She ran up to the stone cottage, her feet tangling in the rocks and low-growing plants.

Breathing hard, Gwyneth burst through the door, the bitter scent of peat smoke and tangy drying herbs replacing that of fresh air. “Mora, did you hear the battle?”

“Aye, I reckon they were fighting the MacGrath. ’Tis always a blood feud betwixt them.” Her friend and fellow healer bent over her knitting, her gray head wrapped in a white kerch. The fire smoldering in the center of the room provided little light.

“One man still lives. He’s been knocked out, but his breathing is strong. We must bring him here and see to his injuries.”

“Who is he?” Suspicion laced through Mora’s thick brogue.

“I know not.”

“One of the enemy?”

“Likely.”

“Mmph. I won’t be helping the MacGraths.”

“A dozen men are dead. For what purpose? All this fighting is madness!”

“Easy for you to say, English. Lived here nigh on six years, you have, and still you ken naught of our Highland ways.”

She knew enough about their violent way of life and hated it. Gwyneth glanced at her five-year-old son sleeping in the box bed on the other side of the room and lowered her voice. “I would die before I’d let Rory become one of them, giving up his precious life over a senseless dispute.” She had to find a way to take him out of the Highlands before Laird Donald MacIrwin forced him into the ranks of his fighting men. “And you’re right, I cannot understand so much bloodshed over nothing.”

“’Tis not for naught. The MacGraths killed Donald’s brother ten years past. Then there was the time the MacGraths claimed a goodly portion of MacIrwin land. We don’t take the stealing of land lightly.”

How could her friend be so cold? “This man who yet lives is carrying a peace treaty. He wears a seal ring and appears to be the chief. Aside from that, he’s human and we’re healers. If I can save a life, I will, whether he is friend, foe or beast.”

“Aye, you with your gentle lady’s heart. You’ll get us killed. What if Donald finds out?”

A chill raced through her at that thought. “He rarely comes here.” Though the clan chief was her second cousin on her father’s side, no fondness existed between them.

“’Tis a bad feeling I have about this. You’ll regret it.”

“Do you not think the MacGraths will exact a severe revenge against us all if the MacIrwins kill their chief? He wants peace, as we do.”

“Well, this is not the way to go about it. I’ve been around a few years longer than you have, Sassenach.”

“I will drag the big brute up here myself, then.” She yanked a blanket off the bed, left the cottage and strode down the hill once again toward the glen. The stones slid and rolled beneath her slippers and bit into her feet. If Mora wouldn’t help her, she’d do what she could for the man.

Something all-consuming rose up from her soul and railed, refusing to allow him to lie there and die. Though his body looked powerful, he was helpless now. As helpless as a child, helpless as little Rory. All this man’s fearsomeness at her mercy, she was awed by the power she held over him, to help him reclaim his strength and his life…or let it drain away. That would be a sin far worse than any she’d ever committed, of which she had many. The peace treaty and something deep within her proclaimed his life was worth saving a hundred times over.

Gwyneth crouched behind a patch of thistles at the edge of the glen and listened for MacIrwins. The only sound was the wind hissing through the pine needles and the splash of the stream.

A rock clattered down the slope behind her. Startled, she turned to find Mora approaching with a wood and linen litter. “Verra weil, English. I reckon I cannot let you do all the healing by yourself. And we’ll be needing this to haul his big arse up the hill.”

Gwyneth arose, suppressing a smile. “I thank you for your kind heart, Mora.”

“Mmph. Where is the heathen?”

“I hid him in the weeds and bushes so they wouldn’t finish him off.” She led Mora across the small glen to the MacGrath.

Mora knelt over him. “Aye, his breathing is strong. He may yet survive.”

They rolled him onto the litter. Laboring under his considerable weight, they dragged him toward the cottage. Full night had fallen, making their arduous trek up the hillside even more difficult.

“Good heavens, he must weigh twenty stone.” Mora huffed and gasped.

“I’m in agreement.” Gwyneth’s arms and legs ached from her efforts.

“This one didn’t starve the winter.”

“No, indeed.”

Mora started toward the cottage.

“Let’s hide him in the cattle byre. ’Twill be safer should Donald come by,” Gwyneth said.

Mora narrowed her eyes. “You’re being mighty canny of a sudden.”

“Well, I know if he finds us hiding his enemy, he’ll likely fly into a violent rage.”

“Aye, and kill us all,” Mora grumbled.

Gwyneth shoved the dread away and ignored her friend’s pessimistic view. “We shall hide him well.”

They dragged the MacGrath into the stone byre, which stood several yards from the cottage, and rolled him onto a wool blanket on the hard-packed dirt floor.

After a trip to the cottage, Mora lit several fir roots in order to find his wounds.

“A bonny lad, he is,” Mora proclaimed.

Lad, indeed. Rory was a lad. This giant was a man full grown. But bonny, yes. In the soft flame-light, his midnight hair, his equally dark brows and thick lashes captured Gwyneth’s attention.

Open your eyes.

They would be dark too, would they not? Dark as tempting, dangerous sin in the blackest night. Beard stubble shadowed his authoritative jaw and framed his sensual mouth.

I am going daft, noticing such things at a time like this.

Forcing herself to ignore his face, she unfastened the brass brooch shaped like a falcon that held the upper part of his blue plaid in place over his shoulder, removed the brown leather pouch-like sporran from his waist and dropped the brooch inside.

“Do you not think he’s the laird?” Gwyneth raised his strong hand to show Mora the seal ring, the heat of him seeping beyond her skin.

“Aye, I’d wager he is the young laird. I’ve never laid eyes on the man afore now. Though I recollect hearing of the old laird’s passing sometime back, and he does favor him. ’Course all the MacGraths have a certain dark look about them.”

Gwyneth tugged the ring from his finger and placed it in the sporran.

“His clothes are of fine material.” Mora pushed the doublet open. “And would you look at this.” She pulled a gleaming brass-hilted dagger from inside the garment, near his armpit.

She used the sharp weapon to cut his bloody clothing away from his upper body.

Holding her breath, Gwyneth could but gape as each inch of skin and sculpted muscle was revealed. Among the multitude of scars on his chest, two long shallow sword cuts oozed blood. A lead ball from a pistol had grazed his shoulder, leaving a furrow of torn flesh.

She would stitch him up so he would heal, good as new.

A slice in his plaid alerted them to another wound. Mora unhooked his leather belt and eased his kilt down to reveal a cut to the right side of his lean waist close to his pelvic bone.

Wanton excitement stirred within Gwyneth at the sight of this enemy Scot’s near-naked body. I should close my eyes, look away. He is a patient. Heat seared her from the inside out.

Though she’d attended to many an unclothed man after a skirmish or during sickness, she had never seen a man so beautifully formed. God had certainly smiled upon him.

“’Tis shallow,” Mora said. “He’s lucky they didn’t strike his vitals.”

They cleaned his wounds with a wash of royal fern steeped in clean water, stitched up the deeper cuts, then smeared them with a paste of fern and comfrey.

“My, but a fine-looking man he is, aye?” Mora smiled and winked. “Reminds me of my own big Geordie afore he passed on.”