Claire nodded, though for a moment she looked nonplussed, as if she didn’t know what to do with, or how to respond to, his humble appreciation.
She cleared her throat and fussed with the blankets, drawing them up over his chest.
“Yep. I’m so pleased you pulled through,” she said airily as she took a step backward. “I should... well, you’re better now, so I guess um, you don’t need me hovering. I’ll go. Okay? Okay. Get some more rest, though.”
Her eyes flicked around the chamber, as if checking for something she ought to gather, though she seemed to find nothing. Then, with an almost apologetic smile, she turned and slipped out the door.
Ciaran lay still, staring after her long after she was gone, his chest tight with thoughts he wasn’t strong enough yet to untangle.
***
The morning light slanted pale through the high windows of the hall, striping the flagstones across the long chamber.
Ciaran sat at the high table with his steward and baillie. The hearth’s fire spat and hissed, throwing occasional warmth into the chill, though autumn had not yet given way to winter. His body ached with the remnants of fever, and his limbs felt heavier than they should, but he sat straight-backed, refusing to betray the weakness. A laird did not bend before a cough or a fever, not when so many of his kin still fought against fever themselves, and not when so many watched their laird for any sign of faltering.
Seoras, his steward, was hunched over a roll of parchment, lips moving as he tallied out loud. “The holdings at Glenbrae sent their rents in oats, as agreed. Three carts’ worth, but one is spoilt from damp. They seek relief on account of the late harvest.”
“Nae relief,” Ciaran said flatly. “They’ve long had the richest ground in the Kerr demesne. They’ll pay in oats fit to grind, or in coin if their store is fouled. Mark it.”
The baillie, a bulky man named Torcall with a voice too high to suit him, shifted on the bench. “And the croft at Drumglen—ye ken the one, laird—the widow MacNair’s place. She owes her feu-duty still. Claims her eldest lad broke his leg and theycouldnae bring the sheep to market. ’Tis her third excuse this year.”
Ciaran pinched the bridge of his nose, patience thinning. “The widow keeps her ground only by paying the feu-duty. If she canna, then she must yield the croft. Give her till Martinmas. Past that, I’ll hear nae more pleas, nae excuses.”
Seoras dipped his quill, scratching the note. “Aye, laird.”
“And the courts?” Ciaran asked, his gaze sliding to Torcall.
The baillie straightened, eager to speak. “Two disputes to hear before Michaelmas. A matter of grazing rights betwixt Frangan and Gillebeart—each claiming the strip of meadow by the auld kirk, both insisting rights given by the cleric ere he passed. And a poaching charge laid against one of yer own men, Gavan, for setting snares in the Sinclair wood. They’ll want yer ruling.”
Ciaran exhaled through his nose, a thread of weariness tightening behind his eyes. “The glebe belongs to me, to Caeravorn—the cleric had nae right to give it away.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully, however, and decided, “But aye, split the kirk’s strips in half between them, and I’ll fine both sides if they squawk on. As for Gavan, he kens well the Sinclair woods are nae ours. He’ll pay his fine, or he’ll feel the lash.”
The two men bent again to their parchments, notes scratching, voices low.
The great door creaked then, heavy on its iron hinges, and a rush of cold air stirred through the hall. Ciaran glanced up, watching as Claire entered, her expression mild until she spotted him at the front of the chamber.
She strode with purpose across the flagstones, a few wayward strands of blonde hair tumbling loose from her kerchief, framing her face. She looked straight at him, ignoring the startled glances of the steward and baillie, and spoke before she’d even reached him. “What are you doing out of bed?” She asked, her gray eyesflashing. “You’re as white as a ghost. If you push yourself like this, you’ll relapse.”
Seoras choked, quill freezing in midair. Torcall gawked openly, his jaw half-hinged. No one interrupted laird’s business—not a soldier, not a servant, not even kin. Even Mungan wouldn’t have dared.
Ciaran’s back stiffened. The heat rising in his face was not fever this time, but the sting of her impertinence in front of his retainers. His hand had been sitting idly upon the table but now he flattened it against the worn wood, his fingers splayed. “’Tis nae for ye to interrupt the laird’s business,” he instructed her coolly.
Her eyes widened in dramatic fashion. She gaped and then pointed to her chest. “Not forme? Are you serious? Um, quick reminder: that wasme, working myself to the bone to make sure thatyoudidn’t—”
She stopped abruptly, possibly aware of the utter astonishment on the faces of Seoras and Torcall—both of them likely expecting more than only a sharp rebuke—or made silent by the darkening of Ciaran’s countenance, for her daring to challenge his statement.
“Aye, enough,” he said, stating what she was already realizing.
Her mouth remained open in shock, then pressed into a line. He thought she might continue to admonish him—God help her if she did—but instead she swallowed, color flooding her cheeks. Without another word she turned on her heel and strode back the way she’d come, skirts snapping. As shocked as he was that she hadn’t argued further with him, he then wasn’t surprised to hear her grumbling as she marched off. He caught only a snippet, something that began with, “Don’t come crying to me...”
Silence settled like a stone at the table, until at last, Torcall cleared his throat and muttered, “Bold one, that lass—nae to be tolerated, Laird.”
Ciaran ignored him, turning his attention to Seoras with a hard look. “Carry on.” His voice was cool, controlled, but inside, something twisted disagreeably. For all her impertinence, her words had struck home. He’d thought almost exactly the same, knew his strength of this morning was failing fast.
***
By evening, the mood at Caeravorn had shifted. Like the laird, some of the sick were on the mend as well. Two young mothers and a soldier had been able to leave the flu house that afternoon, weak still but without fevers. Only two new cases of fever had appeared all day, and the steady trickle of broth and clean linens was beginning to feel less desperate, more manageable. For the first time since the illness had struck, Claire felt a measure of relief.
Thus, she should have been in a good mood. Instead, the memory of that morning still burned hot. She was furious with Ciaran for treating her so rudely in front of those men—so rudely at all—and for dismissing her concern as though she had overstepped, as though she hadn’t nearly broken herself keeping him and half the keep alive. His cool, clipped rebuke replayed in her head, simmering all day until she was taut with what she felt was righteous anger.
