The Highlander. Heather Grothaus

out of bed, but by her prickly behavior, Conall had thought it best to let her be and get accustomed to the fact that he was still at the hut. Obviously, he’d been mistaken, but he would be more than pleased to build a fire for Eve Buchanan, aye.

      In fact, he’d do it right now.

      Alinor came trotting out of the wood, sparkling with snow, and met Conall at the door. The wolf looked up at him expectantly.

      “You’re a wolf,” Conall whispered. “Do you nae wish to be out in the wild?” He swept an arm around to indicate the clearing. “’Tis nice, is it nae?”

      Alinor raised a paw and scratched once at the door, then looked at Conall again.

      Conall sighed and shoved the door open, admitting the beast reluctantly. He followed her inside and left the door ajar in preparation for laying the fire.

      Conall frowned when he saw that Eve was still abed—Alinor had swiftly rejoined her with a graceful leap. He told himself that she might not have drifted off to sleep quickly last night, a strange man being about. He stacked some rotting peat on a loose pile of kindling, and smoke soon curled toward the ceiling.

      That chore done, he stood near the bed, looking down at Eve’s still, slight form. He didn’t wish to wake her, but he could not locate the hut’s fine, large crock and he had need to water the sheep. Eve’s back was to the room and Alinor had her wide head resting on the curve of Eve’s hip.

      “Eve?” Conall called softly and reached out a hand to place it on her shoulder. In a flash, Alinor growled and snapped her powerful jaws but a hairsbreadth from Conall’s smallest finger.

      “You bitch,” Conall hissed, snatching his hand back and glaring at the animal.

      Alinor’s lips quivered with a final, breathy growl before she laid her head down again.

      “Eve,” Conall called more loudly, keeping a wary eye on the wolf.

      The form under the covers twitched. “Go away.” She sounded more than half asleep.

      “I’ve need to get the sheep water and us some food—where’s the pot you cook in, lass?”

      She didn’t reply for several moments, so that Conall was readying to turn her over himself—and wrestle the wolf to do so, more likely than nae. He was growing concerned at the woman’s lethargy. From their meeting last night, he hadn’t gotten the impression that Eve Buchanan was a layabout.

      But then she did speak. “I don’t cook in the pot. Cook on the spit. Meat over there.” She raised an arm from beneath the blanket to point past Conall and when she did, her loose sleeve slid up past her elbow. “On the shelf.”

      Conall’s head drew back—the woman’s spindly right arm was mottled with purple and green bruises.

      She drew the covers back over her shoulder, hiding her arm from view. “Now, do go ’way.”

      “What happened to your arm, lass?” Conall asked carefully. “Did you fall?”

      He saw her head move slightly, a jerky nod. “Through the smoke hole. When I found the hut.”

      Conall felt his worry ease, although with bruises like that, the lass was lucky she hadn’t broken anything. He crossed the floor to the shelf and surveyed the pitiful supply of dry-cooked horsemeat. “When was that, Eve?” he asked conversationally over his shoulder. “How long have you been at Ronan’s hut?”

      A long pause, then, “I know not—a month? Mayhap…longer.”

      Conall froze. The bruises should have long since faded. He thought of her sudden lethargy.

      Not wishing to have his arm removed, Conall moved quickly to the door once more and opened it wide.

      “Come on, you bea—Alinor,” he amended, gesturing through the portal. He had to get rid of the wolf in order to confirm his dire suspicion.

      The wolf looked at him disinterestedly.

      Conall stepped through the doorway. “Come on, then.” He slapped his hands on his thighs, feeling the ultimate fool. “To me, Alinor. Lovely, to me.”

      The wolf unfolded herself slowly, stretched leisurely, and at last stepped from the bed. Crossing the floor with an inky swagger, she stood before Conall, still inside the hut. She looked as though she knew exactly what the man was about and had no intention whatsoever of exiting the house.

      But fate chose to smile upon Conall for once, and sent a rabbit to bumble into the clearing at just that moment.

      Alinor was through the doorway and across the narrow clearing in a black blur.

      Conall ducked back inside and closed the door. After pausing for only an instant, narrow-eyed, he dropped the bar in place—just in case. Then he quickly crossed to the bed, taking hold of Eve’s shoulder and pulling her gently onto her back.

      “What are you doing, sir?” she demanded groggily, and Conall noticed then the deep purple circles beneath her eyes. “Unhand me at once.”

      “Shh…Eve, I must look inside your mouth, lass.” He reached his fingertips to either side of her face.

      “What? You’ll do no such thing.” She tried to turn her head away weakly.

      But Conall easily pushed her lips away from her teeth with his thumbs and what he saw in that brief moment confirmed his fear.

      Eve began to struggle in earnest and Conall released her, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Eve, listen to me, lass—you are verra ill. You’ve had naught but horsemeat to eat since you’ve come?”

      Eve’s eyes narrowed over flushed cheeks. “What else is there to eat, I’d like to know. I’m not ill, MacKerrick, only tired.”

      Conall nodded, not wanting to further upset her. “Where’s the pot, lass?”

      “Buried.”

      Conall blinked. “Buried?”

      “I cooked all the meat I could, put it in the pot, and buried it. But there’s not much left to be had,” Eve answered wearily. She sighed as if in defeat. “Under the large, flat rock, straightaway from the door. Mayhap twenty paces.”

      Conall was stunned for a moment by the woman’s ingenuity. He’d had no idea until now how dire Evelyn Buchanan’s situation had been when she’d found Ronan’s hut. ’Twas little wonder she was territorial over the small sod house.

      “Well done, lass.” He smiled at her. “You just take your rest and I’ll return in a bit.” Conall kept the smile on his face even when Eve only frowned and rolled away to face the wall once more.

      He had to hurry.

      It seemed to Evelyn that no sooner had MacKerrick left her be at last, he was immediately returned to the hut, making a cacophony of racket. She dozed during this time, frowning to herself at the aching in her joints. Once, Alinor rudely shoved her cold, wet nose into the warm crook of Evelyn’s neck, but quickly retreated after MacKerrick chastised the wolf with a string of Gaelic spoken too quickly for Evelyn to decipher. She drifted away once more.

      Then he was pulling at her shoulder again, coaxing her to roll over, his hand like a branding iron through her thin sleeve.

      “Eve,” he called, his palm skimming down her arm to her hand. He molded her fingers around a warm, smooth object. “Take hold of it now, and drink.”

      Evelyn opened her heavy eyelids to look first into Conall MacKerrick’s face and then at the object he’d placed in her hand. ’Twas an earthen mug, steam rising deliciously off the reddish liquid within and releasing a scent that was familiar to Eve, but one that she could not put name to.

      “What is it?” she asked, drawing herself up on one elbow. She noted with a queer hitch in her stomach the way the highlander had snaked one long arm behind her shoulders expertly to bolster her—his muscled