Chapter Eleven

Sorcha awoke with a start, and for a moment, she had no notion of where she was, but as the last bit of lingering sleep lifted, two realizations hit her: She was in the makeshift shelter Alasdair had made for her, and she was in his arms. She didn't move a muscle. She actually held her breath for a moment out of fear that he'd wake, and it embarrassed her to think what she would say. Why was he sleeping with his arms around her?

She wasn't surprised he was in the shelter. He'd stated his intentions and the fact that he did not trust her, but she was more than surprised he was so close. She'd never been anywhere near this close to any man. The closest she'd ever been to the hairier sex was when patrons of the inn had grabbed her without consent. That had infuriated her. That had made her body rigid and her breath come quick in fright.

This felt different. This felt safe. Of course, he was asleep, and all men were harmless when lost in the dream world. It was entirely too bad there was not a magic potion to put men to sleep when you wished. She might consider marrying if there were, so she could have bairns of her own.

Oh! She bit her lip on her errant thought. She rarely let her mind wander to her hidden desires, but just now, her secret longings had burst out from the cage she kept them in and reared their heads. She tried to shove them back inside, but it was no use. Her one lingering doubt about never marrying was that she'd never have bairns.

Of course, she knew it was possible to have a bairn without having a husband, but that was not something she'd subject a child to. To be brought up a bastard was a harsh life, indeed. She'd honestly never considered that she'd be missing anything else by not taking a husband, but she'd never experienced the tug of desire she felt around Alasdair before. Now, as she lay with his arms around her and a sense of safety within her, her belly tightened and her breasts grew full, and that sharp, pleasurably painful yearning pulsed to life in her core and between her thighs. She bit her lip at the sad notion that she may never feel this safe, this protected, again. Though it was surely a false sense, and this much yearning could be fulfilled if a husband knew how to properly "worship at a woman's temple."

She didn't completely know all the ways to worship or exactly what the phrase even meant, but she had some ideas. She'd heard women at the market gabbing about their temples being worshipped, and she'd seen enough to know it involved kissing and caressing, and a man thrusting and grunting while the woman groaned and thrashed. One night she and Ada had snuck into the stables and stumbled upon on Dougray with a woman and though the act had seemed shocking, it had been clear they were enjoying it, even though the wench's head knocked repeatedly against the stable door. She did think it odd that the man was behind the woman where her face could not be seen, but after Dougray had realized they were there, he'd shooed them away with an assurance of, "This is how it's done properly."

Those memories swirled around her with Alasdair so close behind her and so warm and hard. The length of his body pressed against hers from his chest to his knees to his shins. They seemed like two pieces of a broken pot that had been fitted back together once more.

Would she writhe before him if they were to come together? Would she enjoy it as she did when she touched the spot she'd accidentally found between her thighs some moons ago? Would it be better than that? Surely, it must be, or if not, she supposed women simply had to agree to wed if they wanted bairns. She'd put that longing away because her fear of giving control of her life to a man was greater than the longing. And though Alasdair had not convinced her in the least he was no such man, she still found herself inexplicably drawn to him.

It was because of that attraction that she carefully turned ever so slowly to face him. She stared for a long moment at his chiseled face, which caused her heart to pound nearly out of her chest. She studied his strong profile and full lips, square jaw, and noble nose. His stubble had darkened since she'd first met him, and a lock of his inky hair fell over his forehead as he lay asleep. His arm was heavy on her waist, and she could see why. He had the well-defined muscles of a man who wielded a sword daily.

His broad chest was tanned from being outside training, no doubt, and there was a small dusting of dark hair that trailed downward. She followed that trail all the way to his braies, which had slipped just below his hip bones. He was not covered by the blanket as she was, so she could see the bulge between his legs where his manhood strained for freedom. Searing heat flooded her. She stared at his manhood, wondering what it might feel like inside her. Did it make a difference if you loved a man? It must, but she'd never know. She was to be bartered against her will, and she did not see how she could ever give her heart to a man who had forced her to wed him. That spoke of a man who did not want to give a woman any say in her own life, and she'd already had that with her da.

A clearing throat cut the silence, and her heart flipped in her chest. He was awake. She did not need to look up to feel his gaze upon her. He was awake and watching her ogle him. "See something ye like?" came a deep voice.

