and all around him was darkness. He tried to sit up, but a cold hand on his arm stilled him.
“Lie down.” It was her, the angel, sitting beside him, watching over him.
“I’ll take heaven or hell, but I’ll no’ lie here in purgatory.”
“Neither of them want ye today, sir. Here, drink this.” Her fingers left his arm, but warmth remained where she’d touched him even though her touch had been cold. How odd.
Metal pressed to his lips, and he forgot about her for a moment, a sudden thirst overtaking him. He gulped, barely tasting what it was until too late. Poison. The ale was bitter with herbs.
“Ye’ve killed me,” he growled, thrusting away the cup.
“No’ yet, but ye might end up doing yourself in if ye keep this up. Lie back down. Go to sleep, else ye’ll end up tearing out your stitches.”
Stitches? Stitches meant that he was only wounded.
Not dead. Not in purgatory.
Craig did a mental check of his body, unable to pinpoint exactly where a wound might be because everything hurt so goddamned bad.
He’d suffered many an injury in battle over the years and had experienced plenty of pain. Why was this so different? And then he knew. Because he should be dead. This angel had found him and brought him back to life. While his mind was alive, his body wished him on the other side.
“Thank ye,” he murmured, and then let the darkness take him once more.
Time did not exist in his state. What felt like mere moments later, he blinked open his eyes, no longer blinded nor in the dark. Shirtless and without his kilt, he lay on the floor of what looked like a cottage. Beneath him was a folded tartan, probably his own, to keep him from lying on the hardness of a wood-planked floor. Overtop his legs and hips was another blanket. He rolled his head to the side, seeing several other wounded men lying beside him, plaid blankets concealing their bodies and wounds from him. There was no sign of his angel. Where had she gone? Who was she? He turned in the other direction to see several other men laid out sleeping, most of them in the same state, a few others with their shirts on.
He was in some sort of makeshift infirmary. The rafters were thick bands of woven sticks likely covered with thatch. Two small windows were opened to let in light, but the room was still very dark. A fire burned in a hearth, and he thought he could smell some sort of pottage simmering, but he couldn’t make out what. An old woman, dressed in a plain wool day gown, sat in a low chair beside the hearth, knitting something and humming.
Had he imagined the young woman who’d tended him? Or had it been the old woman? For she was the only one here now, and in his state, he wouldn’t be surprised if he had somehow seen the older woman as a mirage of her youthful self.
Craig opened his mouth to speak but found his throat tight and dry. He coughed and tried again, staring at the old woman as he spoke. “Where am I?” His voice was scratchy and low.
The old woman stopped knitting, setting aside the bundle. “Ye’re in my cottage. I’m Mrs. Sullivan. Let me get ye a cup of tea.”
Craig struggled to sit, pressing his hands behind him and pushing, but his body did not want to cooperate, and his head and insides rebelled.
“Best no’ do that,” she advised. “Else Doctor Annie will have my head.”
Doctor Annie. A wash of relief hit him unbidden, and he lay back down. She’d been the one tending to him? The angel he’d seen.
Flashes of nonsensical memory bombarded him. Her lips moving, her eyes fierce on his. Scenes from the battle clashed with the memories of her sweet singing voice. He reached up and touched his forehead, his fingers brushing over a bandage on his face.
“Ye were pretty bad off,” Mrs. Sullivan said as she approached with a steaming cup of tea. “But the lass, she fixed ye up.”
The older woman pressed the cup to his lips, and he sipped slowly, this serving tasting sweeter than the last cup he remembered.
“Where are my clothes?” he croaked.
The old woman clucked her tongue. “I’ve been mending the shirts of most of ye as they were cut off what wasna blown off or sliced off. And your kilt, ye’re lying on it. I’ve no’ got a bunch of