There was much she didn’t have control of in this world. She couldn’t have prevented the rape that resulted in her birth, or her father’s paranoia that had led to her becoming a marked woman. But she had a gift with herbs. An instinct for healing. It was how she coped when life became hard.
And so, as a lad poured her a cup of wine, she began thinking about which of her herbs would help Archie. A poultice of mashed woundwort and garlic, aye, that would do the trick. And a brew of willow bark to help with the fever. That was what he needed.
The afternoon sun blazed overhead as Hazel climbed the stone steps to the ramparts. Her pulse was unsteady, her palms damp.
She’d been wrestling with this decision for hours. Pacing her chamber. Staring at her collection of herbs without really seeing them. The logical part of her mind screamed that she was mad—those men only wished her harm. Yet the healer in her couldn’t ignore suffering, even when it belonged to her enemy.
Craeg stood near the north tower, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze. Captain Black was with him, pointing toward something in the distance. They were deep in conversation, their voices low and serious.
Her steps faltered. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps she should turn back before they saw her.
Too late.
Craeg’s head lifted. His gaze met hers, and everything else seemed to fade. Black was still talking, but the chieftain wasn’t listening anymore. His gaze held hers, intense and searching, and heat unfurled in her belly despite the sea breeze cooling her skin.
He said something to Black—she didn’t catch what—and the captain nodded, casting her a curious glance before disappearing down the stairs.
Then they were alone.
Craeg closed the distance between them with measured strides.
Hazel’s mouth went dry.
“Is something amiss?” His brow furrowed then, and one hand lifted as if to touch her face. He then checked himself, and his arm fell back to his side.
“I need to see Archie Macquarie.”
The words came out in a rush. Craeg went still, his gaze shuttering. “Why?”
“A wound on his arm has soured. He has a fever.”
“Good,” he grunted. “Let him rot.”
“Craeg—”
“He came here to slit yer throat.” His voice sharpened. “And ye want tohelphim?”
She lifted her chin, meeting his stare despite the way her pulse raced. “I’m a healer. It’s what I do.”
“Not for him.” He moved closer, crowding her against the parapet. “Not for any of them.”
“Are ye going to kill the Macquaries?” The question hung between them.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No.”
“Then let me see to his arm.”
“Hazel—”
“Please.” She placed her hand on his chest, felt the heavy thud of his heart beneath her palm. “I can’t just let him suffer. I know what they came here to do. I know I should want vengeance. But I won’t become someone who can ignore pain, even when it belongs to the enemy. It’s not who I am.”
His hand covered hers, pressing it harder against his chest. His eyes blazed with something that made her breath catch—anger, aye, but also something fiercer. Something possessive.
“Ye are too good,” he said hoarsely. “Archie doesn’t deserve yer help.”
“Maybe not … but I wish to give it.” She paused then, marshaling her thoughts. “It was a shock indeed, to learn what a terrible man my father is … but I’m not like him.”
Her comment was pointed. Deliberate. Craeg had told her that he feared he’d inherit his father’s black character, yet she wanted him to know his story was his own to write. He could choose his own path in life too.
