“We were?” Isla said with undue sweetness and a smile to match.
Honoria pressed her lips together as Hugh marched into the chamber, growling, “That right there is why we men cannot trust women. I cannot tell whether you are jesting or being wretchedly serious.”
“’Tis an unspoken rule for ladies to keep men on their toes,” Honoria murmured, her eyes returning to the stranger. “And the man is harmless in his condition, Hugh. We Scots must stick together.”
“He doesn’t look like a Scot I’ve ever seen,” Isla murmured, peering down at the stranger.
“That’s because he is a barbarian,” Hugh griped, reclining his heavy frame against the wall.
“Most Highland men are considered barbarians,” Isla pointed out.
“Not with those features,” Hugh grumbled. “We Highland men are . . .”
“Gentler?” Isla provided.
“Refined,” Hugh snapped.
“Refined Highlanders? Now there’s a story for the papers,” Isla taunted.
“Honestly, Hugh,” Honoria admonished, but paused. Her brows drew together in thought. Isla was right. The stranger did not look like any Scot she’d ever seen, either. And while Highlanders were often referred to as barbarians for their wild natures, this man’s wildness seemed to eclipse even them.
Her gaze flicked between her brother and the stranger. Refined, Hugh had called himself? It looked rather as though he had battled with a bog and came out on the losing side. His hair stuck out in all directions and the front of his loose-fitting linen shirt hung free from his belted plaid.
There was nothing refined about her brother.
The stranger, however, while not as muddy and only sporting some growth of stubble on his cheeks, appeared much more untamed and savage. In truth, Honoria’s conviction increased that the man was from some exotic faraway land.
“The English are refined,” Isla continued her taunts. “Even the lowliest of peasants have a delicate quality about them. But then, how would I know since I’ve never met a posh English lord or an English peasant, for that matter. So tell us, Hugh, how are you refined?”
A low growl erupted in the back of Hugh’s throat.
“Perhaps he is French, and a privateer,” Honoria suggested, hoping to divert their bickering.
“Come now lass, don’t be saying such things,” Hugh responded with a groan. “Not with the war raging on.”
“Aye,” Isla said. “Do not jest, Honoria, I can feel my hide redden at the very thought.”
They all turned to stare down at the unconscious man who appeared to be resting peacefully, without a care in the world.
“The blame is mine if our brothers learn of his presence,” Honoria murmured. “But I doubt it’s as bad as that.”
“Let us hope he is Irish,” Isla said, chewing her bottom lip. “He looks as though he could be Irish.”
Hugh snorted. “Tricksters and charlatans, the lot of them. His coloring is too dark to be Irish.”
“You are such a snob, Hugh,” Honoria said, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. She leveled him with a stern look
He shrugged. “Since you are purposefully ignoring my orders to send the barbarian to the village, let us hope he is gone by the time the others return home. It’s one thing for Adair to know you aided a questionable character but another for him to see it.”
A pained groan interrupted their conversation and their gazes whipped to the bed. Honoria rushed to the stranger’s side, lowering the back of her hand against his damp forehead.
“Hand me the water,” Honoria instructed Isla who hurried forward with a flask. “The fever has returned.”
Another groan left his lips.
“You poor beastie,” she cooed as she grazed the brim of the flask against his lips, coaxing a response. “Drink some water; it will cool you down.”
Behind her, Hugh scoffed. She ignored him, and to her complete surprise, the man’s lids fluttered open, revealing a set of bottomless green eyes clouded with pain and instant mistrust.
