Where are my clothes?

And where are my sword and dagger? Cold fear settled in his chest.

Someone appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light—the small frame of a woman. Though he couldn’t see her well, he felt her staring at him a long moment. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“As if I took a wee tumble from the peak of Ben Nevis. Where am I?”

“MacIrwin land.”

In that moment three things occurred to him—she was English, he was back from the dead, and he lay helpless on enemy land with no weapons. God’s bones.

A flash of returning memory distracted him—he’d thrust his sword at a grizzly, outraged red-haired man. Something, or someone, had hit him on the head. The powerful blow had knocked him from his mount and all went black.

“Does Donald MacIrwin ken I’m here?” His sore muscles tensed. Wincing at the pain, he forced himself to relax.

“No.” The dimness hid her expression, but wariness colored her tone.

“Where are my clansmen?” He prayed his cousin, Fergus, and all the others had survived. But he knew that was impossible. He’d seen some of them fall.

“About five or six died on the battlefield. The others must have returned home.”

He didn’t even know which ones had perished yet. Dear God, not Fergus or Angus. Fortunately, his brother Lachlan had not accompanied them that day.

“I don’t understand how I came to be here instead of with them.”

“After the skirmish, I went to see if I could save the lives of any of my kinsmen, but you were the only man I found alive.”

“You’re a MacIrwin, then?”

She crossed her arms. “The MacIrwin is my distant cousin. My grandmother and his grandfather were brother and sister.”

He’d best tread softly until he determined whether he could trust this relation of his enemy. “You’ve the speech of a Sassenach.”

“I grew up in England, yes.”

“Why would a MacIrwin, even an English one, save the life of a MacGrath? We’ve been enemies for nigh on two hundred years.” Alasdair tried to sit up, but a spasm of burning pain latched onto his lower belly. “Mo chreach!” He fell back.

“Do not get up.” The waif-like woman rushed forward and knelt beside him. The pleasant smell of fresh air and green herbs clung to her.

She placed a cool hand against his upper chest and pressed him back. After shoving aside the straw and lowering the blanket to just below his waist, she examined the stitched wound on his abdomen.

“You’ve started this bleeding again.” She flicked a glare of censure at him from her vivid blue eyes.

“Pray pardon,” he said, then wondered why he’d apologized.

She could not have much MacIrwin blood in her veins, else she would’ve left him to die on the battlefield. She was nothing like Donald MacIrwin. This was the second time the bastard had deceived them, under oath, into thinking he wanted to sign a peace treaty, when in truth he wanted to murder those bearing it. Alasdair craved peace for his people so badly he’d become too trusting.

While the healer examined his injuries, he studied her captivating face. Was her creamy skin as silky as it looked? She frowned as she worked, and some of her light-brown hair escaped the knot at the back of her head. He wanted to wrap the straight, wispy strands around his fingers. Why didn’t she wear the kerch head-covering favored by married Highland women? Perhaps she wasn’t married, though she had a child. A widow, then. No rings adorned her fingers, but that told him naught since Highland women only wore their wedding rings on special occasions.

One thing was sure, she’d undressed him and seen him naked. Wishing he could’ve been awake for that, he suppressed a grin.

She caught him watching her, and her skin turned pink. Ah, but she was a bonny Sassenach. He smiled. What was she doing here in the Highlands tending his wounds? Mayhap she was an angel or a fairy and not a human woman at all.

Her cool, efficient hands felt soothing on his skin, overheated from the wool blanket. Indeed, soothing, but her touch slowly coaxed a new heat to life within him, a different sort of tingling heat he had suppressed for some time and was surprised to feel now with such strength.

“Are you in much pain?” Her eyes were guarded when they met his, and he pushed his irrational interest in her away. His very life was in danger and he best focus on that.

“Nay.” He had endured far worse. Perhaps it was her gentle touch that eased his aches.

She covered him again with the blanket. “You must lie still.”

“Aye. Did I not arrive with any weapons?” He felt more naked without those than without his kilt.

“A dagger. I have it well-hidden.” She rose.

“I would have it back to defend myself, if you don’t mind. If the MacIrwin shows up, I’ll be helpless as a wee bairn.”

“How do I know you won’t use it on me?”

He scowled. “I wouldn’t harm you. Are you thinking I’m daft?”

She studied him with intelligent, watchful eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

He released an impatient breath. “How long have I been here?”

“Since last night.”

Not long, but likely his clan thought him dead because Donald MacIrwin didn’t take hostages. Lachlan wouldn’t relish taking over as chief. He was probably even now cursing Alasdair for being so careless.

“You hit your head on something,” the woman said.

Alasdair moved his head on the straw-filled pillow, and a pain shot through his skull. “Or something hit me on the head. I reckon ’twas the broad side of an ax…which I much prefer to the sharp side.” He stroked his fingers over the sore lump on the back of his head. “God’s bones, ’tis the size of a sheep’s hoof.” He laid his head back on the pillow and gazed up at her. Surely she was his guardian angel. “You saved my life.”

“Most likely.” She glanced away as if it were nothing.

“I thank you.” It seemed so little to say. How would he ever repay her? “But why would you care if I lived or died?”

Her gaze examined his eyes, dropped to his mouth, his bare shoulder, then lifted again. She shrugged. “I’m a healer. ’Twas the least I could do for a fellow human being.”

“What? You don’t think me a savage?” He was certain he looked greatly uncivilized to her English eyes…eyes which now gleamed with blue ire.

“No. The only thing savage is this senseless fighting over nothing!”

“Well, I would see it stopped but your clan will not let it be. When we’re provoked, we fight as any clan would. The MacIrwins have committed many a crime against us.”

“Two hundred years in the past.”

“Nay. More than I can recount during my own lifetime. Including murder.”

Her gaze locked to his. “What?”

“Aye, your fine cousin—oh, never mind. Why am I telling a woman? I must be on my way.” What a waste of time this all was. He must get back to his own clan.

“No!”

Such a forceful command from the wee lass? He couldn’t help but gape at her militant expression.

“You shall not get very far with a broken toe,” she added.

“Oh, is that all?” He moved his feet and a stabbing pain ricocheted up his left leg. “God’s bones!” With a grunt, he ground his teeth and stilled, praying the pain would go back into hiding.

“You see?” She placed her hands on her hips and glared down at him as if he were a wayward lad. “We didn’t even know your big toe was broken until it turned black and swelled.”

He released his held breath. “Mayhap ’tis but a sprain.”

“God willing, you will be so lucky. I cannot understand why men do this to themselves.” A spark of anger flashed in her eyes, and this distracted him from his own agony. Her fire had a definite appeal.

“Och, we’re lacking a wee bit in the tower.” He wanted to tap a finger against his head, but dared not move too much. Instead, he attempted to relax. “What of your husband? Does he ken I’m here?” He prayed no men of the clan knew of his presence, else it could prove his downfall.