She motioned for the footmen to continue their efforts. But if hauling a giant down the hill had been hard enough, hefting him up the stairs proved more punishing. Hugh helped, grudgingly, though not without whining about unmanageable females.
Honoria didn’t say a word. She was still stunned her brother hadn’t threatened to send for Adair and the rest of her brothers. That certainly would have foiled her stubbornness on the matter, as her brothers would have returned the moment they received news that a stranger had been found injured on their grounds.
Honoria spared Hugh a sidelong glance.
Perhaps he too had something to prove.
A considerable amount of heaving and stumbling up the stairs later, the stranger was laid down on Callum’s bed, the first available chamber.
She peered down at the unconscious man, an arm and leg dangling off the side of the mattress. They had knocked the poor man’s head so many times that Honoria wouldn’t be surprised if he succumbed to those blows alone.
He was one menacing-looking beastie—the hard angular planes of his face not even softening in his sleep. His hair, black as the night sky, was damp with sweat as fever raged in his body, causing occasional shivers to shudder through him.
The blood worried her. She leaned over to pull back his torn shirt and winced. A deep gash, a knife wound by the looks of it, cut into his skin beneath his heart.
A wave of concern spilled over her.
“The wound looks fresh,” Hugh said over her shoulder. “No more than two hours would be my guess.”
Honoria grimaced.
“Then whoever did this might still be out there,” Isla voiced their fears. “On the castle grounds.”
The thought brought a chill to Honoria’s heart.
Hugh cursed and turned to a footman. “Have Ross gather abled men and search the property. Leave no stone unturned.”
“Yes, my lord,” the footman said and scurried off.
“No major artery is damaged or he’d have long bled out,” Honoria said, gathering the stranger’s shirt to press down on the wound. “But the cut is infected.” She turned to Isla. “I require warm water, a clean cloth, needle, thread, and some whisky. And ask Mrs. Shelton for the salve I mixed earlier this week; it ought to do the trick for this festering.”
Isla nodded and disappeared from the room.
“The blade used must have been unclean.” Hugh arrived at the same conclusion Honoria had. Lucky for this man, healing was within her repertoire.
Sort of.
If she hadn’t mixed up her plant species again.
Hugh leaned further over her shoulder. “Do you know what you are doing, lass?”
At his skepticism, she shot him a well-measured glare. This was why Honoria hadn’t wished to include him until it was absolutely necessary. Hugh was a grouch when it came to anything he did not approve of, as with all men, she supposed.
Another shudder jerked through the stranger’s body.
Honoria applied more pressure on the wound. She would not allow him to die.
A whisper of divinity beckoned her to this man, a pull she couldn’t put into words. No matter how illogical it might be, it felt as if their fates were intertwined.
How else to explain his arrival—albeit unfortunate—on the very day her brothers departed for Edinburgh, right after she’d wished for a sign of change? How could she not believe fate had a hand in sending him on her path—to the very hill she usually sulked on? For the moment, however, her contemplations on fate would have to wait. Cleaning his wound and breaking his fever would require all of her attention.
“Has he worsened?” Isla asked, entering the chamber with a basket of the requested items.
“Nay. Quick, pour whisky over the wound,” Honoria urged, lifting the material away to give her sister access.
“That’s bloody good whisky,” Hugh protested.
“Do shut up, Hugh,” Honoria snapped. “And help me remove his shirt.”
