However, he didn’t.
Wary now, she raised her chin to find Archie watching her with something that almost looked like pity.
“He’s young,” Archie said slowly. “Impulsive. Such hot-headed behavior can get a man into trouble.”
The warning in his voice made her sweat. Of course, the Macquarie chieftain would be incensed. She didn’t need reminding of the risks that came with Craeg’s choice. In truth, she’d thought of nothing else since his departure earlier that day.
“I’ve seen it before,” he added gruffly. “When a man throws aside duty for desire … it rarely ends well.”
The words hit too close to home. Queasiness rolled over her as she began spreading the poultice over his wound.
“That’s enough from ye, Archie.” Rankin’s voice rumbled through the cramped space. “Leash yer tongue.”
Archie’s lips compressed. His gaze flicked to Rankin, then back to Hazel. Something passed between them—an understanding that a storm was coming.
Swallowing hard, she finished applying the poultice and wound a clean linen strip over his forearm. She then tied it off.
“Lads!” Rankin called out.
Two guards hauled Archie to his feet and pulled his soiled shirt back over his head. The big man didn’t resist. He simply let them drag him toward the door.
As he passed Hazel, their gazes glanced off each other once more. In the depths of his pale-blue eyes, she glimpsed another warning. And then he was gone, the guards marching him back across the barmkin toward the pit.
Hazel started clearing up her things. Her chest was tight, her breathing shallow. The walls closed in.
“Are ye well, lass?”
She glanced up to see Rankin in the doorway. His gaze was veiled.
“Aye,” she said, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice.
“He won’t be the last to comment on ye and Craeg.” Rankin’s voice was low, sympathetic, although with an edge she recognized. A caution not that dissimilar to Archie’s. “Ye will weather worse. And ye must ready yerself for it.”
She gave a jerky nod and focused on gathering her supplies—the mortar and pestle, the soiled bandages, the clay pots of herbs. Everything smelled of pus, vinegar, and crushed garlic. Her stomach churned. She needed to clean up.
Rankin departed then, clearly sensing that she didn’t wish to converse.
Relieved, she grabbed a cake of lye soap, a wooden bucket, and her basket and stepped out into the daylight. She wondered then about her role as herb-wife going forward. Craeg had told her he wanted her to tend to Moy’s residents, but that was before he’d proposed marriage to her.
Would he change his mind? He might not want his wife dirtying her hands with such things.
Queasiness assailed her, as it had years earlier when Ewan had told her that becominghiswife would mean she’d have to give up being a herb-wife. It had signaled the end of their relationship.
She’d need to talk to Craeg about this. She had no wish to spend her days at a loom or ordering servants around. Her healing skills were too valuable to abandon.
The barmkin was even busier than usual this morning, for an iron merchant had stopped off at the castle. He and his wife would bed down in the great hall overnight, wrapped up in their cloaks, but at present, they were busy selling their wares—hinges, tools, knives, and cooking pots—from the back of a large wagon. A cluster of men and women, from both Moy and Lochbuie, surrounded them, haggling.
Glad that everyone’s attention was elsewhere, Hazel made her way across to the well, skirting around where a lass threw grain for a cluster of honking geese.
The well stood in the northern corner of the courtyard, its stone rim worn smooth by centuries of use. Two servants were there, drawing water. Both wore clean kirtles, their hair neatly braided. Hazel recognized them; the lasses waited on the chieftain and his family.
They looked up as Hazel approached, their expressions cooling instantly.
“Morning,” she greeted them.
Neither lass answered.
Setting her basket down, she reached for the rope and lowered the bucket into the darkness below. The splash echoed up, hollow and distant.
