THE FIRE BURNED low in the hearth.
Craeg sat slumped in his chair, staring at the glowing embers. Faolan lay at his feet, the wolfhound’s brindled head resting on his boots. The castle was quiet at this time—the witching hour—when the world seemed suspended between night and dawn.
He should have been resting. He couldn’t retire to his bedchamber next door though; he couldn’t sleep. He kept seeing his mother’s flushed face and hearing the wet wheeze of her breathing. What if Hazel’s remedies didn’t work? What if the fever consumed her despite everything?
His hands curled into fists on the arms of the chair.
A soft knock at the door made Faolan lift his head.
“Enter,” Craeg called.
The door opened, and Hazel slipped inside. Fatigue etched her face. There were smudges beneath her eyes, and her black hair had escaped its braid in wild tendrils. But her expression was resolute.
“I thought ye’d want to know,” she said. “Lady Liza’s fever is easing.”
Relief hit him like a physical blow. “Truly?”
“Aye. Her breathing is easier, and the flush has left her cheeks.” Hazel’s lips curved into a weary smile. “She’s not out of danger yet … but she’s responding well.”
Craeg stood abruptly, crossing to where wine sat on the side table. “Wine?” He didn’t know about Hazel, but he could do with some.
“Aye … thank ye.”
“No,” he said firmly. “Thankye, Hazel.”
He poured them both wine and handed Hazel her cup. Settling back into his chair, he gestured to the one opposite. “Please. Sit. Ye must be exhausted.”
“I am,” she admitted, sinking into the seat. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes briefly, savoring it. “Lady Liza is sleeping. Rankin is with her now … but I will check in on her again in a bit.”
Faolan, who’d been watching Hazel with keen interest, padded over to her. The wolfhound nuzzled her hand, his tail wagging.
“Hello, lad.” Hazel set down her cup and patted the dog’s head.
Watching them, Craeg felt something warm unfurl in his chest. The firelight caught Hazel’s hair, turning it as black as pitch.It also burnished her smooth pale skin and darkened her eyes.
She was beautiful.
The thought ambushed him, stealing his breath. He stiffened then, kicking himself. Where had that come from?
“Maclean?” She was looking at him now, concerned. “Are ye well?”
“Aye. Just … relieved.” He looked away and took a gulp of wine, marshalling himself. “I was afraid we’d lose Ma.”
“I know.” Hazel’s expression softened. “But she’s tough.”
Despite everything, Craeg huffed a laugh. “Ye have no idea.” His mood sobered then. “My mother has overcome much over the years.”
Hazel nodded. He wasn’t surprised she knew the tale—everyone in Moy and Lochbuie did—of how his father had tried to murder his mother. Liza had rallied though, and she’d struck back. Her revenge had been swift and brutal. Leod had underestimated her.
“Life must have been hard back then … for ye both,” she said. “To live under the control of such a bully.”
Craeg nodded, even as his belly soured. “All my memories of my father are harsh ones,” he admitted, pulling a face. He broke eye contact once more, his gaze settling on the dancing flames in the hearth. “On the morning he tied Ma up and took her out to sea, he knocked me across the room for daring to weep over a dead puppy … after he’d drowned it.”
Hazel sucked in a sharp breath. “How old were ye?”
“Five. It’s one of my first memories.”
He glanced Hazel’s way once more, to find her gaze shadowed, her jaw tight. She was outraged on his behalf.
