“Three days,” he whispered, as though confessing treason. “Feels like I’m breathin’ fire out the wrong end.”
She bit her cheek to keep from laughing. “Do you have a fever?”
“Nay.”
“Any discharge?”
Torrin looked moments away from fainting. “Must ye ask it plain like that?”
“It’s medicine, Torrin. Not poetry.”
Torrin whimpered, burying his face in his hands as if he could hardly stand the humiliation. Elsie couldn’t blame him; he was a young man, and she was the Lady of the Clan. It was only natural that he would be embarrassed of her and all this, but she did her best to calm him, remaining calm, herself, steady, professional—while Torrin’s soul visibly dragged itself across the floor in humiliation.
When she gathered white peony root and scammony, he watched like a man witnessing sorcery.
“This will help,” she told him, mixing the herbs with quick confidence. “Brew it twice a day. And drink plenty of it.”
Torrin’s relief was palpable. “So I’m… nae dyin’?”
“No,” she said warmly, patting his arm. “You’re simply dehydrated.”
Elsie gave him the packet of herbs, careful not to smile too widely.
“And Torrin?”
“Aye, me lady?”
“Next time, seek help sooner.”
He nodded vigorously. “Aye. Immediately.”
He turned to leave—and promptly walked into the doorframe.
“Sorry! Slippery floor… thank ye again, me lady!” he yelped before escaping down the hall with the speed of a man running from both death and dignity.
Elsie laughed softly, shaking her head as she returned to the bubbling paste. Around her, the croft smelled of herbs, the fire crackled softly, and for the first time in days, her heart felt light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The morning air bit sharper than a wolf’s teeth, clean, cold, and bracing.
Exactly what Halvard needed.
He stepped into the training yard with his sword resting across his shoulder, his boots crunching over the frost-kissed dirt. Sten was already waiting at the center of the yard, rolling his shoulders under his tunic, a grin spreading across his face like a man who smelled blood—or mischief.
“About time,” Sten called. “I was beginnin’ tae think ye’d gotten soft. Or worse, distracted.”
Halvard snorted. “I’m never distracted.”
Sten lifted a brow. “Ye’ve spent the last week checkin’ on Elsie every time someone sneezes within three yards o’ her. But aye, nay distraction at all.”
Halvard leveled a flat stare at him, but Sten only laughed harder.
They met in the center of the yard, their swords raised, their boots braced. The clang of steel cut through the morning quiet as they collided in a heavy clash, both of them skilled and fluid in their movements. Sten’s blade slid along Halvard’s in a bright arc, sparks spitting as metal kissed metal.
They had done this a thousand times before. They knew each other’s patterns, each other’s techniques like their own, but that didn’t stop them from finding new ways to clash each time.
“Ye’re slow today,” Sten taunted, spinning to strike at Halvard’s right side.
