When his vision cleared, the boar was gone—vanished back into the forest as quickly as it had appeared. And his horse, the damned fool beast, was already halfway across the clearing, tail high and reins trailing.
“Ruadh!” Craeg tried to shout, but it came out as a wheeze. The fall had knocked the wind out of him, and it took a few moments before he was able to gasp, “Satan’s ballocks … come back here!”
The stallion paid him no mind, disappearing into the trees.
Craeg silently cursed.
Faolan approached him then and nudged him with his nose. The wolfhound then whined.
“All is well, lad,” Craeg rasped. “Ithink.”
He lay still, taking stock. His left ankle throbbed. His ribs ached with every breath. But nothing felt broken—just bruised and battered. He’d had worse in battle.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upright. The world spun briefly, then steadied. He spat blood—he’d bitten his tongue—and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Faolan nudged him again, his nose wet and cold in his face, and Craeg stroked his head to reassure him.
Christ. What a way for the new Chieftain of Moy to spend his afternoon. Unseated by a boar and abandoned by his own horse. The humiliation of it.
He hadn’t been in the best of moods today as it was and had gone out for a ride to sort out his thoughts. Alec had told him he didn’t need to accept Macquarie’s offer, yet as the days slid past, he knew he’d have to.To refuse such an alliance would be perceived as arrogant. Selfish. He’d just stepped into the role of chieftain. He still had to prove himself—to his people and his clan-chief. Making a valuable alliance was part of it.
He’d delayed answering Hamish Macquarie for two weeks, but that morning, he’d sent a missive to him, agreeing to wed Isla.
The moment the birlinn had sailed away, heading for Ulva, off Mull’s western coast, a stone settled in his gut.
Jaw clenched, Craeg managed to get up. However, when he tried putting weight on his left foot, he immediately regretted it. Pain shot up his leg, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. Not broken, but badly twisted. He’d be limping for days.
Craeg looked around, getting his bearings. He’d been riding north from Moy, following the old hunting trails through the woodland of twisted oat, hazel, and ash. Lochbuie village lay to the southeast, perhaps twenty furlongs distant.Too far to walk on this ankle.
But there was a cottage nearby. He’d passed it earlier, tucked away in the woods. The herb-wife’s place. What was her name? He couldn’t remember. The locals sometimes mentioned the woman who lived with her mother and kept to herself.
Craeg huffed another curse.
Well, he’d be paying her a visit whether she wanted one or not.
Fashioning a crude walking stick from a fallen branch, he began to limp through the woods. Each step sent fresh arrows of pain up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. Faolan paced beside him, tail wagging.However, Craeg wasn’t in such a jaunty mood. Afternoon was sliding into evening, and the sun was lowering toward the west. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it back to the castle before nightfall.
He’d hoped Ruadh might return, once he’d recovered from his fright. However, he didn’t.
The trees grew thicker as he walked, boughs of twisted oak pressing close on either side. His lèine clung to his back with sweat. The early evening air was humid. Reaching up, he touched his stinging temple. His fingertips came away sticky with blood. He must have scraped it in the fall. A fine sight he’d make when he knocked on the healer’s door—the Chieftain of Moy, limping and bleeding.
The thought made him scowl.
Eventually, he spotted smoke rising above the trees. The cottage. Relief loosened his chest.
He pushed through a final stand of twisted oaks and emerged into a clearing. The dwelling sat in the center, small but well-maintained, surrounded by a well-tended garden. A donkey stood in a small paddock beside the building, watching him and his dog with a jaundiced eye.
Craeg limped toward the door, leaning heavily on his makeshift staff. His ankle was swelling now—he could feel his boot growing tight.
He raised his fist and knocked. Once. Twice.
Silence.
Then, from inside, the sound of movement. Footsteps. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out.
She was tall—nearly as tall as him—with long black hair pulled back from her face.Her eyes were a startling blue, the color of deep water, and they took him in with a single sharp glance that missed nothing. Not his torn clothes, nor the blood on his face, and not the way he was favoring his left leg.
“I need a healer,” Craeg announced, feeling his cheeks warm. “Ye are the herb-wife, I take it?”
