“’Tis.”
“How in the world did I end up here?”
“I carried you after yer injury,” he said, coming out of the shadows and closer to the side of the bed. “My mother tended to you. She said you should be well in due time.”
“Yes, she said as such to me as well,” Rachel responded, still somewhat perplexed at how she had come to be here, and the absurdity of finding herself in this man’s room.
“Are ye feeling much better?”
“I — yes, I suppose I am.” She must be healing, as she hadn’t much thought of her leg until he had mentioned it. She gingerly tried to move it to and fro, wincing as she did so, as the pain gathered at the bullet entry point and shot up her leg.
“Would you like more of my mother’s concoction for the pain?” he asked, standing awkwardly next to her as if wanting to stay but unsure of what to say.
“No, thank you,” she replied. “It would cause me to sleep again, and I feel I have slept enough for a good while. Can you tell me what happened — in the woodland?”
He sighed and looked around, then pulled a saddle seat chair from the corner of the room and removing the plaid lying across the back before sitting on it next to her. She realized this was all rather improper, the two of them alone in his bedroom, but at the moment she didn’t much care. She longed for company, as she was alone so often that any bit of camaraderie — well, from most people, for she could use less from the likes of Vincent — was welcomed.
“We were traveling through the woodland on the hunt when I realized we were short a man,” he said. “As you are aware, we had stopped to determine who it was, and I realized it was Mr. Thompson. Rory was going to retrace our path to look for him when two shots rang out. Do you recall hearing them? Anyway, next thing I knew ye were on the ground. From what I can gather, Mr. Thompson had seen a stag through the trees and decided to chase after it on his own. He didn’t realize he had circled around and was coming upon the hunting party when he shot. He caught you with his first bullet; the stag with his second.”
Her cheeks flamed in anger as well as embarrassment for the behavior of their whole company. What these people must think of them, she wasn’t sure, but it likely was not with much favor.
“I — I’m sorry, Mr. McDougall,” she said, looking down at her hands. “We have brought you nothing but trouble, and I’m sure you will be glad to be rid of us.”
“Call me Adam,” he said, the corners of his mouth ever so slightly upturned in what nearly resembled a smile. “I dinna believe I’ve ever been called Mr. McDougall in my life.”
“Adam, then,” she said with a small smile of her own. “And please, call me Rachel. You’ve saved my life, so I suppose we should be on much more familiar terms.”
“I didna save your life,” he said, shaking his head. “Though my mother fixed ye up quite nicely. And ye must take it easy or you could find your leg infected.”
“No matter. You brought me here in good time, and knew what I needed,” she said, then added more somberly, “Perhaps you were right. Perhaps I should not have gone on that hunt. I just wanted — needed — to take in more of this country. This land calls to me, in a strange way.”
“Of course I was right,” he said indignantly, and she tried to stamp down the ire that rose in her throat. “Though you did as I asked and stayed with the group. ’Twas that idiot’s fault for taking it upon himself to do as he pleased and not consider the rest of us. And I willna apologize for speaking against him. He may be your fiancé but he’s a dolt.”
“He most certainly is not my fiancé,” she said. “My father would wish it, but I cannot say the same.”
“Then why are you here with the both of them?” He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, and she longed to reach forward and brush aside the lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.
“I wanted to see somewhere besides England,” she said with a shrug. “I have little to do at home. As interested as I may be in my father’s business, I am still a woman, and he would prefer to train someone like Vincent — the dolt — instead.”
“Then yer father’s an idiot as well.”
As he uttered the words, they heard a banging below them, and then a loud voice resonating as it carried up the stairs.
“McDougall! Where are you, and what have you done with my daughter?”
“Bloody hell,” muttered Adam, then rose and strode out of the room without another word to her, shutting the door firmly behind him.
As Adam descended the stairs, he found Hardwick Trenton standing in the middle of the great hall, his short stature and soft frame completely out of place surrounded by Finlay, Roderick, and Duncan. When the man heard Adam’s footfalls on the stairs, he turned and pointed to him. “You,” he sputtered, “had better not have been alone with my daughter up there.”
Adam gave the man a tense, forced smile. “Nay, sir, she has been sleeping off the pain of her injury. Were you lost?”
“What do you mean, was I lost?” the man blustered.
“’Tis been hours since we left you. In fact, night has fallen. Were you not concerned about your daughter?”
“Of course I was,” said Trenton indignantly. “It simply took some time to find where I was going. Now, what have you done with her? I hardly want to think of what sort of backward treatment you’ve provided her.”
“That would be my treatment you