She forced her gaze to his, refusing to be cowed. "Aye," she said, her tone so throaty she winced. "I see ye're finally awake, and I'm starving. Let us hunt."

She scrambled up before he could consider why she'd been facing him and staring at him, and she was out of the makeshift shelter before he'd even risen.

"Good morning to ye," Calan called from where he was packing up his own makeshift shelter.

"'Tis nae a good morning," she grumbled, stomping toward the woods, trying to outrun the fact that she was lusting after her captor.

Just as she reached the woods, a hand grabbed her from behind. She yelped as she was swung around to face Alasdair. "Ye need to take a care with all yer stomping. Ye'll scare off our prey and awaken creatures best left sleeping."

This! A man ordering her about as if he had the right was exactly why she didn't wish to take a husband. She yanked her arm out of his grasp. "Ye've nary a right to tell me what to do!" With that, she turned away and moved into the thick brush of the woods and walked for a while in silence. As they went, the path became overgrown and hard to travel with tree limbs blocking the way, and she had to look down frequently because thick, ancient, twisted vines and tree roots covered the ground. She stepped over a log and right onto a limb that suddenly started slithering. Screaming, she bent down to swat it away when behind her came a roar.

"Nay, lass!"

Fear shot through her veins, and she pulled back, but it was too late, the snake struck out at her. She screamed, certain she was going to be bitten, when Alasdair's arms appeared in front of hers, and the snake bit him instead.

"Foul creature!" he bellowed, slung it to the ground, and brought down a dagger to slice off the snake's head. The cut was clean, and the head fell away from the strangely-patterned, reddish-brown snake.

She stood stunned for a moment, then grabbed his arm as she faced him. "Ye took a snake bite for me!"

"Aye," he said simply. "'Tis my duty to protect ye when ye are in my care."

The sense of honor this man had hit her hard. He was not so easily judged. She glanced down at his arm where he'd been bitten and cried out. His forearm was already red. "Do ye feel pain?" she asked, recalling a woman who had died at the market once after a snake bite.

"Nay, I'm fine," he replied.

She'd known a few other people who hadn't died after being bitten. Her mama had told her there was only one poisonous snake that lived in these parts as far as she knew, and it was usually not deadly unless someone had a special sensitivity to them. Worry spread through her like a weed as she stared at Alasdair's arm. Was it already swelling?

"Ye're certain ye dunnae feel pain?" she asked and looked up at him to find him grimacing. "Alasdair?"

"Maybe just a bit," he said, wincing as the words left his mouth.

That he would admit to any pain at all set off an alarm within her. "Have ye... have ye ever been bitten by a snake afore?" Her voice had drifted to a hushed whisper as an image of the woman who had died in the market came to her mind unbidden. Her eyes had been glazed over in death, and a line of white foam had come from her mouth.

When he shook his head, she began silently praying to the gods for his life as she thought about what she needed to do. "Sit down," she demanded.

"What? Nay. We need to gather food..." His words trailed off, and he swayed where he stood. As she watched him, it felt as if a hand closed around her throat to cut off her air. He was having a bad reaction already. She was certain of it.

"Alasdair," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing gently on the giant of a man. "Sit down please. I need to tie off the area around the bite to try to stop the spread of the poison." Then she would cut the wound, suck out the poison, and rub the head of the snake on it. Then she'd get him back to camp and cauterize the wound. For that, she'd need Calan to hold Alasdair down. Then, once all that was done, she'd return to the woods and hopefully find an ash tree. After the woman at market had died, Sorcha's mama had told her that if they'd had quick access to the bark of an ash tree, they might have been able to save her, as it was said that the venom of an adder could not pass through ash bark. If Sorcha could find such a tree now, she could get some bark, grind it up, and add water to it to make a paste to rub on Alasdair's arm, chest, neck and face so that the poisonous venom could not spread to his heart and head.

"I dunnae need to sit," he said as he plunked to the ground with a hiss. "The ground tilted," he mumbled, his words slurred.

She dropped to her knees in front of him as she snatched up his plain dagger, reminded for one breath of the jeweled dagger he'd willingly given up for her sister. "Alasdair, I'm going to tie yer arm off in two places to help prevent the venom from spreading through yer blood."

