He grumbled but nodded curtly.
When they reached the clearing, the moonlight poured through the trees, bathing the leaves in a silver glow. The horse stood tethered nearby, raising its head and whickering at the sight of its master.
Lily looked back at Alasdair. He was limping a little, and a small part of her felt guilty.
“That wound on yer leg needs tending,” she found herself saying.
He waved her off and stepped toward the saddle. “Trust me, lass, I have survived worse. Breaks. Fire. Blades the size of yer whole arm. I’ll live.”
Her eyes flicked over the scars on his forearms. While most of his scars were faint, some looked fresher than the others.
“I can tell,” she murmured.
He looked at her and then pointed to a long, jagged mark across his right arm. “That one there? Got it when I was captured by another laird. Bastard tried to peel the skin off me arm with a dagger. He thought pain might make me tell him what he wanted.”
She winced. “God.”
“Oh, ye daenae have to worry,” he said, grinning. “He is dead now. I killed him later that same day.”
Lily folded her arms. “Nonetheless, sit down. I’m treating yer leg.”
He studied her for a long moment, then sighed and lowered himself onto the base of a tree. “Fine. But only so ye’ll stop nagging me.”
She rolled her eyes and climbed onto the saddle, digging through her pack until she found the small glass bottle. Hopping down, she held it up.
He raised an eyebrow. “What is that? Wait, let me guess. Tears of a dolphin? Or maybe water from some forgotten stream in Camelot?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “‘Tis whisky,” she said. “I am nae certain, but ye must have heard of it.”
A smirk curved his lips as she knelt beside him, her fingers quick but steady. “Ye might want to bite something.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She shrugged, uncorked the bottle, and rolled his trousers up.
His thigh was practically riddled with scars; some were faded and long since healed, others looked fresher.
She paused, her eyes scanning the pattern, the slight rise of muscle beneath his skin and the light hairs on his leg. When she looked up at him, he only shrugged, his way of telling her that they meant nothing.
Without another word, she poured the whisky.
He cursed and bit back a groan.
“I warned ye,” she muttered.
He hissed through his teeth, gripping the grass.
Lily reached into her bag for bandages. Her eyes widened. There were none.
“Nay, nay, nay,” she whispered, turning the bag inside out.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his brow damp with sweat.
“I am out,” she muttered. “Nay bandages left.”
She stood up, frustrated, and paced before him. Then, an idea came to her.
“Wait,” she muttered and moved closer to him.
