“It’s naething.”
“Ye’re pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re swaying.”
“I am standing still, Davina.”
“Barely,” she muttered.
He exhaled sharply. “Davina?—”
“Nay.” Her voice softened, but her resolve did not. “Ye are nae marching intae a cell dripping blood like some bull-headed hero. Ye will only make things worse fer yerself. And fer everyone else, if ye collapse while trying tae play the indestructible laird.”
Baird blinked slowly, but she wasn’t finished.
“And before ye protest again, ye should ken that ye are, without question, the most stubborn man I have ever met. Stubborn, and impossible, and too proud tae admit when ye’re hurt. Honestly, it’s a wonder ye’ve survived this long without someone dragging ye by the ear tae the healer.”
She watched him almost smile, then she pressed on.
“Ye are also infuriatingly brave, and it seems tae come with nay sense of self-preservation whatsoever. If sheer determination could stop bleeding, ye’d never need a healer in yer life. Unfortunately, it cannae.”
Now the corner of his mouth actually lifted, albeit just slightly.
“And,” she added more quietly, “ye scared me.”
That did it. His posture eased and the fight in him deflated just enough for her to see the pain underneath.
“All right,” he acquiesced. “We’ll go tae the healer.”
He didn’t protest when she guided his uninjured arm over her shoulder. He didn’t argue when she steadied him. He simply allowed her to walk beside him, step for step, toward the healer’s chambers. Inside, it smelled of crushed mint and old stone, but the air was warm from the small fire burning beneath an iron kettle. Davina guided Baird to the nearest bench, where he sat with a grunt.
“What happened, me laird?” the man asked, already reaching for a basin.
“Scout’s blade,” Baird replied shortly.
Davina didn’t miss the slight tremor under his tone, which was so faint no one else would have heard it. The healer pulled back the torn sleeve, revealing the gash: long, deep, and angry-looking. Davina inhaled sharply.
Baird didn’t look at her. He stared straight ahead.
The healer cleaned the wound with brisk, practiced movements. Baird’s flinched just once, but his face stayed carved from stone. Davina stepped closer anyway, as if her nearness could soften something.
When the healer began stitching, Baird’s jaw flexed. His fingers curled. He did not make a sound. The healer tied off the stitches, then wrapped fresh linen tightly around the wound.
“Keep it clean,” he instructed. “And nay strain on that arm fer at least two days.”
Baird gave a humorless snort. “We’ll see about that.”
“Nay, we will nae,” Davina said sharply before she could stop herself.
Baird stared at her, but didn’t say anything.
The healer stepped back. “He’s finished. Take him upstairs and make sure he rests.”
Davina nodded. “I will.”
She helped him stand up, and together, they headed out into the corridor. The walk to their chambers was slower than usual. Baird insisted he could manage on his own, but Davina kept a steady hand beneath his uninjured arm anyway. She felt him lean into her just enough to betray how much the wound pained him, and it was an intimacy so subtle it warmed her more than the torchlit corridor.
