Tòrr took a step and barely suppressed a curse. "Aye."
"Liar." Michael moved to support him. "Trainin’s done fer today. Get that ankle seen tae before it swells worse."
"It's naethin’."
"It's an injury that'll get worse if ye keep being stubborn about it." Michael's voice brooked no argument. "Go. That's an order from yer second."
"Ye cannae order me. I'm the laird."
"Then I'm askin’ nicely. Which we both ken means the same thing when I'm right."
Tòrr wanted to argue but the throbbing in his ankle was already intensifying. He'd twisted it badly, probably strained something important. Walking would be difficult, riding worse.
Perfect timing, ye idiot, with unkent riders on the borders and the festival coming up soon.
"Fine. But I want double patrols maintained through the night. And I want reports every two hours on any movement."
"Consider it arranged." Michael pointed to one of the guards. "Ye guard! Take the laird tae his chamber before he falls over and makes it worse."
The guard scurried toward them, but one scalding look from Tòrr and he froze, stepping back. He gave Michael another look that spoke volumes, before he walked, or more accurately, limped back to his chambers. A journey made practically endless because he pretended not to be as hurt as he felt, while also keeping his weight off the foot.
Every step sent fresh jolts of pain up his leg, and by the time he reached his door, sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool corridor.
He pushed the door open and stopped.
Liliane knelt by the hearth, grinding something in a small mortar. The scent of herbs filled the room, sharp and medicinal. She looked up as he entered, her eyes widening at his obvious limp.
"What happened?" She set down the mortar and stood quickly.
"Trainin’ accident. It's naethin’."
"Ye're limpin’. That's nae naethin’." She moved toward him. "Sit down before ye fall down."
"I'm nae goin’ tae."
"Sit. Down." The command in her voice surprised him enough that he obeyed, settling heavily into the chair by the fire.
She knelt before him, her hands moving to his boot. "May I?"
"What are ye daein’?"
"Examinin’ yer ankle. What daes it look like I'm daein’?" She began unlacing his boot with careful efficiency. "I watched the trainin’ from the window. Saw ye go down hard."
"Ye were watchin’?"
"I had naethin’ else tae occupy meself with." She eased the boot off, and he couldn't quite suppress a hiss of pain. "There, there. I ken it hurts."
"I've had worse."
"I'm sure ye have. Daesnae make this isnae worth tendin’." She pushed up his trouser leg, revealing an ankle already swelling and darkening with bruises. "Christ, Tòrr. This is badly twisted."
"It's naethin’."
"And I'm tellin’ ye it's somethin’." She sat back on her heels, gesturing to the mortar. "I've been preparin’ a paste. Comfrey, arnica, and yarrow. It'll help with the swellin’ and pain."
He stared at her. "Ye made medicine fer me?"
"As soon as I saw ye slip. Dinnae sound so surprised. I told ye I ken healin’." She stood and retrieved the mortar, then knelt before him again. "This might sting a bit."
