“I manage,” she replied stiffly. “Keeping busy helps.”
And it did, which was why sitting by the hearth ruminating would do her no good.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Hazel knelt before him again, reaching for his swollen ankle. She needed to change the subject. Needed to steer the conversation away from herself lest her bitterness seep out. Grief was acceptable. Anger wasn’t.
“How are ye finding yer new role?” she asked, beginning to wrap the linen around his ankle with practiced efficiency. Warmth rose to her cheeks then. She was being overly familiar; this wasn’t a local cottar sitting by her hearth. She’d heard about Maclean’s bravery the year before, of how he’d helped the young king. The news had traveled the length and breadth of Mull.
She felt him tense beneath her hands. A subtle shift, but unmistakable.
“It’s … an adjustment,” he replied, his tone wary now.
Hazel glanced up at him. His jaw was tight, a muscle flexing there. There was something in his expression—a shadow that hadn’t been there moments before. “Ye don’t sound particularly enthusiastic,” she observed, returning her attention to his ankle. She kicked herself then.Mind yer tongue. He’s yer chieftain!
“I am,” he answered quickly. “I’m honored to serve my clan.”
Hazel tied off the bandage and sat back on her heels, studying him. He sounded like a man with reservations, yet she refrained from saying so.
“Take yer lèine off.” She gestured to the loose linen tunic he wore. “And I shall take a look at yer ribs.”
Maclean gingerly worked the lèine over his head and cast it aside. However, she noticed the tense set of his shoulders.
Hazel moved close. “Which side did ye land on?”
“My left.” He raised his arm, allowing her to inspect his ribs.
This close, the scent of him washed over her—the spicy scent of warm man. It was also impossible not to admire the breadth of his chest and the hard muscles that sculpted his torso. Another welcome distraction.
Behave,she chided herself.Ye aren’t a giddy lass of sixteen.
Raising a hand, she gently prodded his ribs. “Ye have a pretty bruise coming up,” she murmured. “It’s likely ye have cracked something. I will bind yer ribs.”
He nodded, his jaw flexing.
“I will get ye something for the pain.”
Standing up, she moved to fetch a cup and a jar of willow bark powder.
Maclean watched her mix the powder with water, his expression unreadable.
He accepted the cup she handed him, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sent a tingle up her arm that she firmly ignored.
“I’m to be married,” he said after taking a drink. He grimaced at the bitter taste. “Ye are one of the first to know.”
A pause followed this revelation before Hazel smiled. “Congratulations.” She wasn’t sure what else to say. However, his news hardly came as a surprise. Virile young chieftains didn’t usually remain unwed for long. She then reached for a roll of linen to bind his ribs with.
His features tightened slightly. “Thank ye.”
Hazel settled back down on the stool, across from him. “And who is the lucky woman?” The moment the question slipped from her lips, she froze.Hades.He was herchieftain, not Lochbuie’s smithy. She needed to mind her manners.
A blush rose to his high cheekbones, visible despite his dark tan. “Isla … the Macquarie chieftain’s daughter.”
Something clenched deep inside Hazel’s chest at the name.Macquarie.
Hurriedly, she quashed it. No, she wouldn’t go there. Not now. “A fine match.” She gestured for him to raise his arms, which he did. Then, she moved close once more and started to gently wind the bandage around his bruised ribs.
“Aye, that’s what everyone tells me.”
Hazel inclined her head. Despite everything, curiosity got the better of her, and she forgot herself once more. “Is that why ye were out riding alone?” she asked. “Brooding over yer fate?”
