The solar had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary, for the great hall was being readied for feasting. “Ouch!” the Scots Hammer yelped, jerking back from Meg’s hands. “That hurts!” Duncan had insisted on being last to be treated, as his wounds were insignificant. “Do be still,” Meg retorted. “You didn’t complain nearly as much when Dominic’s sword lay at your throat.” “I expected to die. What use were complaints?” Meg gave Duncan a cool look. As much as she liked the Scots Hammer, she would be a long time forgetting the sight of him bearing down on Dominic, ready to end the combat with a killing blow. “Tip your head back,” she said. “I can’t see your throat.” “I don’t like the look in your eyes, Meggie. It would be like baring my throat to a she-wolf.” She glanced at his hazel eyes, saw both the understanding and the rueful amusement, and felt some of her own tension fade. “If Dominic can spare the life of an enemy,” she said wryly, “I can spare the life of a friend.”
