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enough time convincing him she was no threat nor burden to their clan with her odd speech and manner of dress, not to mention her unborn bairn. She didn’t need to be associated with a mysterious box on top of it all. Best for all involved if he kept it to himself for the time being.
    * * * *
     
    Melanie’s problems settled into the background as she followed Archie’s instructions in cleaning and binding wounds until he could get to them with his thread and needle. Broken bones were left for the physician at Ackergill, who she guessed was too valuable to be risked in skirmishes. The man with the lung injury was transferred to a pallet in the back of the wagon, where Archie informed her in a subdued voice he would likely die on the way back to the village.
    If anything could keep her mind off her predicament, it was the weight of injury and death casting a pall over Archie’s rudimentary field hospital. But even with the heavy atmosphere, the men bantered good-naturedly with her and availed themselves of any and every opportunity to pinch her bottom. The first time, it had been the man with the profusely bleeding thigh. She’d changed his soaked bandage and tied another around the wound so tight he’d winced and asked her if she were trying to sever his leg in twain. When she’d turned to separate another length of linen from Archie’s stash, he’d grabbed a handful of her rear end through her skirt and given it a sharp jiggle. She’d spun around and slapped him. Then she’d hastily apologized when he reminded her with a wince how badly his leg hurt. The other men had caught on and, well, her butt was starting to throb–and her left eye was starting to twitch–from all the attention.
    More men came into the clearing, both wounded and “hale,” as Archie referred to the able-bodied. Fortunately, the wounds sported by the newcomers were mostly minor. Not twenty-first century minor, but minor in the sense that nothing major had been cut off and the men were functionally ambulatory. Several men helped themselves to Archie’s stash of bandages and then pitched in with the more grievously wounded. From their boisterous banter, she gathered the skirmish was over and the Keiths had come out victorious.
    Good. If the men she’d met were a representative sample, she wasn’t a fan of “the Gunn.”
    She searched the milling two-dozen or so men for a tall head of honey-blond hair, but didn’t see Darcy. Worry tightened her chest. Had he been hurt too badly to make it back? Why did that thought disturb her so deeply? She’d just met the man. And he’d spent half the time she’d known him annoying her.
    A tall man strode into the clearing, tall being relative to those in the clearing, and since Darcy wasn’t there, the man qualified as tall. He had short brown hair and a closely-trimmed beard and said in a booming voice, “Well fought, kinsmen. The Gunn will think twice about trespassing on Keith land again.” A round of victorious shouts rent the damp air. “Gloaming comes. ’Tis time to return to our ale and our women.” This elicited raucous cheers, punctuated by hoots and whistles. The man smiled briefly, then squinted around as if doing a mental headcount. “Where’s Big Darcy?”
    “Here I am,” came a smooth, deep voice from the trees. When a honey-blond head poked through, followed by a blessedly hale, broad-shouldered body, her chest relaxed.
    His eyes found hers, then darted away. He trudged through the men to the wagon where she lost sight of all but the top of his head in the small crowd. She jostled her way through the milling Keith to find him and ask whether he’d found the box, but the bearded man stopped her.
    “And just who might you be?” he asked with a firm hand on her shoulder. His ice-blue eyes flashed with suspicion and promises of punishment if he didn’t like her answer. Her neck prickled with warning. This was a dangerous man.
    They’re all dangerous men. Tread carefully,