A Fierce Archer (Clan Ross Book 6) by Hildie McQueen (great novels TXT) 📕

sure and blew out a relieved breath that they moved as he commanded. Although it was painful, he shifted and attempted to sit up. It proved impossible to lift himself up, much too painful, so, he gave up and fell back onto the bed with a loud groan.

Why could he not remember anything? It was as if a fog had fallen over the events of the day he was injured. If he’d seen someone, it was possible whoever it was had attacked the farmers. If only he could see the face.

Sliding his hands down his torso, Ewan discovered his entire midsection was bandaged. He’d been wrapped from lower chest to stomach. The cloths were hard from dried blood. When he pressed gently, inch by inch, he found a long wound, just under his right ribcage. He’d been lucky to have been left for dead and that whoever attacked him had not thrust into him another time.

The back of his head throbbed. Reaching back, he felt a large lump. Whoever had sliced him through had obviously attempted to finish him with a blow to the head.

Indeed, he was damned lucky to be alive.

Keithen Ross, the laird’s son, entered. Wearing a heavy tunic and dark trews, the tall man lowered to a chair and crossed his stretched legs at the booted ankles. “We keep our healer busy,” Keithen said with a chuckle.

“Where is the healer?” Ewan asked. If he could get some of the healer’s tonics, it was possible he would be able to sit up.

“Seeing to an injury. One of our guards fell when lowering from the wall and broke his leg.” Keithen studied him for a moment. “Father tells me ye cannot recall what happened.”

“Tis true, I do not remember anything past speaking about going out to the farm. Yer father has asked that I leave as soon as I recover.” Ewan grimaced as a wave of pain seared across his midsection. “I will leave, but I require a bit more time. I have something to finish.”

“I suspect ye have already accomplished more than we know or suspect,” Keithen said and Ewan felt a cold trickle travel down his spine. The man continued. “What else, or should I say who else is on yer list?”

Both he and Keithen had sought revenge against the same group. Those that Keithen had not felled, Ewan had. Together, they’d killed almost every member that had been on duty when both Lady Fraser and Catriona McKay were taken.

Although Keithen had a more understandable reason, Ewan felt just as justified. If asked why he wished to kill them to the detriment of his own life, Ewan could not justify his actions fully. But he hated any kind of mistreatment. He always had.

On the other hand, no one would question Keithen.

One guard in particular, the one with a red birthmark across his face, was the only one that remained alive. He was the leader, the main one who’d raped and beaten Catriona. The bastard and the group of guards he commanded had mercilessly tortured the defenseless woman.

They’d left a shell of what she’d once been, filled with shame that was not justified.

No, he could not justify his actions, other than to admit that her plight had torn through him. One look at her and his entire soul ached for her. If there was such a thing as the calling of one soul to another, it had certainly happened when he’d first set his gaze on Catriona. That she’d been hurt in such a horrible manner was not something he could allow to go unpunished.

Something about her pulled at him. Although he was not ready to invest too much thought in what exactly he felt for her, it went without question that Catriona was a woman of worth.

“Ye and I have a common enemy. We are united in this. However, ye do not have the same reason I do,” Ewan finally replied.

Keithen studied him for a long moment. “I suppose asking yer reasoning is of no avail?”

Ewan shook his head. “The reasons are my own.”

“Why did ye kill Laird Mackenzie?” Keithen asked.

Struck silent, Ewan inhaled deeply, attempting to keep any expression from his face. “Why would I kill him?”

Keithen straightened and leaned forward. “It is said that the men who shot Laird Mackenzie had to have a special talent. The three arrows that fell him were loosed so close together, it was as if the archer had practiced this special archery skill for a long time.”

Silence stretched for several seconds. It was on the tip of his tongue to deny it but, instead, he blew out a hard breath. “I did what ye and the other clan leaders couldn’t. No one would suspect or blame me. A clan war will not come yer way because of it.”

“It was not yer place,” Keithen pronounced. “If anyone should have killed the bastard, it was me.”

“And ye surely would be dead as we speak.”

“It is a miracle I am not.” Keithen was right. He had been captured by the late laird’s son and hung for the killing. However, Clan Ross had arrived just in time to save his life. Keithen’s sister, also an accomplished archer, had pierced the rope with an arrow.

Just then, the healer entered with two maids. One carried a bucket of steaming water, the other a stack of clean linens.

Without preamble, the older man pinned him with a hard look. “Ye lost a lot of blood and are certainly with luck.” Gray hair pulled back into a queue and a pristine tunic, he moved to the bed and lifted the blankets.

The healer motioned the maids closer and instructed one to soak the cloth wrapped around his midsection so it would be easier to remove.

The hot water seeped through Ewan’s bandages with a soothing affect. He wanted to relax