“His name’s Faolan,” Craeg murmured.
“He has kind eyes.”
He smiled. “He worries over me more than my mother.”
Hazel huffed a laugh. Her expression sobered as she ran her gaze over Craeg. “Ye have a graze to yer temple,” she observed then. “Did ye hurt anything else when yer horse threw ye?”
“My ribs,” he admitted.
“Aye, well, I’ll have a look at them too … but first let’s clean ye up a bit.”
Rising to her feet, she went to fetch a bowl of warm water, a clean cloth, and a clay bottle from a shelf.
Craeg’s gaze tracked her, suddenly fascinated. Aye, she was bonnie, indeed, but it was more than that.She carried herself like someone who knew her own worth. Her confidence held him captive. Even so, he also found himself admiring her long black hair that hung in thick waves down her spine, and the lean and lithe body underneath her dark-blue kirtle and dun-colored lèine.
As soon as she turned, he averted his gaze.
Hazel returned to him, drew up a stool, and dipped the cloth in water before wringing it out. “Hold still.”
Craeg did as he was told.
Leaning forward, Hazel gently dabbed at the cut on Craeg Maclean’s temple. She was relieved to see it was shallow.
He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away.
The knock on the door earlier had startled her. Over a fortnight had passed since she’d buried Siùsan. Anger still gnawed at her gut, yet loneliness dug its claws in too. The cottage seemed unbearably empty. She ate on her own and had nobody to gather herbs with. She hadn’t seen anyone else in nearly a moon, not since her mother’s condition took a turn for the worse. None of the locals knew about Siùsan’s death—and despite that she’d dismissed the woman’s warnings, having a man turn up at her door made her jumpy.
Discovering who he really was had taken her aback.
Up close like this, she took note of the strong line of Maclean’s jaw, lightly shadowed by stubble, and the way his dark hair curled slightly at his nape, where it was damp with sweat. She marked too his sun-kissed golden skin and how his eyes were the color of dark peat.
He was young, Moy’s newly invested chieftain. And handsome.
Aye, few women would be immune to his attractiveness. And she wasn’t made of stone either. All the same, she did her best to ignore how broad his shoulders were beneath his grass-stained lèine, or how his presence seemed to fill her small cottage.
He wasn’t the first—nor would he be the last—comely man she’d tend.
In truth, it was a relief to have something, someone, to focus on. Before he’d knocked, she’d been sitting, staring into the flames of her hearth. She had chores to do, yet a strange apathy had gripped her. She’d found it difficult to summon the will to care.
“This will sting,” she warned, reaching for a jar of salve made with woundwort.
He didn’t answer, although the stoic look on his expressive face made her swallow a smile.
She applied the salve with careful fingers, aware of his gaze on her face. Most men looked away when she tended them—uncomfortable with the intimacy of being cared for. But Maclean watched her steadily, as if she were a riddle he was trying to solve.
His focus on her unnerved her just a little.
“Where is yer mother?” he asked.
Hazel’s hands paused for just a heartbeat before resuming their work. “She died … a fortnight ago.”
Silence followed this admission. Meanwhile, Hazel busied herself tearing linen into strips, avoiding his eye now.
“I’m sorry.”
The simple words, spoken with genuine sympathy, threatened to crack something inside her.Until now, she’d been isolated in her grief and anger. “Thank ye,” she whispered, still not looking his way. She didn’t want him to see it wasn’t just sorrow she battled with.
“It must be difficult,” he added then. “Living here alone.”
