Highland Thirst by Lynsay Sands, Hannah Howell Read Free Book Online Page A

were
already healing after he drank blood from me,” said Peter. “Mayhap they arenae
so mad to think such a thing.”
    “I
heard them say that, too,” murmured Brona, resisting the strong urge to stroke
Sir Heming’s hair. “If doing such a thing works for Sir Heming then mayhap it
would work for someone else. I just find it all so verra hard to believe.” She
looked at Peter, who was lying on his side, wrapped tightly in a blanket, and
watching the unconscious Sir Heming. “Can ye say whether he did something to
your neck after he drank from ye?”
    Peter
grimaced. “He licked me.”
    “Your
wounds are closed, Peter. The slice Hervey made with his dagger is red and raw
but ‘tis closed. The mark left tells me it was a deep cut yet here ye sit.”
    “Aye,
ye have the right of it. I feared the bastard meant me to bleed my life out on
the floor and there was a lot of it going there until that mon stuck his teeth
in me. When he took those teeth out of me neck, he licked me. For a moment I
feared he then wanted from me what the laird did, but, nay, he pushed me away
and returned to glaring murder at the laird.”
    “I
think he licked ye to seal the wound, though how he could do that is a wonder.
Yet, ‘tis the only explanation for why ye are still alive.”
    “Aye,”
agreed Colin. “Ye should have bled your life away and quickly, too, by the
looks of that knife cut.”
    Brona
joined the three men in staring down at Sir Heming. To all the other reasons
she wanted the man to live, she could now add simple but deep curiosity. There
was indeed something very strange about Sir Heming MacNachton.

Four
    “He
is dying, mistress.”
    Brona
nearly snarled at Colin, but took a few deep, slow breaths to calm herself
instead. Colin was only speaking the hard, cold truth and he did not need to be
snapped at because of that. They had been hiding in the bowels of Rosscurrach
for two days and Sir Heming grew no better. He was so pale he would probably
blend into the linen he slept upon if not for his long black hair, and his
breathing had grown shallow, weaker, and less even. Her constant tending of his
many wounds had done nothing to help him. There was no sign of fever or
infection and, horrendous though they were, his wounds no longer bled. Yet he only
grew worse. It made no sense to her.
    What
also made no sense to her was how upset she was about that. She had seen death
before. It was a part of life one could not ignore. She also did not know this
man and, if even half of the things Hervey said about the MacNachtons were
true, that was probably a blessing. Yet Brona felt a cold fear growing inside
of her, as if she was about to lose something precious. She inwardly shook her
head, deciding the situation she found herself in plus working day and night to
try to save a man’s life was making her fanciful, if not completely delirious.
    “I
think he needs blood,” a swiftly recovering Peter said.
    It
had to be the fact that she was watching a man die that was making her so
irritable, Brona thought, biting back the urge to snap at Peter. He, too, only
spoke the hard truth, just as Colin had. Soon after they had brought Sir Heming
into this chamber set deep beneath Rosscurrach she had begun to suspect that
her healing skills were not really what the man needed. Hervey speaking of how
the man’s wounds had healed after drinking Peter’s blood had echoed in her mind
time and time again, but she had fought to ignore it. She could no longer do
that. If she did, Sir Heming would surely die.
    “Weel,
he isnae having any of mine,” Fergus muttered.
    Before
Brona could respond to that the man on the bed groaned softly and then opened
his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked.
    Heming
blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the beatings he had suffered had left
his eyes too swollen for him to see clearly. His first thought was that
Mistress Brona had decided to help her cousin torture him, for he could think
of no other reason for her