Beloved Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

cut from him and helped him into Will’s jack and breeches. She had to pull them over the large gaping wound in his leg, and she heard the swift intake of his breath. No outcry, though, and she was grateful.
    The next problem was getting him on the litter.
    “You will have to help me,” she told him again. “Once I get you to my cottage, I can tend you.”
    He nodded.
    She stood and offered her hand. For a moment he looked at it helplessly.
    “I am strong,” she said.
    He took it and tried to stand. He fell back. She heard voices and stooped beside him, quickly pushing the plaid and shirt underneath the dirt and leaves that had covered him.
    “If anyone challenges you, say nothing. If someone questions me, I will say you are addled but obviously from your dress you are an Englishman. Your life rests on that.”
    He may have forgotten his name, but she saw intelligence in his eyes. He did not question her, but merely nodded. He was very still, and the voices faded again.
    She stood again. “We must go. Every moment is dangerous.”
    She offered her hand, and he tried to stand again. He got to his knees. Pain and determination stiffened his face as he rose on his good leg, then managed, with her help, to get to the other. He put his arm around her and hobbled to the litter, collapsing on it. She tied him there so he would not slip off, then—on foot—guided Magnus toward her cottage.
    She tried to think. She needed to get the Scot to the cottage and tend his wounds. The wound on his leg was the greatest concern. But he had other injuries as well. His breath was short, and it was obviously painful for him to breathe. She had noticed the deep purple and red bruises on his chest, where he’d been struck by a pike or spear. She prayed those injuries would not lead to the lung sickness.
    Then there was the huge knot and bruise on his head that had evidently cost him his memory.
    She urged Magnus forward. She kept looking behind, afraid the Scot would fall off the litter. She didn’t know whether she could get him back on it again, and if she could not . . .
    After safely avoiding the bodies on the battlefield and staying afoot to keep the horse calm, she spotted a fallen log that she could stand on to help her get up on the horse. Once mounted, she kept Magnus at a slow pace to prevent any unnecessary joggling of her charge.
    She prayed she would arrive without meeting anyone on the way. It could well mean his death and her banishment. Or worse.
    EVERY step the horse took sent waves of pain through him.
    He stifled groans. Instinct warned him of danger. It also told him to trust her.
    She said he was a Scot. He knew the word, Scot, but he could not relate it to himself. All he knew was a black void, and the woman’s voice was the only thing he had to hold on to.
    He started to drift away, and then a hard bump sent a new jolt of agony through him, bringing him back to a present he wasn’t sure he wanted. Darkness was easier. Darkness didn’t require answers to questions pounding in his brain.
    Still, he tried to remain conscious. Tried not to allow the darkness to overtake him. He yearned to be drifting into a gray netherland where there was no agony, where the fierce need to understand what and who he was would fade away.
    Think. Remember.
    After what seemed forever, the movement ceased and he was aware of the woman leaning over him, trying to help him to his feet as a dog barked. He tried to stand but couldn’t quite do it, and then he was falling.
    She broke his fall, and he was aware they were both on the ground. New pain rolled through him in continuous waves, almost blinding him in its intensity.
    “Can you move?” she after a pause.
    “Aye, I . . . think so.”
    “A few steps,” she said. “Just a few steps, and we will be inside. There is a bed. I can tend those wounds.”
    With her help he struggled to his feet and managed to stand there. His legs barely held him.
    A step.
    Another.
    He forced himself to