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can help me to walk,” the Scot answered. The words strained through teeth clenched tight against the pain of his wound.
    Carefully, she weaved her arm underneath the man so that his wounded flank was between them. Gripping his waist on the opposite side, she coaxed him to drape his arm over her shoulder. He cried out in anguish when she helped him to stand, and for a terrifying moment she feared the noise would alert the guard to their presence. But as the seconds passed, there was no movement or sound save for the crows. With an exhaled breath of relief, Jane moved on with the Scot.
    The man led them farther into the forest, though in which direction she could hardly guess. After only a few minutes he began to weaken, and the pace with which he deteriorated from there was frighteningly rapid. To keep him moving, she took to offering words of encouragement through the slow and laborious journey. Twice he stumbled—the second time so badly that his scream of agony made her wince as if she herself were suffering his pain. Somehow, with much patience and effort, she convinced him to stand and continue.
    They walked for what seemed like an hour, perhaps two. The changing light of the sky that filtered down through the trees signalled the advancing day. From the distance they’d gone she thought it might not be more than a half-hour’s brisk walk on her own, but the wounded man’s pace was so very slow. As they ventured farther and farther into the woods, she began to worry that the man, in his state of oncoming delirium, did not actually have a destination, and she feared that they were terribly lost.
    But then, she saw it, and at first she had to blink for she did not quite believe her eyes. A forest stream wended its way through the dense growth. On its banks, in a small clearing ... was a hut.
    An abandoned hut, by the looks of it, but still in good enough repair that the wattle and daub walls would likely not collapse upon them. With as much haste as her wounded companion could allow, Jane guided him to the crude door of woven reeds. Inside, the rotting rushes which had been long ago laid gave off a rich, earthy smell. The thickness of the odour, though itself not entirely unpleasant, overwhelmed her nostrils, and instinctively she covered her face with her hand until she had grown accustomed to it.
    A stone fireplace, still in very good condition unlike the walls and roof surrounding it, was built into the opposite wall from the door. Leading him to it, she helped the Scot lie down on the rotting rushes. He panted heavily from his effort to walk, and his entire body was slick with perspiration.
    “I must remove your shirt, sir,” she warned first so that he would not instinctively fight her again.
    When he made no move to stop her, Jane raised the hem, pulling it up his torso and over his head. He tried to assist her, but his weakness and his pain limited his movements. She managed nonetheless, and a more clear view of the wound confirmed what she already knew—that his fever and his infection would kill him.
    She watched his face as he flinched and battled through his pain. His was a pleasant face—one that looked like it might light up with a laugh or grow tender at the sight of a babe. A handsome face, the eyes wide and a vivid green beneath dark brows and rugged, well-defined features. A sense of pity and of loss overcame her. It was a shame such a handsome young man would die.
    She gave herself a stern mental shake, astonished that so ridiculous a thought would come to her at such a moment. Handsome or not, he was a savage Scot. A MacGillivray. An enemy to her husband’s people. Besides, his handsomeness was for naught, since she was fairly certain that she could do nothing for him.
    Though she would try.
    “I shall just step outside to the river,” she informed the man with a light touch to his hand. “That wound needs cleaning.”
    When he did not answer, she took the only vessel she could find—the