was as they’d stripped away his nightshirt that Conran had spotted the large, angry wound on the old laird’s behind. It had been impossible to tell what had caused the infected, enflamed and oozing scabbed wound. Conran had asked about it, but neither soldier had seemed to know when or how their laird had suffered the injury.
Leaving the matter for the time being, Conran had concentrated on just submerging the Maclean in the cold water and keeping him there. Of course, the moment the water had closed around his overheated body, the man had begun to thrash and cry out as he tried to escape the cold.
Weak as Fearghas had appeared in his sickbed, it had taken the three of them to keep him in the water. But the effort had been worth it. The man had cooled relatively quickly, and then Conran had had the soldiers help get him out, dry him off and lay him on his stomach on the bed. Donnan and Gavin had then helped further by holding the old man still while Conran had cleaned the wound he’d noticed on his arse. Fortunately, he’d accompanied Rory on enough healing jaunts to know the unknown wound was probably the source of the man’s fever, and that the infection needed to be cleaned out to bring it down permanently.
In the end, Conran had to cut out a large section of the man’s arse to get it all. He’d then packed the wound as he’d seen Rory do with other patients, and bandaged it before covering the old man and letting him rest. That had been hours ago and Conran had been watching the man alone for most of that time. He’d released Donnan and Gavin to go have their sup and get some sleep after catching them yawning a time or two. He’d realized then that while he’d been unconscious and rested during the ride here from Buchanan, the two men had ridden straight through both ways and were no doubt as exhausted as their lady.
Now it was close to dawn. At least that was Conran’s guess by a glance at the gray sky outside the open window shutters, and he found himself now yawning as weariness crept up on him. He was also hungry, Conran acknowledged with a frown, and glanced toward the door, wondering if there would be anyone up or around who could at least lead him to food, if not bring him some.
He slid his gaze back to Fearghas Maclean and leaned forward to feel his forehead again. Finding it little different than the last time he’d checked, Conran shifted impatiently and then stood and moved to the door. The old maid had offered to fetch him food before retiring, but he hadn’t been hungry then. He was now.
Opening the bedchamber door, Conran started out into the hall and then paused as he noticed the woman on a pallet lying across the doorway. Lady Evina. She was sleeping as he’d insisted, but not in her room. Instead, she’d chosen a spot as close to her father as she could manage without entering his bedchamber.
Mouth softening, Conran peered at her silently for a moment, noting how small she really was. Considering the force she’d used in slamming her sword hilt into his head, he would have expected there to be more to her than the whip-thin figure he could see where this gown lovingly hugged her. But she was truly a petite little thing, he noted as he gave her the once-over.
Conran could see a resemblance to her father. Evina had her father’s eyes and hair color. He’d noted the red threads of hair sprinkled among the gray on the father’s head as he’d tended him. She also had his strong chin though, he saw now. But she must have got her slightly tipped nose from her mother. Fearghas had a much larger, hawkish nose. And her face was a soft oval with high cheekbones, while the Maclean’s was long and lean and presently scruffy with several days’ beard growth.
She was a beauty though, Conran acknowledged, letting his eyes slide again over her face and hair. She’d obviously taken a bath. Her face and her hands were clean. The pale, yellow gown she wore was as well, and the hair she’d had scraped tight back into a bun earlier presently fell in soft waves around her face, much as the hair of the woman in his dreams had.