When he looked at her, his glare had grown more ferocious than before. “Nay,” he snapped.
“Are we in friendly territory to the MacLeods?” she asked gently, sure Graham would not stop unless they were.
“Aye,” he growled. “So ye can get any notion of escape out of yer head.” With that, he stormed away.
She clenched her jaw, and then muttered, “I was nae thinking upon escape.” Yet as the words left her mouth, she found herself looking around, wondering if it was actually possible. When Graham stripped off his plaid, she found her attention riveted on him.
Without thought, she stood and moved quickly to where he was walking toward a loch, but as she passed Cameron he grabbed her by the arm. “Nay, lass. He’d nae want ye watching him.”
“What is he doing?”
“Taking a quick swim,” Cameron replied gruffly. He looked quickly away.
“Ye’re lying,” she accused, casting her gaze back at his men, who seemed to be preparing something. “What is happening?”
Cameron gave her a long look but said nothing. She turned away from him, and at that moment, Graham surfaced from where he had disappeared beneath the glistening water. In the bright moonlight, she could see that his face was set in grim lines, and when he came fully out of the water and walked toward her, she gasped. A bloody, gaping wound covered his shoulder. His gaze met hers, as if he had heard her intake of breath, though he was surely not close enough to have done so.
Dear heaven above, the pain he had to be in! She had caused this. She swallowed hard against the tide of sickness that swelled in her throat. He’d been wounded protecting her from the wolf, and in thanks, she had tried to stab him in the shoulder. Humiliation battered her, and as he came closer, she could not tear her gaze from him, and he did not remove his from her.
His powerful, well-defined body moved with the grace of a man who knew perfectly how to control every part of himself. His broad chest had been bronzed by the sun and was marred with many small scars, which he must have obtained in battle. It did not make him less magnificent, but more so. He was a warrior, honed to protect those he loved, and she imagined he gave no quarter and allowed no fear when in a battle.
Slabs of thick bands covered his stomach, each one rippling as he walked. His arms looked like they had been carved by the finest of stone masons, and his legs were long and sculpted. The closer he came to her, the more she was aware of the inherent strength that was at the very heart of him. He stopped in front of her, so close that the water dripping from his hair splattered on her feet.
She shivered from his nearness, as well as from the chill that had settled into her bones. “Put on my plaid,” he ordered, waving to his brother, who silently walked to her and handed her his plaid.
She took it and held it, but did not put it on. “What of ye?” she asked.
“Ye are more important than I am,” he replied.
Her heart squeezed at his words and happiness filled her chest, but then she stopped herself. “Because of Brigid?”
His square jaw tensed visibly. “Nay,” he replied, shoving back his wet hair from his forehead. Drops of moisture clung to his skin, and her fingers twitched to reach up and brush them away. “Go rest, Isobel. We will ride again soon.”
She looked to the men and saw that Rory Mac now held a red-hot blade in his hands. His gaze was fastened on Graham, and she knew then what was about to occur. She had sealed several travelers’ wounds when they came to the convent seeking the nuns’ help.
“Nay,” she replied, surprising herself.
“Isobel—” he started warily.
“I’ve sealed many a wound,” she said firmly. “I will do it. Better me with a gentle touch than Rory Mac or one of yer other men. They will make it worse.”
He stared at her, and she could see him considering her words. “Ye’re certain ye can do this?” He waved a hand at his raw wound.
Her stomach tightened, but she nodded. “I’m certain.”
Without a word, he strode toward his men, and took the hot dagger from Rory Mac. Graham arched his eyebrows at her, as if giving her one last opportunity to change her mind, but she grasped the blade’s hilt firmly.
She looked to Rory Mac. “Fetch a stick for him to bite.”
Rory Mac glanced to Graham. “Nay,” Graham replied. His tone left no room for argument, and Isobel sighed. She would get no help from Rory Mac. The man did not like her, and she supposed she had given him good reason.
She turned to Cameron. “Do ye have a flagon of wine?”
Cameron raised his eyebrows at her. “Ye want a wee drink before ye seal his wound?”
“Nay, ye clot-heid,” she muttered. “It’s for Graham.”
“I dunnae wish it,” Graham growled.
