“This is Invertavey, just south of Ullapool.” He took back the crumpled handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket. “My name is Diarmid Mactavish.”
She stiffened against him, although he had no idea why. “Mactavish?”
“Aye. I’m laird of this estate.”
“Laird…”
“I’ll take ye back to my house and fetch the doctor.” Her increasing distraction troubled him. He had to get her off this exposed beach fast. “Then we’ll do our best to let your family know where you are.”
He waited for her to introduce herself, but instead she tried not very successfully to push away from him. “Could I…could I please have some water?”
Blast him for a thoughtless fool. Of course, she wanted something to drink. He’d already guessed she must be parched after swallowing all that saltwater.
“I’ve got a flask tied to my saddle. Can ye manage to stay sitting up while I go and get it?”
“I think so,” she said, although she was still worryingly pale, and she trembled in his arms.
With care, he slid his arm away from her midriff and edged back. Blindly she felt for the sand behind her and when she found it, she leaned back on one arm.
He surveyed her with some doubt. She looked ready to collapse again. “I could carry ye across to my horse.”
“No, no, I can manage.”
When he saw the effort she needed to sit upright, he commended her courage. With rough movements, he tugged his coat from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. Once he made sure she could sit without support, he rose and strode across to Sigurn, who was nosing at a clump of seaweed.
He returned to the woman and hunkered down beside her, offering her a leather flask. The hand she raised to take it was shaking so badly, he had to help her to drink.
After she’d taken a few sips, he pulled the flask away from her lips. “Och, gently now, lassie.”
“That’s so good,” she rasped.
Diarmid could imagine. He forced a smile. She hadn’t yet asked about her companion’s fate, and he didn’t want to tell her until he had to.
“Thank you,” she said.
He gave her a little more water. “Do ye want to rinse your face and hands?”
“Yes, please.”
He dribbled water on her hands and studied her with a worried frown as she wiped her cheeks. “Can ye walk?”
“I think so.”
A quick survey of her pale face told him that was either optimism or bravado speaking. Her trembling had turned into full-on shivering. So much for a Scottish summer.
“If you’ll let me, I’ll help ye over to my horse and get you up to the house,” he said. “I could go and fetch the villagers with a litter, but it would take too long and you need to warm up.”
Despite her obvious exhaustion, she looked a bit better after a drink and the cat wash. “Let’s try.”
Diarmid rose and held his hand out to her. Her grip was weak, and he did most of the lifting as she stumbled to her feet. It turned out she was a tall woman. He was a couple of inches over six feet. When she stood, that disheveled blond head reached past his shoulder.
She staggered as her legs took her weight, and he caught her by the waist. “Hold on to me.”
She made a smothered sound and lifted her face. The wide, beautiful eyes turned glassy and to his horror, he realized she was close to falling. He wasn’t even sure she could see him anymore.
With a muttered imprecation, he caught her behind the knees and swung her up. The body in his arms was rail thin. Her sodden garments accounted for most of the weight he carried.
“I’m sorry I’m so much trouble,” she mumbled, closing her eyes.