“He has never met me.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. “But hehatesme. I’m nothing but a threat to be eliminated.”
Craeg’s jaw tightened. His hands came up to frame her face, thumbs brushing away the tears she couldn’t seem to stop now. The calluses on his palms were rough against her skin, but his touch was unbearably tender. “That’s his failing, not yers,” he said fiercely.
Hazel swallowed. She wanted to believe him, wanted to let his words fill the hollow ache in her chest. But the hurt was too raw, too fresh.
“Ever since Siùsan spilled her secrets, it’s as if my whole life has been a lie,” she whispered. “And I was angry with her for that … I still am, if I’m honest.” She broke off then, swallowing. “But now it’s even worse. It’s as if my entire existence is a mistake.”
“No, lass.” Craeg’s forehead dropped to rest against hers. His breath ghosted across her lips, and her pulse trembled. “Listen to me. Ye are Hazel Maclean. A talented healer. A brave soul. Yer life means something … and I will never let that bastard touch ye.Never. Ye have my word.”
The vow hung between them. Her hands came up of their own accord, fisting in the fabric of his lèine. She could feel the hard planes of his chest beneath, the steady thud of his heart.
“I’m causing ye far too much trouble, Craeg,” she said shakily. “And I’m sorry for it.”
His eyes darkened. One hand slid from her face to cup the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her unbound hair. When he answered, his voice held a hoarse edge. “I’mnot.”
17: A CROSSROADS
HAZEL UNROLLED THE sacking, blocking out the long twilight. Beyond, she could hear the muffled sounds of the castle settling for the night. Men’s laughter from the barracks. The thud of the kitchen shutters being secured.
It was just another usual evening at Moy.
I shouldn’t be here.
But she was.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped back from the window, surveying her small bedchamber. It was comfortable enough, yet too fine for her. She was no lady and was more at home in the infirmary Craeg had readied for her than in this room.
In the aftermath of discovering she was Hamish Macquarie’scurse, all she wanted to do was flee back to her cottage and shut away the world. To lick her wounds in private.
I will, she promised herself, even as her throat tightened.Once this has blown over.
It would be safe now, at least. Her father’s men festered in the bottle dungeon, and his plot had been exposed. Maybe, she’d get herself a dog, a scary-looking wolfhound like Faolan, who’d protect her from intruders. Aye, that was a wise idea.
She moved away from the window, her bare feet padding across the scrubbed floorboards. The bedchamber was warm, but gooseflesh prickled her arms.
Cods. She was flailing about in deep water now.
She was starting to rely on Craeg too much. He’d been her rock that afternoon. How she’d wanted to lean into him. How tempting it was to let someone else carry the weight for once.
But that wouldn’t be fair—on either of them—and that was why she had to leave.
The man had developed an infatuation with her, but that was all it was. An obsession. One that couldn’t last.
And once she left Moy, he’d see sense.
Her hands trembled as she picked up a hog-bristle brush and swept it through her hair in long, even strokes. The familiar ritual should have soothed her. Instead, anxiety churned in her belly.
I will get him into trouble.
Craeg was a chieftain. Young, aye, but powerful. And he risked putting himself—his clan, his position—at risk for her. It was foolish. What if Macquarie retaliated? What if this brought strife to Moy’s gates?
He was due to wed Isla—her half-sister—in less than a fortnight. And he had to go through with it, for the good of his people.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, the sheepskin soft beneath her. Too soft. Her straw pallet at the cottage had been lumpy and thin, but it washers.
She wouldn’t relax again until she distanced herself from Craeg, until she stepped back into her cottage and closed the door behind her.
Craeg stood before the hearth, one hand wrapped around a cup of wine, the other absently stroking Faolan’s rough head. The wolfhound leaned against his leg, a solid, reassuring presence in the quiet of the solar.