His brow furrowed at her words, but then he went pale and grabbed at his arm. "Feck! Someone put fire in my arm," he growled, rubbing fiercely at the now swollen, red site of the snake bite. Fear knotted in her belly as she looked at his arm. Up and down the length of it, red bumps had risen, and she had a sinking sensation that the venom was already traveling to other parts of his body. She looked to his neck and chest, and exhaled a shaky breath of relief that the bumps were not yet there.

She plunged the dagger into the edge of her skirt, ripped off one strip of material and repeated it to obtain another strip, all while she spoke to Alasdair. "I'm going to tie this material from my skirt right under the snake bite and at the top of yer arm, so that hopefully the venom will nae go beyond those points." What she did not say was that she hoped it would save his life, if not his arm.

When he didn't respond, she looked up from what she was doing, and sheer black fright swept through her. His eyes had a glassy appearance, and he was holding his throat with his other hand.

"Kinnae breathe," he choked out.

She dropped the dagger beside her and nodded, working as quickly as she could. Scrambling to her knees, she lifted his arm and slipped the first strip of material under it all the way up to where the last bumps were, just before the rounding of his shoulder. She took both ends of the material in her hands and pulled tight enough to hopefully slow the poison. Then she repeated the process just below the snake bite.

Once that was done, she picked up the dagger once more, looked at him, and she had to beat back the panic that threatened to riot within her. His lips were swollen. "Alasdair," she said, her voice shaky. "How is yer breath?"

"Nae good, Mariot," he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

Mariot? That had to be his wife who had died. Had the poison reached his mind and was now confusing him? The fear gnawed at her confidence as she raised the dagger to the snake bite. "I'm going to slice the bite open now in order to get the poison."

"What?" he said, the word sharp, and his posture becoming rigid.

She needed him to stay as still and calm as possible, and she had only one idea of how to get him to cooperate. "Darling," she said, hoping his wife had used that endearment, "I have to get the poison. Ye must let me. I kinnae live without ye. Ye must hold still for me. Ye kinnae leave me alone."

He relaxed immediately and surprised her when he reached out his hand from his uninjured arm and cupped her cheek. " Mo ghraidh, ye ken I will nae ever leave ye alone. I'll do what ye ask."

Mo ghraidh. My love .

A surge of jealousy shot through Sorcha. By the gods, she was jealous of a dead woman and the powerful love she'd shared with this man. "Verra good," she said, willing herself to push the jealousy away and concentrate. She set the blade to his arm and slid it across in one sweeping motion.

He did not move, and when she looked to him, his glassy gaze was fixed on her. A tremor of longing went through her. She'd never thought she'd care if a man looked at her, but if the man loved her as Alasdair had loved his wife, if the man's gaze was filled with the boundless devotion Alasdair's was, then she wanted that to the depths of her soul.

Without a word, she wiped away the blood trickling from his wound, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his skin to suck out the poison. It was the first time in her life her lips had touched a man. And yet, something else rose within her to join the fear for Alasdair. It was the same pull of desire she'd felt for him before. She set that aside as well. There would never be a time or place for such feelings for this man.

She focused on the task at hand, sucking out blood and poison, spitting it out and repeating the process, all the while glancing at Alasdair to check his appearance. When his eyes closed and he began to slump sideways, she feared she was losing him. She sat up, lips aching, and caught him just in time as he started to fall sideways.

"Alasdair!" she cried out, fearing he was near death, fearing she had been too slow. "Alasdair, please, please dunnae die."

She stood, holding on to his arm and trying to get him to stand, and after much effort, panting and sweaty, she burst into tears and allowed him to slump all the way to the ground. She dropped to her knees once more, put her finger under his nose and waited for a warm waft of breath to wash over her skin. It took a moment, and it was barely there when she felt it, but when she did, she cried out in relief. But as she considered the impossibility of dragging him or carrying him back to camp to cauterize his wound, and that he might be dead by the time she found Calan and brought him back to retrieve Alasdair, her tears came so hard she was nearly blinded by them.

She released his arm and, bending down, pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I will return for ye. I vow it." She stood and didn't waste a breath before she started running, still crying, and because her tears were nearly blinding, she tripped over a log, fell to her knees, and was struggling to stand when a voice said above her, "What in the name of the gods is wrong?"

She looked up at Calan, blinking the tears from her eyes. "Alasdair is g-g-going to die."