“Shouldn’t we wait for her father?” The other soldier’s voice was frantic, nearly shrill. He grasped the other’s arm, his knuckles white. “What if she kills him?”
“I swear on my father’s life, I am just as good at stitching as he,” she said. “If not better.”
Elsy held up the needle, waiting for the soldiers’ reply. The one with the emblem stared at her, weighing his options, until finally, he gave her a curt nod. Before the men could change their minds, she turned away from them and stabbed the needle through the laird’s skin, working quickly and making her stitches tight. Elsy tried to keep her attentions focused on the cut, yet she kept glancing at the young laird’s face, finding it contorted in pain. His handsomeness hadn’t been lost on her. He was well known in her village. Many of the village girls gossiped about him, talking of his beauty and kindness, yet Elsy had never spoken to the young laird before, knowing her station was too far below his. The village girls hadn’t lied. He was indeed handsome. It would be a shame for him to die on her table.
As she stitched him, she worried that, for all her confidence, it would be for naught. She hadn’t lied when she’d told the men her father had taught her everything he knew about healing. But she hadn’t treated many injured, let alone the laird’s son.
“Will he live?” the soldier asked when she snipped the thread with a knife.
Elsy tied the knot as her father had taught her, making sure it was tight and couldn’t be undone easily. “Perhaps. The wound must remain clean to prevent infection. Otherwise, tis only a flesh wound.”
The soldier with golden locks breathed a sigh of relief, making a smile come to her lips as she watched his pacing stall. “Thanks be to God,” he said, his voice cracking on the words.
“Can he rise?” asked the other.
“Perhaps it is best to leave him here for now,” she said. “I wouldn’t want the stitches tearing. Better to return with a wagon.”
The golden soldier’s head bobbed up and down. “Aye, we will return with one.”
“After we tell the laird,” the other said with a frustrated sigh. “When will yer father return? Perhaps he should have a look to ensure ye did right.”
Elsy forced a smile and a nod, yet all she felt was anger as she looked between the soldiers. “Of course,” she forced herself to say. “He should arrive before the sun sets.”
Elsy turned away as the soldiers left her, hearing the click of the door as it swung shut. She grabbed a clean cloth, needing to think of something other than the anger brimming within her. Her hands went to work, wetting the rag and caressing it against the young laird’s sweat- and dirt-covered forehead.
The young laird below her groaned, his head turning back and forth before his eyes finally blinked open. She nearly dropped her cloth as those piercing blue orbs met her widening gaze. They were so blue, reminding her of the sky on a clear day. She felt as if she would never be able to breathe again as she stared into that glistening gaze.
“Am I dead?” he rasped.
She opened her mouth. The words stuck in her throat. She had no thought as to what to say to a man as handsome as he, nor to a laird’s son. “Nae,” she finally breathed, “yer not dead yet, my laird.”
A slow smile spread across his face. His eyes were glazed over, making her worry that fever was setting in. She pressed her hands against his cheeks and forehead. His skin was warm, but not enough to cause worry.
“I thought I was in the heavens,” he whispered while leaning into her touch. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone as bonnie as ye, my lady.”
Elsy’s hands stilled on his face, her cheeks flushing a deep red, nearly the same shade as her hair. “O-oh,” she stuttered. “I am nae lady, my laird. Nor is this shabby cottage heaven. I am the healer’s daughter.” She dropped her cloth then and there and grabbed her skirt, dipping into a curt, unpracticed curtsy. “I am Elisabeth. Elisabeth Tandie, my laird. But ye may call me Elsy, if ye wish. Tis what everyone knows me by.”
His eyes fluttered, his head lulling to the side. “Elsy,” he rasped. “What a bonnie name.”
“Th-thank you, my laird,” Elsy said, her face heating even more.
“Connell.” He winced, his hand moving to his side. “Please, Miss Elsy. Call me Connell.”
Elsy smiled, her fingers stroking his hair. “Connell,” she whispered, unable to take herself away from the young laird as she waited for her father’s return.
That day was so long ago,Elsy thought as her hands trembled, the handkerchief still in her grasp. Shortly after that encounter, she had stitched this for him, not knowing if he would return her affections, but knowing she needed to at least try. She had spent all her nights weaving something just for him. There were a few times he had called on her father, wanting his stitches checked to ensure there was no infection. At the time, she had silently wished he was calling upon her father in order to see her. She remembered his soft smiles cast her way.
Elsy’s heart fluttered as she recalled finishing the handkerchief and the day she finally gave it to Connell. She had been sent to the castle to give him herbs to help with his healing. The handkerchief had remained in her pocket their entire meeting. She had thought herself too bold to confess her affections to a laird’s son and therefore chose to keep her feelings to herself. However, fate had other plans. The wind had been especially strong that day, and as she was escorted toward the gate it had swept the handkerchief out from her skirts. Connell had caught it easily.
“Is this yers?” Connell asked with a mischievous smirk while holding up the cloth. “E.T.? Is that for Elsy Tandie?”
Elsy’s face heated, so hot she felt as if it had caught on fire. She nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on the stones at their feet. “Aye, my laird.”
“Connell,” he corrected while nudging her chin up with two fingers, his touch gentle.
His blue eyes took the breath from her, making it difficult for her to speak. “C-Connell,” she stuttered. “And-” Elsy grimaced, not knowing if she should speak the words in her heart, but this would be her only opportunity to tell him the truth of her affections. “Tis not mine,” she whispered while bowing her head. “I made it for ye, C-Connell.”
Silence was her answer as she waited for him to say something, anything. When he did not, she peeked up at him, finding his cheeks flushing just as red as her own and his gaze warming. His grasp tightened around the handkerchief. Quickly, he looked around before taking her hand and placing it on his heart. She stilled, not knowing what he was doing or what he would say.
