Free Carnal Gift by Pamela Clare

brink by bindin’ him with a rope that was used to hang a man who survived the hangin’.”
    She glared at him. “If you come by just such a rope, Rhuaidhri, I suggest you go hang yourself with it. For if he dies, you’ll have murdered a man, and God have mercy on your soul!”
    She ignored the stricken look on her brother’s face, walked to the table, and began to sort through her herbs and ointments. Powder of horseradish she had, and lavender oil. She had oil of thyme, as well, and powdered holly berries. The bog moss was almost dried and ready for use. If only she had turpentine.
    “How was I to know? He’s a Sasanach —“ She spun about, faced him. “I know what he is!”
    “But—“
    “You’ve hated the English your entire life, Rhuaidhri. Aye, and so have I. But maybe they’re not all evil. Besides, how much will your life be worth if he dies? Not a farthing!” Rhuaidhri looked at her, his expression one of astonishment—and doubt. “What does he mean to you?” “I already told you. He spared me. He helped me escape.”
    Brighid turned back to the bed, ignored the probing tone in her brother’s voice. She had already told her brothers how Jamie had protected her, but she hadn’t told them everything. She hadn’t told them how Jamie’s kisses had ignited a fever in her blood or how his touch had made her skin tingle. She hadn’t told them how the feel of his tongue entwined with hers had made her knees weak, or how the briefest glimpse of his naked male body had made it hard for her to breathe.
    “Are you sure that’s all he did?”
    “If you don’t believe me, bring the midwife!” Fionn stepped in, shoulders hunched against the cold, his blond hair hidden beneath a blue knitted cap. “What’s the shoutin?”
    “Rhuaidhri seems to think the midwife ought to examine me.” She turned her back on them both, tucked the blanket under Jamie’s chin.
    “I didn’t say—“
    “Don’t dishonor your sister, little brother, or you’ll have me to deal with.” Fionn moved to the fire, wanned his hands. “If you hadn’t opened your bloody gob, Brighid would never have been in danger in the first place. Now come and help me unload the cart.”
    Fionn and Rhuaidhri carried in what supplies Fionn had been able to bring from home—the old oatmeal chest filled halfway, cheese, bainne clabair, butter, a few eggs, bacon, more potatoes, a jar of barm for bread should Brighid get the time to make any, a large pile of peat for the fire.
    Aidan had sent Brighid a little straw cross he’d made. The innocent sweetness of his gift made her smile. She hung it over the doorway, an ache in her heart. Sweet Mary, how she missed him. He was staying with Muirin, who’d sworn to Fionn that caring for the boy would help to ease her grief. A childless mother and a motherless child.
    “There’s plenty of feed for his horse.” Fionn stood beside her, held out a tattered book. “I brought this, too.” “Oh, Fionn.” It was her favorite—the story of Don Bellianis of Greece. Her brothers, Fionn especially, teased her about reading chivalric romances—silly girl stories, Fionn called them—but she loved them. She’d read this one dozens of times and had been lured from dreariness and drudgery by the magic of its worn pages. She reached over, set it on the table. There was no time for reading now.
    She dipped the cloth in the bucket of cold water, wrung it out, placed it back on Jamie’s forehead. She voiced the fear that had haunted her all day. “I’m afraid he’s dying.” She felt Fionn’s reassuring hand on her shoulder.
    “You’ve done everything you can.”
    “No, not everything.” Her mind was made up. She stood, crossed the tiny room to where her cloak hung on a nail by the door. She hesitated, then unfastened her brooch. The dragon’s red eyes gleamed at her, candlelight glinting off the stones like tears.
    It was all she had.
    She turned to Fionn, held out her hand. “Take this to