“Aye, but ye’ve got yerself a sister,” Owen pointed out.
In the past week, Heather and Edith had become inseparable. They could always be found in some corner of the castle or another, gossiping like giddy birds in a tree. When Edith and Heather were not together, Sawyer took the role of eager confidant. There was nothing untoward between the man and woman, just a friendship that had been forged the moment that Sawyer had stopped Edith from crashing to her knees in grief.
Heather smiled wide. “Yes, that is true. Oh, I do adore her, my love. I am only sorry that I was never able to see her and William together. I know it would have cheered my soul, for they are sovery similar, in so many ways.” She paused. “Do you think we are similar, my love?”
“Sometimes we are, sometimes we’re nae, but I think that’s what makes our love strong,” he replied. “There’s nay right or wrong way to love someone. For some, a kindred spirit strikes love in their heart. For others, opposite souls spark love, for they’re the missin’ piece of each other.”
Heather looked into his eyes with an expression of overwhelming affection. “I do not know how I ever thought you were a brutish barbarian, for you can be so very poetic at the most unexpected moments.”
“I have to keep surprisin’ ye, so ye daenae tire of me,” he teased, kissing her once more.
It was not long before he felt himself stirring again, as Heather tangled herself up in his embrace, slipping her thigh over his as she moved to sit astride his hips. His duties would have to wait another half an hour or so, though no one in the castle seemed to mind if he was somewhat late, for they had welcomed the news of the wedding in a joyous, congratulatory manner.
They’re likely relieved they’re goin’ to have a Lady and, one day, with any luck, some heirs—He smiled at the prospect of having children with his beloved, for they were certainly doing their best to ignite that spark of life. Still, it soothed him that his people adored Heather as much as he did. Even Sawyer now treated Heather as if she had always been one of them.
Heather had just taken him in hand, poised to bring him into her depths, when a frantic knock came at the chamber door. A harsh pounding that did not hail the arrival of a maid or a servant.
“M’Laird!” Sawyer’s voice swept away the muted gasp that had just left Heather’s lips, as Owen swallowed the moan that had been bubbling up.
“What is it?” Owen shouted back, biting his lip as he lifted Heather from the tip of his length, and lay her down on the bed. Hastily, he covered her with a blanket, while he wrapped a second around his waist and headed for the door.
Opening it, he found Sawyer in a pale state of distress. “I’m sorry to interrupt, M’Laird, but ye must come with me. Brandon returned, and he disnae have good tidings.” He paused, lowering his voice. “He’s with the healer.”
“Give me a moment.” Shedding his blanket, Owen rushed to dress in his belted plaid and shirt, for it was easier to don than his breeches and jerkin.
“What is happening, my love?” Heather asked, peeking out above the edge of her blanket.
Owen fixed a smile to his face. “It’s nothin’, love. Take some rest and I’ll come back soon. Brandon is hurt, but he’s with the healer.”
“Brandon is hurt?” Heather threw back the blankets and joined her beloved in dressing quickly. It was not what Owen wanted, for he had hoped to keep any unpleasantness from her, but he supposed she had as much right to hear what was afoot as he did.
Clothed and still flushed from what they had been about to do, Owen and Heather exited the chamber, following Sawyer through the labyrinth of the castle hallways. Indeed, they went down and down, likely further into the belly of the castle than Heather had ever been, until they came to a curved doorway that stood alone along a wide hallway.
“Where are we?” Heather whispered.
Owen opened the door. “This is the healer’s quarters. I pray ye never have need to come here.”
Inside, there was a vast chamber that had once served a more violent, less healing purpose. Now, there were ten beds, equally spread out around the enormous space. At the nearest end, an old, stained table took pride of place, with towering shelves behind it, filled with bottles and jars and vials and bowls of every medicine that the healer had made or acquired.
“I thought you were the healer,” Heather said, staring in awe at the array of healing items.
Owen smiled stiffly. “Only when I have to be. I learned everything I know from our healer.”
At that moment, a curtain drew back at the other end of the room, where a mirrored table stood. Upon it lay Brandon, his arm bound tightly in bandages, while more were wrapped around his head.
The healer, a grizzled old man with a stoop, by the name of Fergus, raised a hand in welcome. “There’s nothin’ to fear. He’s nae dead, but he’s in some pain. Whatever ye have to say, ye best say it quickly. I’ll need to feed him a sleepin’ brew soon, so he can rest. There’s nothin’ that quickens the healin’ so swiftly as rest.”
“We’ll nae be long,” Owen promised, approaching the table.
Brandon blinked up with one bleary eye, while the other had been caught in the swathe of bandages. “I made it… just in time. I am sorry… I was not… swifter.”
“Be at peace, Brandon.” Owen rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Who hurt ye?”
Brandon shook his head. “That is not… important.” He heaved in a breath. “I know… Owen. I know… who killed… my friend.”
“Who?” Heather leaped in, taking hold of Brandon’s uninjured hand and grasping it desperately.
Brandon winced. “It was… your father.”
