Page 5 of The Guardian

Foolish girl, she cursed inwardly. She hadn’t checked for a blow to his head. Heart hammering, Ailith ran her fingers through the thick waves. Her fingertips searched his scalp, parting strands with care until she reached the base of his skull near the nape.

Her breath caught.

A swollen lump rose beneath her touch. Dried blood clung to the matted strands, and when she withdrew her hand, her fingers were streaked crimson. She let out a breath she’d been holding.

Thank God his hair had staunched the bleeding, but that changed little. Head wounds were treacherous. Slow to show their toll and often times fatal.

He needed to wake.

She rushed to her small bedchamber, snatched two thick blankets, and rolled them tightly around logs from the hearth. Returning to his side, she lifted his head gently and slid the makeshift props beneath his neck and shoulders, elevating him to ease the pressure.

Once he was settled, she pulled a fresh cover over his hips and legs, both for warmth and for modesty. It took all her strength to not stare at his muscular body. It struck her that even injured the man looked powerful and strong.

“Hendry,” she whispered, dipping a cloth in cold water and dabbing it gently across his face. His skin was cool, his color still too pale. “Ye must awaken.”

She tried again. And again.

Cool water. A soft shake. Her voice, rising with urgency. “Hendry, ye must open yer eyes!”

At last, his eyelids fluttered, lashes twitching before lifting just enough to reveal hazy, unfocused blue eyes. He looked at her with a furrowed brow, a faint moan escaping his lips.

Relief washed over Ailith.

“Ye must stay awake,” she urged, touching his cheek. His eyes began to drift shut again, and she gave him a firmer shake. “Do ye hear me, Hendry?”

A breath. Then, “Aye,” he rasped.

Her shoulders lowered as she studied him and reached to touch the side of his neck. His pulse was steady, and the bleeding on his side had finally staunched. The worst might be behind them.

Now all she could do was tend his wound and pray the man she once loved would still be himself when he woke fully.

The contrast of his bright blue eyes to his almost black hair was arresting, and even more so, as he quietly regarded her as she administered to his head wound. Without any additional bandages, all she could do was wash out the wound. The next day, she would inspect it and see about perhaps stitching it closed if need be.

He’d fallen asleep, and she worried that he’d not wake.

Deciding it was best to stay close and waken him regularly, she set about dragging the slumbering man to her bedchamber.

“Come, Teller, we have another laborious task to complete before eating.”