DARE THE WILD WIND Read Free Page A

saw the torn strip of cloth awkwardly wrapped and knotted around one arm.
    "Iain, you've been shot."  She rushed to him.
    He made a quick dismissing gesture.  "By the grace of God, only grazed.  I thought this was where you'd ride."
    "Let me see," she insisted. 
    "As soon as I hobble my horse." 
    Brenna didn't argue.  She couldn't know how far behind Iain the dragoons were.  It wouldn't do to have the bay wander out of the cave at the wrong moment.  When he was done, he allowed her to unwind his crude bandage.  He had been right.  The wound was still bleeding and ugly, but the shot had passed cleanly through.
    "We'll need to wash it," she said.  "It's going to hurt."
    "Not half as much as when I cauterize it," he said with a grimace as she pulled away the last of the bloody cloth. 
    "We should do that now," she told him.  He shuddered as he thrust his arm into the icy water cascading from the high ledge at the mouth of the cave.
    "Look around you," he said, setting his teeth for a second.  "Do you see any firewood in the cave?"
    "I can find what we need," she reminded him.
    "Not with King George's dragoons scouring the trail behind me.  I was far enough ahead of them I didn't lead them here, but they could stumble across the waterfall by accident."
    "This can't go long without risk of corruption," she objected.
    Iain shook his head.  "In another hour or so, I can find enough dead wood for a fire.  The soldiers will pull back at dusk."
    Brenna knew not even English dragoons would risk breaking their necks in unfamiliar woods at night.  She tore a wide strip of linen from her petticoat.  "At least let me bandage it again."
    Her worry lessened when she saw the wound already bled less.  As she bound it, Iain braced his back against the wall of the cave. The question that drove her to meet Iain burst from her at last.
    "What word do you have of Cam?" she asked, suddenly afraid to hear the reason Iain had come.  "He's not...?"
    At the quick fear he saw in her face, Iain let out a soft, reassuring laugh.  "No Englishman can kill the MacCavan.  Cam is alive and whole, and healthier than I am at the moment."
    Brenna shut her eyes for a second.  "Thank God."
    Her last glimpse of Cam rose up before her again.  Proud and invincible, he had ridden away last August at the head of his clan.  Three feathers in his bonnet, he led the march to join the young Stuart prince when he unfurled his standard at Glenfinnan. 
    There was no man like Cameron MacCavan in all the Highlands.  Brenna had tagged after him and worshiped him from childhood.  And loved him when he grew to manhood.       
    Broad shouldered and muscular, in a land of fierce and powerful men, he was the strongest and swiftest in three counties.  But he could be as gentle as a boy.  And his leonine head could rock back with laughter, shaking the thick mane of russet curls that tumbled over his wide brow.  She had traced the lines of his bluntly chiseled features and kissed him goodbye seven months ago when he rode off to war.  And vowed again to wed him no matter what her half brother Malcolm could say.
    "Why is it my cousin inspires such loyalty in women?"
    Brenna opened her eyes to see Iain's plain, honest face twisted in an odd regretful smile.  "Can no creature of your sex spare a little pity for me?"
    She tightened the knot of his bandage.  "Whenever we offer our pity, you spurn it," she scolded him in jest. 
    "Perhaps pity isn't the word I seek," he joked in return.     
    "Pity is what you should have for at least one girl I could name in your village," she said tartly.  "If you hadn't come to my rescue at the abbey, I'd be sorely tempted to read you a sermon on the subject."
    He recoiled in mock horror.  "No sermons.  Gratitude is enough, and there isn't great need for that.  If my horse hadn't pulled up lame, there'd have been no cause for you to be insulted by those English dogs."
    "Lame?" Brenna looked up. "How did you