Page 6 of Enchanted

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Keiran opened hiseyes as the world swam, swirled around him. He drew a deep breath, trying to replenish the energy he had given her. The animals he healed never strained his energy, but he had experienced this same sensation when he had healed himself after a fall that snapped the bone in his arm.

When his vision cleared, he looked out at the fallen men around her. Their bodies were limp and twisted. When he regained his strength, he would try to help those who still lived.

His gaze returned to her face. Her eyes were still closed, but tears spilled from beneath her dark lashes to race past a small, straight nose and onto chiselled cheekbones. Yet what fascinated him most of all was the smattering of freckles across her alabaster skin. Instead of detracting from her beauty, the small reddish marks only heightened her appeal.

Keiran studied the spots. There was a small cluster on her left cheek that almost looked as though the freckles were smiling at him. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he swallowed hard. He was so close. Close enough to kiss her. A kiss was not part of the healing, but he could justify that it was, as all logic fled from his mind. “I promise to keep you safe,” he whispered, closing the distance between them and gently brushing his lips against hers. He should have felt the softness of her flesh. Instead, a pulse of magic flared, moving back from her into him, sending tingles across his flesh. How was such a thing possible?

The woman in his arms inhaled sharply and her eyes drifted open. Deep hazel pools of colour stared up at him. Her tongue came out to moisten her lips. She tried to speak, but only a small sound came forth. She swallowed roughly and tried again. “Who . . . who are you?”

“Lie still. You were injured. Give your body time to heal.” He drew back slightly, still pondering how she had been able to pass a bit of his magic back to him.

She tensed. “Do not . . . leave me.”

“I am not going anywhere,” he whispered, leaning into her once more. At the close contact, her eyes drifted closed, and Keiran could feel the heat he had put there, heat that would eventually completely heal her wound.

Keiran studied her face as a tinge of pink returned to her cheeks. This woman, whoever she was, unsettled him. And he was usually not unsettled by anything. From the moment he’d first seen her among her men, he’d been assailed by unfamiliar emotions, half of which he could neither name nor identify. Part of him wanted to kiss her again to see if that flare of magic would return, another part of him wanted to run as far and as fast away from her as he could.

And yet, he simply held her as the afternoon sun drifted lower towards the horizon. After she relaxed and appeared as if she were asleep, he lifted her in his arms and moved her out of the pool of blood in which they sat, onto fresh spring grass. He had just settled her into the grass when her eyes fluttered open.

“Was it a dream?” she asked, looking up at him. Her hands drifted to her midriff, exploring the wet, sticky blood his magic could not remove. With a furrowed brow, she lifted bloody hands from her stomach and brought them before her eyes.

She flinched. “I was dying. I remember seeing the world slipping away.” Her forehead creased. “Then there was you. I saw you fighting the British soldiers.” She tried to sit up. “British soldiers? Why were they attacking me?”

Keiran supported her back until she could sit up on her own. It was then that Keiran saw more clearly the deep bruise upon her cheek, the cut to her lip, and that one eye was starting to discolour. “Why is it so surprising that the British attacked you?”

“Because I am English.” Her breath came in big gulps, and trembling shook her body. “My own people attacked me.” Then her eyes widened. “One of them called me an abomination.”

“Shh,” he said in a soothing tone. “It is all right. You are safe with me.” Keiran tightened his arm about her waist.

She glanced about her at the bodies on the ground and tears welled in her eyes. “Matthew, Henry, Richard, Thomas, and Fredrick . . . they are . . . all dead. Why? Who would hate me this much?” The woman’s voice shook with pain and shock, making it difficult to understand her words. She took a deep breath and ran a hand across her face, wincing at the pain of her own touch as she tried to collect herself.

“The English soldiers came out of nowhere,” she continued. “I tried to move away, out of the conflict, but he kept pursuing me. He lifted his sword . . . I tried to make him stop . . . but he stabbed me.” Her hands returned to her blood-soaked dress. Her fingers poked through the hole in her once lovely gown. A sob tore from her throat, and she turned her face into Keiran’s chest. He let her cry until the worst of her tears were past.

Worried about the passing of time and the possibility of more Englishmen in the vicinity, Keiran finally said in his calmest voice, “Come, we should check for survivors and get you to a safer location.”

At her nod, Keiran stood, taking the woman with him. She was quiet now as she wiped the tears from her cheeks with her arm. Carefully, Keiran lifted her into his arms and set her on the back of her horse.

“Thank you for staying nearby, Petunia,” she cooed to the brown and white mare. The dutiful animal had stayed near her mistress all through the fighting and had lingered even when the woman had been injured.

Keiran moved to each of the men nearby.

“Do any of my men yet live?” she asked hopefully.

He shook his head and turned away from the crestfallen look that tugged at his heart. He moved to the redcoats. Eight remained and, of those, only one man still breathed, though barely. Not wanting to demonstrate his healing powers in front of the woman, Keiran lifted the man and placed him in front of the saddle across his horse, face down. Then he mounted behind the fallen soldier. “Come, we will find safety back at Dunvegan.”

“I have heard of that castle before. It is home to the MacLeods.” Her gaze shifted from his face to his tartan then back again, her eyes wide with fear. “You are a Scot?”

“I am the man who saved you. What does my being Scottish have to do with anything?” he asked, confused by her response.

The fear lessened in her eyes. “You do not look to be one of the barbarians my brother always made the Scots out to be.”

“And you do not look to be the monster my brothers claim the English are.” He looked back at the red-coated men on the ground. “Though these men might prove my brothers correct. You have no idea why they were attacking you?”

She sobered and shook her head. “Nothing that makes sense.”

He mounted his horse behind the last living redcoat. “Perhaps this man might be able to shed some light on that situation when we take him back to Dunvegan.” Shifting his attention from the man to the woman on the horse beside him, he asked, “Are you able to ride or should I lead your horse?” The horses tossed their heads as though eager to be underway and away from the battlefield.