“Absolutely not.”
Honoria glared at her brother. “Would you rather stitch?”
Hugh grumbled something foul beneath his breath but moved alongside the bed to do her bidding. All eyes locked onto the man’s chest as the material fell away.
Honoria blinked.
And not because his chest rose and fell in sculpted perfection.
A large, scaled, wingless serpent spanned the upper right side of his body. The beast possessed four feet, each one flaunting three sharp talons, giving an impression of them clawing at the stranger’s flesh. Long tendrils extended from its face, the dragon-like beast’s nostril flaring in rage.
“That is . . .” Isla murmured.
Staggering.
Eye-catching.
Downright breathtaking.
Hugh lifted his head, his eyes snapping with fury. Almost like the dragon-serpent. “Was it not enough that you brought a man resembling a barbarian into our home? It had to be a tattooed barbarian.”
Honoria’s eyes slid over the creature on the stranger’s chest. An impressive work of art. The detail remarkable. For her, it only added to the mystery. “How about you reserve judgment until he wakes?” she suggested.
“It’s hard to imagine anyone gaining advantage over this man,” Isla murmured.
“Aye,” Honoria agreed, given his size and rough-hewn features.
Freeing her head of all intrigue, she beckoned Isla. Together they set out stitching the gaping flesh, meticulous in their efforts. There would be a scar, but it did not have to be jagged.
“Dampen his brows, Hugh,” Honoria ordered, eyes flicking to the cloth and water on the small table beside the bed.
“You cannot be serious.” Hugh scowled at the bowl. “I already touched the man’s bare chest with my fingers!”
“This is not the time to argue, Hugh,” Isla said, her soft voice stern.
He shot them both a filthy look but snatched up the cloth and dabbed at the stranger’s brow.
“Sit down and rest his head on your lap,” Honoria instructed. “And for mercy’s sake, dampen the cloth first.”
His horrified gaze flew to her. “Nay, I will not rest his head on my lap like some besotted lad caring for his ailing love.”
“Hugh!” Honoria admonished.
This time Hugh’s glare was both outraged and revolted as he cursed and dampened the cloth in the basin. He lifted the stranger’s head with two fingers and sank onto the bed, letting the man’s head drop onto his leg. None too gently, he jabbed the cloth at the man’s forehead.
“Softly, Hugh, like you’d stroke your lover’s wrist.”
Hugh’s features turned pained, but his strokes gentled over the stranger’s skin.
Satisfied, Honoria returned her attention to the wound. With the stitching done, she carefully applied the batch of salve she’d prepared from moneywort, catnip and—she sniffed the mixture—garlic—she had forgotten about that particular ingredient.
“I hate garlic,” she muttered, her lips pulling up.
“I hate this,” Hugh muttered in a low growl. “This man could be a dangerous criminal, and I’m stroking his head like a lovesick fool.”
“It’s not that bad.” Honoria suppressed a smile.
Hugh’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam. “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, especially Lachlan, I will throw all your paint brushes into the loch.”
