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flung out the four-yard-long blue and black plaid on top of
it and quickly gathered it into pleats. She had done this before
and plenty. For Baigh Shaw, the venomed whoreson.
    “There now.” She rose. “Can you do the rest
yourself?”
    “Aye and I thank you.” Cursed kilt. He
should’ve worn trews on the day of the battle, but he hadn’t
expected to be fighting.
    When she disappeared out the door, he limped
over and lay down naked on the pleated material. No easy task with
pain wracking his body. He grasped both sides of the belt and
fastened it around his waist. Teeth clenched together, he pushed
himself up onto his feet and adjusted the kilt until it hung to his
satisfaction. After finding his brooch in his sporran, he fashioned
the top ends of his plaide into a sash. He wished he had a
shirt. He didn’t relish going about like a bare-chested
barbarian.
    Pulling the seal ring from his sporran, he
frowned. No doubt Gwyneth knew its significance, but no time to
worry about that now. He replaced it and strapped the pouch around
his waist.
    Being careful of his broken toe, he slipped
on his shoes. His injuries were not severe enough to stop him from
escaping this godforsaken place as soon as he could.
    Nighttime would be the best time to leave,
but he would have a harder time finding his way. How he wished he
had a sword.
    Gwyneth returned a moment later. Her gaze
stroked over his bare chest. He knew it wasn’t so appealing with
its bruises, cuts and scars. But her face flushed just the same.
Did she see him as a man now, since he was dressed, rather than
just her patient?
    “I see you had no trouble dressing. You are
more recovered than I thought.”
    “Aye. Why did you not tell me Baigh Shaw was
your husband?” His question came out harsher than he’d
intended.
    “You knew him?”
    “Indeed.”
    Her eyes rounded. “Did Rory tell you
that?”
    “Never mind how I figured it out.”
    “I take it you were not fond of Baigh.”
    “Canny lass,” Alasdair muttered, then
narrowed his eyes, gauging her fearful expression.
    She took one step back and clenched her hands
before her. “What did he do?”
    “I don’t wish to speak of it.” Hell, why had
he said anything.
    “Very well. I’ll leave you alone then.” Her
wary gaze remained locked on him until she disappeared out the
door.
    Long minutes later, Alasdair limped to the
door and peered out at the surroundings. The byre and cottage sat
in a tiny sheltered cove just off the glen. A stand of black pines
grew thick on the sloping hills behind the cottage, and a few
shaggy black cattle grazed further down toward the glen. He spied
no one around. It was time to take his leave of this place.
    Holding onto the rough stone wall of the
byre, he limped outside. The fresh air, washed clean with the rain
the night before, pushed back a bit of the fogginess in his
throbbing head. The sun warmed his face and lightened his mood. He
said a prayer of thanks that he had survived. Glancing around, he
made sure he was alone.
    Pain shot up from his foot with each step,
but he continued on his way, hobbling toward the edge of the wood.
God’s truth, if he was going to limp like an old man, he’d need the
staff of an old man. He would sharpen the top and make a spear.
More cumbersome than a sword, but still highly effective for
defense.
    After choosing a small oak tree to his
satisfaction, he whittled at the wood with his dagger. Inhaling the
scent of green tree sap, he wondered if Gwyneth could have provided
the powdered meadow saffron Shaw had slipped into Alasdair’s
father’s ale. Why, then, had she saved his life? Perhaps she was
trying to appease her own guilt.
    Since Rory was almost six, obviously she’d
been married to Shaw at the time.
    His spear sharpened, Alasdair didn’t have
time to linger and discover the truth. He glanced back to make sure
no one watched him. All remained silent and still. He limped deeper
into the cool forest, his footsteps releasing the