She sat on the edge of the bed nearest the stairs and undid her gown, pulling it down to her waist. That did not give her access to the wound at her waist so she stood up and allowed it to fall further down. She then grabbed the bottom of her shift and rolled that up until she could see what was happening with her injury.
Untying the torn piece of her shift she had used as a bandage, one she noticed nervously was wet with blood, she tossed it aside and looked carefully at the wound. It looked to be a wider cut than it had and she wondered if that was because she had fallen on it. It was possible that she had erred by not stitching it, but her stomach had turned at the thought of stitching herself up. She had enough trouble just seeing her own blood leaving her body. Ripping another strip of cloth off her shift, she carefully tied it over the wound and then dressed.
When she stood up she swayed for a moment and feared she was about to swoon, but the feeling passed. Grabbing up the bloody rag, she intended to slip it into her bag as she went by it. It would probably be a good idea to mention her wound to Gybbon, but she feared he would insist they stop and tend it, perhaps even make her take to a bed for a few days. She had no time for that. When she was safe somewhere and had her young brother safe beside her, then she would see to her own hurts.
She sat down across from Gybbon at the table, the chessboard between them. He won the chance to make the first move, so she focused all her thoughts on each move to make after that, determined to win. He was one of those players who had to carefully think over every move while making soft sounds to indicate all his deep thoughts. She was tempted to throw the pawn he lingered so long over right at his head, but she was closing in on him until he finally made the next move and won.
Mora did not like losing but had to admit he had earned the win. He was as good as her father and she had only beaten her father once. It would have delighted her father to match himself against another good player, she thought, as she picked up the pieces and carefully put them back in the box.
Gybbon watched her and could see the shadow of grief touch her face again. He suspected she had played against her father and thought of him. Such moments would come often, he thought, but he hoped she would soon reach the time when such fleeting thoughts warmed her heart instead of stinging her eyes with tears.
As soon as she finished putting the chess pieces away, he took her by the arm and helped her up the stairs. She was looking very pale and he suspected that loss of color had nothing to do with grief. He wondered if the small wound she had mentioned was worse than she had led him to believe. The moment they reached Sigimor and his wife, he would have her looked at. He would do it himself but suspected that would be bluntly refused. The only way he would be able to tend her wound would be if she collapsed from it.
Once in the room, he chose the bed by the stairs and left her to the window bed. He was somewhat disappointed that there would not be any sharing of a bed, but this was easier. And the bed by the stairs was the best one to take if one was concerned about intruders, he reminded himself. He went to pull the blanket down, then frowned at it for a moment. It had blood on it. Only a few spots, but a light touch told him it was fresh, for it was still damp. Her wound was troubling her and, if she did not say something soon, he would demand a few honest answers.
“I dinnae wear clothes when I sleep in a proper bed, so ye may wish to turn away now.” He grinned when she did so with impressive speed.
Once in the bed, he tugged up the covers and settled into a surprisingly comfortable mattress. Someone had made sure the bed was well kept. If he ever found out whom, he would have to thank them. Hearing nothing, he glanced over his shoulder and saw only a bundle of blond curls over the top of the blankets on the other bed. Turning back to face the stairs, he closed his eyes and hoped they would have a trouble-free day on the morrow.
Chapter Five
“How long do ye think it will take us to get to Dubheidland from here?” Mora asked as he helped her mount behind him this time. She tried to take her mind off how it made her feel to sit so close to the man, her arms around his waist.
“Weel, it may take near an hour to reach the place where we have to turn off and take a new path. At the pace we have been setting it could be another day and a half until we reach the keep. But I ken this path and there will be another cottage to shelter in. ’Tis also why I have set ye behind me this time. We may be able to set a better pace this way.”
“Would it be safe to use them? What if the ones who own them come round and find us there?”
“It will be safe.”
“Who owns them?”
“The Camerons. As soon as we take the new path we will be on their land. There used to be a lot more people, but the fever took so many and, sadly, many of the ones left behind arenae ready or willing to live in them.”
“Are there no drovers or shepherds or farmers to take them and work?”
“Oh, aye. A few have been placed, sworn loyalty to the clan and all, and carry on the work of the ones who used to live there, but when ye lose so many people and dinnae really trust some of the other clans’ men, it takes a long while to get back all that was lost. Travelers to Dubheidland use them and occasionally some of those damned MacFingals when they come round.”
She laughed. Every time he spoke of those men he got grumpy. Mora found herself looking forward to meeting them and rather hoped some of them were visiting when she arrived.
“I am surprised he doesnae have others just slipping in and taking the cottages over.”
“That rarely happens, and when ye meet Sigimor ye will understand why. He has allowed one or two to stay, but he is training others in what is needed so he can fill the houses with his own people as quickly as possible. It hasnae been all that quick, really, near on twenty years, but he wants to be absolutely sure of any person he allows to live on Cameron land.”
Mora shook her head. “I cannae imagine losing so much of one’s clan. ’Tis a miracle he didnae lose his entire family, only his parents and some of the other elder people. My mother was verra concerned as Sigimor was nay so verra old himself and had a lot of siblings to care for. As I told ye, after meeting him, she decided he could deal with it.”
“Och, aye, he dealt with it weel, though I suspicion his brothers might argue that. I will warn ye, Sigimor is no courtier. He is a mon who says just what he thinks e’en when he shouldnae. Just a wee warning so ye are prepared.”
“Weel, thank ye for that, but I believe my mother said much the same. My da thought he was a wonderful mon.” She could not stop the sigh that escaped her as she missed her parents more than she could say.
He felt her rest her head against his back and wished she was seated in front of him again so that he could pat her on the back. Instead he patted her on her hands, which rested on his belly. Her words carried the weight of the grief she suffered and he doubted a pat on her hand, no matter how well meant, would do anything to ease it. Gybbon suspected she would have done well enough if her cousins were not so determined to grab hold of all her parents had left behind and kill her and her only surviving brother, a child.
Gybbon could understand a man wanting to better himself. He could easily understand a man wanting a fine house and some land to bring his bride to. What he found difficult to comprehend was the ones who cheated or killed their own kin to gain such things.
“Weel, I wouldnae say wonderful”—he chuckled—“but I do like the mon and I trust him.”
“Since he is the one my parents wanted me and Andrew to run to, I must assume they trusted him as weel.”
“Aye, and your fither probably saw Sigimor’s ability to protect ye and the boy.”
“Are they truly all redheads? I remember a lot of boys and a lot of red hair.”
“Every shade of red and, aye, they are mostly boys, only having one sister. She wed a mon from the MacEnroy clan.”