CHAPTER FOUR
Overcome by impatience, Michael paced the dirt outside the healer’s hut, each stride measured and tight with tension. The cool air stirred the edges of his worn cloak, the dark hair curling at his nape. The more he waited out there, banished from the room by that girl, the more restless and frustrated he became.
He was meant to be at Argyll's stronghold by now, riding under false colors—as Herman Forbes’ second-in-command instead of the MacDonald he was, come to Castle Inveraray to finalize the alliance between Clan Campbell and Clan Grant. And the more it took him to get there, the more his sister, Alyson, suffered in the hands of those bastards.
She should have never fallen in Angus Campbell’s hands. She should have never had tae suffer like this.
But Laird Campbell had taken her, and he had kept her in his keep, a prisoner to do with as he pleased. Michael couldn’t even begin to think of all the things he could have done to her. Hedreaded what he would find once he rescued her from Inveraray, the mere thought forcing bile up his throat, burning, acrid.
Yet instead of approaching the keep, he was standing outside a healer’s hut, waiting on a girl he didn't know but couldn’t seem to leave.
He scowled at the door. That girl was not one of his men, a weathered soldier who had been trained with the thought that, one day, she could lose her life in battle. She was only a young woman, and she had bled in his arms because someone had decided to hurt her.
He couldn’t leave her there. He couldn’t abandon her when it seemed that he was the only person she had.
The door creaked open. The healer, wiry with sharp elbows and sharper eyes, stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. “She’s stitched, bandaged, and lucky nae tae be dead,” she said, looking up at him with an assessing gaze. “She’ll need rest.”
Michael grunted, already reaching for the door.
The woman stopped him with a hand on his arm. “There’s room at the inn. She’ll nae stay here. I’ve work in Killean. I was about tae leave when ye came.”
“Killean,” said Michael, raising a curious eyebrow. “Long way from here.”
“Aye, so it is,” said the woman. “So I best be on me way.”
“It’s gettin’ late,” Michael pointed out. “Best tae leave on the morrow.”
The healer’s gaze shifted, her eyes looking at a point over Michael’s shoulder. “I have nae the time. I must leave right the now.”
Michael didn’t move for a moment. The urge to argue prickled at his spine, as every minute he delayed risked Alyson’s safety and he risked discovery. He had hoped to leave the woman there, in the healer’s care, but now, he couldn’t—even if he was certain the woman was lying about her destination, and perhaps even her imminent departure.
“She can ride?” he asked.
“Nae far. She’ll need help walkin’, never mind mountin'.”
Of course.
Nothing about this could be easy, naturally.
Michael stepped inside the hut. The light was dim, the hearth casting long shadows across the room. The girl sat on the edge of the cot, pale and rigid, a blanket clutched tight over her front, and when she looked up at him, her gray eyes were sharp again, clear; but her gaze was also wary, careful, tracking him as he moved closer.
He didn’t speak at first. He only sat in a rickety chair that he pulled closer to the bed, lacing his hands together and resting his chin on his knuckles. The girl held herself with pride even now, after being half-dead only hours ago.
She rose or tried to. Her knees buckled instantly, and he stood, crossing the space in two strides and catching her before she crumpled. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and for a moment, he was stunned by her warmth, the shape of her, slender and too fragile. The girl gasped as he steadied her, her hands bracing against his chest. Even through the blanket, her body was cold, and Michael could feel her shiver, trembling against his body like a leaf in the wind.
His arms went around her instinctively—one under her shoulder, the other at her back, careful not to press where the bandages lay. Their eyes met, and a moment stretched between them—taut and breathless.
She jerked back only a moment later, pressing a hand to his chest as she righted herself. “I can manage,” she said tightly.
Michael didn’t fight her. He stepped back, arms loose at his sides. “Aye,” he said, in awe of her stubbornness but also her strength, the way she not only insisted on doing everything on her own, but also managed it in the end. “So ye can.”
But still, he stayed close, just in case she faltered; just in case she needed him.
The girl took a few tentative steps toward the door, wincing with each one, her jaw tight. Michael moved beside her, watching the strain in her movements, the way her lips pressed into a thin, tight line that kept her silent even as she struggled to take the next step, even as she took a long time to steady herself.
By the time the two of them made it to the horse, Michael helping the girl onto the saddle before he led the horse by the reins down the narrow path that led back to the center of the village, where the healer had told him he could find the inn, it was very late. The chill of the wind was biting, piercing through his cloak, and every so often, he glanced back over his shoulder at the girl on the saddle, just to make sure she hadn’t slipped off in her weakened state. He walked ever so slowly ahead of the horse, making sure to make the ride to the inn as smooth and painless as he could.
A few heads turned as they passed, the villagers mumbling under their breath, eyes glancing their way. There was suspicion in their eyes; curiosity mixed with fear, and Michael couldn’t blame them. They surely made for quite a sight.
