believe that the nightmares would cease.”

“Did they?”

She nodded. “Ye tied a thin, leather strap around my wrist and promised that it had been blessed, that it had been known to fight off demons in one’s sleep.”

The memory slammed into Kieran, coming into focus with a clarity that shocked him. He’d taken the cord from the stables with the intent to practice his knots and had the idea to give her hope. Hope was pure strength; it could fight even the darkest of feelings. Kieran knew of its power well. It was his hope of one day defeating the man who’d ambushed his father that pushed him to train so hard and become the best fighter Moraigh had. He knew he would one day accomplish his goal.

But that did not mean he wasn’t slightly shocked to hear that Isobel had believed him.

“It worked?” he asked. He’d had his own demons to contend with at the time and hadn’t checked in on her after that. Not finding her shivering alone beside the loch had been enough for Kieran, and he’d slowly forgotten that night. It hadn’t had the same impact on him as it’d clearly had on her.

“For a time, it did. Occasionally the nightmares still come, but I ken how to handle them now.”

Of course she did. She was an incredible woman. He’d mistaken her quietness of habit for a quietness of mind, and he couldn’t have been more wrong. Her warm hand in his was doing odd things to the rhythm of his heart, and he enjoyed it.

His fingers slid up her hand until they found the thin, leather cord at her wrist, and he circled it, playing with the old, cracked bracelet. “Yet ye still wear it?”