Faolan whined again, pressing closer.
Craeg stroked the dog’s bristly head, taking comfort in the simple gesture. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney.
In twenty-one days—aye, he was counting them—he’d be standing on the steps before Lochbuie kirk beside Isla. He’d bed her, would watch her belly swell with his child. More bairns would follow. The years would pass, and they’d grow old together.
The image made him break out into a cold sweat, but it was the reminder he needed.
A reminder of the promise he’d made.
12: MARKING HIS CLAIM
HAZEL GENTLY PRESSED the hot poultice to Lady Liza’s chest.
The older woman winced slightly at the heat, then relaxed as the garlic and herbs began their work. Her breathing had improved overnight—the wet rattle was fainter now, the wheezing less pronounced. But the congestion lingered, thick and stubborn.
“How does that feel?” Hazel asked, adjusting the square of linen that held the poultice in place.
“Better.” Liza’s voice was hoarse, but stronger than yesterday. “Thank ye.”
Afternoon sunlight slanted through the chamber’s open window, warming the oaken floorboards. The hearth glowed sedately—a warm chamber no longer needed now that the fever had broken. The scent of healing herbs hung in the air rather than sickness.
Settling onto the stool beside the bed, Hazel mixed another tea. Coltsfoot and horehound, with a touch of honey to soothe Liza’s raw throat. The steam rose in lazy spirals, fragrant and medicinal.
“I was so afraid,” Liza said suddenly.
She glanced up. The older woman’s dark eyes were fixed on the pale-blue sky beyond the window, her expression distant.
“Of dying?” she asked.
Liza shook her head. “Of leaving them.” Her hand moved restlessly atop the coverlet. “Craeg. Lena. Alec. They’re all so strong, but”—she trailed off, her throat working— “I wasn’t ready to let go.”
“And ye don’t have to,” Hazel assured her, even as her chest constricted. She envied the Macleans of Moy their tight family bond. They all looked out for each other. Their relationship wasn’t built on lies. Aye, she’d softened toward her mother of late, had believed she’d turned a corner, yet the hurt was still there. A wound that had barely scabbed over. “Ye are healing well. Another few days and ye’ll be back on yer feet.”
Liza smiled. “Aye.” She surveyed Hazel then, her expression probing. “My son speaks highly of ye.”
Warmth crept up her neck. “Does he?”
“He says yer considerable skill saved my life.”
“I only did what any healer would.”
“Accept his praise, Hazel.” Liza’s gaze held hers fast now, surprisingly strong despite her weakened state. “Ye have a gift. Be proud of it. We are lucky indeed to have a herb-wife with such talent living amongst us.”
Swallowing, Hazel nodded. Moments passed, and then she looked away. She was a woman with secrets. Danger stalked her. She was safe enough here, within Moy Castle’s sheltering walls, but when she returned home, she’d be vulnerable once more.
Her chest constricted at the thought of leaving her beloved cottage. Pushing the sensation aside, she tested the temperature of the brew, then helped Liza sit up against the pillows. The older woman drank slowly, grimacing at the bitter taste but not complaining.
When half the cup was gone, Hazel drew back. “Enough for now.” She then checked on the poultice. Still warm. Still working. She’d need to change it later, but for now, it could stay. “Craeg’s doing well as chieftain,” she said finally.
“Aye.” Liza’s lips curved once more. “He’s always been well-loved here.” Her expression sobered then. “I worry about him though.”
Hazel’s hands stilled on the linen. “Why?”
“He tries to hide it, but I sense his restlessness. His frustration.” Liza’s fingers plucked at the coverlet. “He didn’t want to return to Mull … not yet, at least … but I urged him to. Perhaps I should have waited until he was ready.”
Hazel’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure he’ll settle into his role … with time.”
“Aye.” Liza sighed, sinking back into the nest of pillows. “Once he is wed.”
