“Thank ye,” he replied huskily.
They lapsed back into silence then, and as the journey continued, Hazel found herself increasingly aware of every point where their bodies touched. The solid strength of his chest against her back. The possessive circle of his arm around her waist. The way his breath stirred the hair at her temple.
The contact should have unsettled her, but instead, it gave her comfort.
Leaning forward, Maclean urged Ruadh faster. The stallion responded, his canter flattening into a gallop as the trees drew back and they approached Moy Castle.The wind whipped Hazel’s hair loose from its braid.
And through it all, Maclean held her steady. Protected. Safe.
Craeg’s mother lay propped against the pillows, her breathing shallow and labored. Even from across the room, he could hear the wet rattle in her chest. Her face was flushed with fever, her dark hair plastered to her forehead.
A sweet, musty smell hung in the air: sickness and sweat.
Craeg stood with his back pressed against the wall, arms crossed tightly. He watched Hazel move about his mother’s bedside with quiet efficiency. The room was stifling—a hearth burned brightly despite the warm day—and sweat trickled down his spine.
Christ. What if it’s too late?
He felt so useless standing here. He wanted to do something—anything—to help.
She’d taken a turn for the worse so quickly. This morning, she’d been coherent enough to eat a little broth, to smile weakly at him. Now, she barely seemed to know where she was.
“Liza.” Alec sat hunched beside the bed, bathing his wife’s forehead with a cool cloth. His face was drawn, haggard. “Can ye hear me, mo chridhe?”
Liza’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and wild. “The ship,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse. “We need to … the sails …”
“Ye aren’t on a ship, my love,” Alec replied, low and soothing. “Ye are here. At Moy. With me.”
On the other side of the bed, Lena clutched her mother’s hand, her knuckles white. Tears streaked her young face.
Setting her basket on the small table beside the bed, Hazel began pulling out clay jars and bundles of dried herbs. Her movements were swift, purposeful.
Her steadiness calmed Craeg.
“I need boiling water,” she said, not looking up. “And a small pot to steep herbs in for tea.”
“I’ll see to it.” Craeg pushed himself abruptly off the wall. Striding to the door, he shouted for a servant.
A short time later, a lass appeared with an iron pot of steaming water, wrapped in a thick cloth to keep it warm, and a smaller pot hooked over one arm.
Returning to his position against the wall, Craeg watched as Hazel worked. His gaze tracked every movement. She measured dried herbs into the wee pot with steady hands, poured boiling water over them, and let the mixture steep.
Meanwhile, his mother’s breathing grew more labored.
Craeg’s foot started to tap. He couldn’t help it. Restless energy pulsed in his gut now, clamoring for release.
Hazel leaned over Liza, pressing the back of her hand to his mother’s forehead, then her cheeks, her neck. She listened to her breathing, counting silently. Her expression remained calm, focused, but Craeg marked the slight tightening around her eyes. The way her jaw set.
His stomach dropped. That wasn’t good.
“The fever’s consuming her,” Hazel murmured, but there was steel beneath the gentleness. “I must make it draw back.”
“Can ye help her?” Lena’s voice was small and frightened. “Make Ma better …please.”
Hazel turned to meet Lena’s gaze. “I’ll do everything I can,” she replied. “But ye must understand … lung sickness is serious. The next day or two will tell us which way this goes.”
The words punched into Craeg’s chest, while Alec’s fingers clenched around the cloth he still held.
“What do ye need from us?” Craeg asked, breaking the weighty silence.
