Finding My Highlander Read Online Free

you doing, are you crazy? You’re not a doctor! You’re not a nurse! What if he dies? They might blame you, torture you, kill you, or burn you at the stake. Her thoughts whirled out of control.
    Okay, maybe she was getting a little over-the-top paranoid, but these men appeared to be every bit the fierce Highland warriors she had learned so much about from her father and grandmother. They had a rigid code of honor, if one could believe the romanticized versions found in every romance novel, but they were also ruthless, brutal to their enemies and a highly superstitious lot. Yet here they knelt, tenderly washing off dirt and blood using a piece of cloth torn from their friend’s slashed and bloodied kilt.
    Andra lowered herself beside the injured man. She averted her eyes from his thickly muscled and ravaged torso, glanced quickly over his private parts, and set to washing off the caked mess from his legs. She uncovered a deep wound in his right thigh that needed stitching. No bone showed through; that must be a good sign.
    What do you know about such horrendous wounds, you dolt! Keep your eyes on your job and clean away the muck.
    She wanted to speak with them, but didn’t know how to begin. If she even looked at Struan, he glowered at her. Completely focused on his brother, Kendrick more or less ignored her, so she concentrated on cleansing and assessing the leg wounds. Her ministrations revealed a few, less-serious slashes across Lorne’s calf. On inspection, she felt certain they could bind them without stitches. When she looked up, the men had begun cleaning a large gash along his ribs. It looked gruesome, and her stomach lurched. It took a moment to steady her breathing. Kendrick poured whisky over the wounds and Struan started to suture, but the patient no longer responded. His chest rose and fell in a halting fashion, and yet he did not moan or move.
    The scent of strong whisky burned her nose, mingling with the smell of blood and filth. She breathed shallowly, repressing a gag. “His leg will also need stitching.”
    With a nod of his head Struan huffed, “There is another needle and gut, just be certain you clean the wound.”
    They expected her to suture. “Oh! I have never sutured a wound. I’m certain I would make a mess of it. But I’ll clean it thoroughly for you.”
    Struan harrumphed, grunted, and snarled, “What good was your first aid train’en then, if you cannae even stitch a wound?”
    A well of annoying sounds and insulting comments, Struan drew out the words as if scum coated his tongue. Even so, his hand remained steady as he expertly stitched Lorne’s flayed flesh. Obviously, these men had considerable experience with wounds of this nature. Andra ignored his baiting and continued to clean Lorne’s legs but watched surreptitiously, thinking she might need to acquire that skill.
    Searching through her bag, she found a tube of antibiotic cream. Her hand fisted over the tube. The ointment couldn’t hurt and might help, but how could she conceal it and use it at the same time? She must not allow them to examine the tube closely, or they’d think she was a witch. A burning fire under her feet would be her reward, especially if they found the stamped expiration date. “Damn!” she hissed.
    Struan snapped his head up, auburn hair curled wildly around his face, his brow furrowed as he growled, “What is that you say, wench?”
    She ignored Struan and focused on Kendrick. Handsome, rugged, all virile male, just glancing at him made her weak in the knees. His dark-blond hair fell across a bronzed, well-proportioned face with a straight nose and full lips. A small cleft in his chin lent him a hint of boyish charm. Large, powerful yet gentle hands examined his brother’s neck, shoulders, arms, and torso—for bone fractures, she assumed.
    Watching him, she found herself wanting to feel those hands on her. Whoa, from where did that thought come? She needed to examine her sanity and rein in her