Brona could respond to that the man on the bed groaned softly and then opened his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked.
Heming blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the beatings he had suffered had left his eyes too swollen for him to see clearly. His first thought was that Mistress Brona had decided to help her cousin torture him, for he could think of no other reason for her to be in his cage. A moment later he realized he was lying on something soft and a blanket covered him, a welcome comfort he knew would never have been given him if he was still Hervey Kerr’s prisoner. Three men stood a few feet away looking at him and he could see no bars, could feel no chains weighting down his arms and legs. Then a soft hand touched his forehead and he turned his gaze toward the woman leaning over him. He was free, he thought, and was it not just his luck to be set free only to die.
“Ye must tell my kinsmen what happened to me,” he said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
“Ye may tell them yourself when ye return to them,” Brona said.
“Nay, I willnae be seeing them again in this life.” He felt the pain of that loss, but struggled against the urge to rage and grieve.
“Aye, ye will, Sir Heming.” Brona took a deep breath, wanting to speak of something she found a little horrifying with some appearance of calm. “Do ye need blood?”
For a moment Heming could not think of how to answer her question. It was obvious the fact that he had been driven to feed from that poor man was no secret. He hoped the number of people who had learned about that was small. The very last thing his clan needed now was someone who had actually seen a MacNachton drink blood spreading the tale, adding veracity to some of the many whispers about his clan. Unfortunately, his choices at the moment were dismal. If he tried to deny what she already knew, claiming it as some aberration brought on by long hours of torture, he would not get the aid he needed to survive.
And he really needed to survive, he decided. He needed to help fight the hunters who wished to destroy his clan. He needed to find Tearlach and warn his clan. Heming ruefully admitted that, if there was even the smallest chance of survival, he wanted to grasp it and hold on tight. He could deal with any consequences of revealing a few of his clan’s secrets later, when he was strong again.
“Ye saw that, did ye?” He tried not to blatantly sniff her clean, sweet scent when she slipped her arm around his back and helped him sip from a tankard of wine, easing the painful dryness of his throat.
“Nay, I didnae, but Peter has survived and he hides here with us. Also, I o’erheard my cousin speak of it with his first.”
“Then, aye, blood will aid me to heal myself.”
She could see how much he hated to admit that. The man was obviously not comfortable with those not of his ilk knowing that he had such a dark hunger. He looked both embarrassed and wary. The man might fear that such a confession would now end the life he was clinging to by the very tips of his fingers. Brona was still not sure how she felt about such a thing or exactly what such a hunger made Sir Heming, but she could not let him die.
“Will the blood of some animal work just as weel?” she asked.
“Nay this time. I am weak nigh onto death. There isnae—” Heming decided he would not get into a discussion about the varied qualities of blood right now. “’Tis nay strong enough.”
That was a disappointment, Brona decided. Disgusting as it might be, there would have been no trouble amongst the men if she could have slipped up into the kitchens and gotten some animal blood. To save him, however, he was going to have to be allowed to drink from someone. It took only one glance at Fergus, Colin, and Peter to reveal that there would be no rush of volunteers from amongst them. Oddly enough she got the feeling that it had less to do with someone drinking their blood than with the fact that that someone was a man. That left her and she was not sure she had the stomach for it. It would probably hurt, if nothing else, and she was a coward when it came to pain.
Even with his poor sight Heming could see that none of them wished to do what was needed. He could understand that. Not only was there the fear that somehow he could suck out their soul along with their blood, but Outsiders had a natural distaste for being seen as prey, as food. Some men also found it all a little too intimate to be comfortable sharing blood with another man. Usually he did not need blood, not as some of his kinsmen did. An occasional drink of some blood-enriched wine was enough to keep up his strength. Since he was born of a MacNachton and an Outsider, there were a lot of differences between him and a Pureblood MacNachton. One was that he really only needed a hearty drink of blood if he was wounded or ill. Since most of the time he had been at Cambrun during such times, one of his clan had given him what he had needed. Except for being forced to feed from Peter, Heming had never drunk the blood of an Outsider before.
If given a choice he knew which one of the people watching him he would choose to feed from. Heming covertly watched the woman, sensing how hard she was thinking over the problem. He desperately wanted to live and, without blood, that would not happen, but he would not beg.
“Weel, then, I guess we had better give ye some blood,” Brona said, pleased at how calm and brave she sounded even though she was shaking inside. After glancing at the three other men, she murmured, “And I guess it shall be me who does so.”
“Nay, mistress,” said Colin, hastily stepping up to the side of the pallet. “I will do it.”
Brona could not help it. She laughed and then reached out to pat Colin on one of his thick, muscular arms. “Nay, Colin, though I thank ye most kindly for choking out the offer.” She grinned when he blushed and grimaced. “’Tis fine. I am the one who has pulled him free of my cousin’s grip. Aye, and ’tis my kinsmon who has done this to him. I will do it.” She looked at Sir Heming. “Just how does one do it? I hope there is no need to cut my throat first as was done to Peter, for I willnae be able to do that and I doubt any of these men will be able either.”
“Nor would they allow me to try,” said Heming. “Nay, ’twas your cousin who cut Peter’s throat, as I had no intention of giving the bastards a show. Unfortunately, I was weak and maddened with pain so that when they kept pushing a bleeding mon beneath my nose, I couldnae stop myself. I also thought that I had best do so if only to close the wound that was made ere Peter bled to death. They didnae care and he was cut badly.”
Brona had to lean closely to him to hear him clearly as his voice wavered from being clear if hoarse, to being little more than a ragged whisper. “Best we do this now. I dinnae think ye will be able to stay awake much longer. Do ye need to do it at the throat?”
“’Tis easiest.”
Heming could not believe this woman was going to allow him to feed from her. She was afraid for all she sounded calm, but she was not resistant. He glanced at the men as she leaned closer, holding her thick hair away from her throat. They looked grimly curious.
“Should we leave?” asked Colin. “Nay sure I should watch this, or e’en want to.”
“Stay,” Heming said. “I am sitting on the edge of death and I need at least one of ye to stay here to be certain to stop me if ye think I am taking too much from her.”
“How will we ken if ye have taken too much?”
“Ye will be able to see it. Trust me in this. I wouldst rather none of ye see this or e’en ken about it, but I dinnae really have a choice now, do I?”
“Nay if ye wish to live.”
