“Thank you,” she said grudgingly.
He nodded in acknowledgment. “I will be just over there.” He pointed to a spot a little nearer the fire where a blanket was already spread on the ground. “Close but not too close. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Greta replied, turning her back on him. She had expected to be tied up, but since he had not mentioned it, she had not suggested it. It was too dark to flee, and she was too tired to attempt it.
“Sleep well, Greta,” he said softly, but he received no answer. He had not expected one.
9
Greta did not get a wink of sleep that night. As well as spending the whole time worrying about what the outlaws were going to do with her, she had lost faith in Finn, the only man who had made her feel safe in this crowd of thieves and murderers. And she had to sit on a horse with him for another entire day! God alone knew how she would be able to manage it, and to add to her woes, the pain in her thigh was becoming worse, and she had begun to limp.
Then, as the men were packing up to start the day’s journey, she saw that two of the horses belonging to the dead bandits had no riders. One was being used as a packhorse, but the other was free. Could she make use of it?
She sat staring at it for a while, trying to work out a plan in her mind. She had no food or blankets, and she would have to spend one night alone in the forest, but she could survive somehow. She was sure of it.
Surreptitiously, Finn watched her like a hawk. When he saw her rising from bed and making her way to the burn to wash, he saw her uneven gait and followed her. She had almost reached the stream when he called her. “Greta!”
She stopped walking and turned around. They were in a sheltered spot, and no one could see them, and even if they could, Greta doubted that any of the bandits would have intervened if Finn had tried to molest her. In fact, she supposed that now was the moment she had been dreading, and she must be stoic, brave, and submit to her fate. It would be no good fighting him since he was much, much bigger than she was.
“Aye?” she asked, with a resigned sigh. Finn looked weary but despite that, enormously powerful. She knew that he would be able to overcome her pitiful resistance with one hand tied behind his back, so she stood still, awaiting her doom.
He strode toward her, but even though she felt as if she should turn and run, she stood her ground and folded her arms, waiting until he was a few feet away from her to speak. “What do ye want, Finn? I need tae wash.” Her tone was terse, but she had only just managed to keep her voice from trembling.
“I wanted tae know what was wrong wi’ yer leg,” he asked, looking down at it.
“I burnt it in the church,” she answered. “It is sore.”
“Why did ye no’ tell me?” he asked, exasperated. “Ye must have been in terrible pain. Please let me look at it. Maybe I can help.”
“Healin’ takes its own time,” she answered angrily. “I do nae need anyone to look at it. It will mend just fine.” However, a moment later, an excruciating dart of pain shot down her thigh, and she gasped with anguish and clutched at her leg, then sank down onto the grass. Tears of agony began to roll down her cheeks.
Immediately, Finn was by her side. He carefully lifted her skirt and frowned as he saw the great patch of red and blistered skin on Greta’s left thigh. “Ye should have told me!” he said angrily.
“I didnae think ye would care,” she answered, her tone bitter. “After all, it was ye that burnt the church down.”
She was right, of course, he realized. This was his fault as surely as if he had put a burning branch against her thigh. “I am sorry,” he murmured. “Go an’ bathe,” he told her. “The cold water will take the sting away, then I can treat it.”
Greta hesitated for a moment, suddenly unsure of him, then ran into the water and bathed as quickly as she could before she dried herself on the coarse towel and dressed in her rags again.
“Now,” Finn said firmly, “sit still an’ don’t move.” He had run back to the camp while she was bathing and came back with a small flask of whisky he rubbed onto the burnt skin, then he bound it with a clean strip of linen cloth. “We always keep some of these for bandages,” he explained. “I am sorry we have no milk o’ the poppy.”
Greta shook her head. “No matter,” she answered, shrugging. “I will be fine.” She sounded braver than she felt, and having Finn’s big hands all over her had made her feel weak with longing.
“Now ye will eat, Greta, or I will force it down yer throat,” he promised as he escorted her back to the fire. He had not been unaffected by the sight of the soft creamy flesh of Greta’s bare flesh and was still trying to tame the unruly urges of his body.
There was a steaming cauldron of thick porridge hanging above the fire, and as Finn ladled it out for her, Greta felt her stomach rumbling again. She had never been very fond of porridge, especially the plain, unseasoned kind she was eating now, which had nothing but oat grains and water in it. Yet now it tasted like nectar, and when Finn gave her a small wedge of cheese and a cup of ale, it seemed as if it was the best meal she had ever tasted.
“Did ye like it?” Finn asked. “I cooked it myself.”
“Aye, it was grand,” she replied, trying and failing not to smile.
Finn looked at the curve of her lips and smiled back, but Greta turned away, and presently Liam engaged her in conversation.
He and Finn looked very similar, yet there was something about Liam she instinctively did not like. Whenever she glanced in his direction, he was looking at her, but when their eyes met, his gaze slid away from her. When she studied him a little more closely, she could see that there were many differences in his and Finn’s appearances that she had not noticed before.
Finn was heftier, but she had picked up on that difference at once. However, Liam’s eyes were gray, his hair a shade lighter, almost completely red. Moreover, although handsome, his features were coarser and bigger than Finn’s, but then, they were not twins, and the dissimilarity between them was small. However, there was still something about Liam’s manner toward her that made her uneasy, although she could not quite put her finger on it.
“How are ye feelin’?” he asked politely. “Finn is worried about ye.”