As Amelia perched herself on the edge of the table in the center of the room, Darragh stationed himself at the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked onto her. His presence was a physical thing. It was imposing. Suffocating.
Just before she began to choke on the thickness of the air, the door creaked open once more. Another woman, much younger than Mrs. Rowan, walked in. On her heels was a very severe-looking young girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.
“I hope it’s nae a problem that Isla joins us,” the woman said, addressing Mrs. Rowan first. Then, she shifted her attention to Amelia. “Me name is Hazel. I’m Mrs. Rowan’s apprentice. And this is me daughter, Isla.”
“I’m me maither’s apprentice,” the girl said with complete seriousness.
Amelia couldn’t help but smile. In all of her years, she didn’t think she’d ever met a child who held herself so much like an adult. The situation felt absurd.
Saints, perhaps the child’s in charge.
“We’ll be gettin’ started now,” Mrs. Rowan said, prompting Hazel to step closer and Isla to slip into place between the women and the vials of herbs and tinctures.
* * *
Darragh was both relieved and surprised that the woman was allowing herself to be looked over by the healer. Though judging by the way she watched Isla with amusement, the child may have played a vital role in her cooperation.
As Mrs. Rowan and Hazel examined each part of her, he kept himself out of the way. They maintained their professional demeanor, but when they pressed on the woman’s ribs, he caught the concern that flashed over their faces. In his time as laird, they hadn’t examined someone so malnourished, nor had they encountered someone who seemed quite so keen on keeping her injuries to herself.
“I’m goin’ to leave the rest of this to Hazel and Isla,” Mrs. Rowan said after a few minutes. “Ye’re in capable hands, lass.” When her eyes met Darragh’s, she stepped toward him, saying, “A word, Me Laird.”
His eyes lingered on Amelia for a long moment before he nodded, following Mrs. Rowan into the corridor. When the door closed behind them, she stepped in closer. She dropped her voice, clearly not wanting to be overheard by anyone passing by, nor anyone in the room they just vacated.
“Did she tell ye where she was from?”
“Nay,” Darragh replied, his jaw clenching. “She hasnae even told me her name. The only information she’s given me about herself is that she was raised in an orphanage.”
Mrs. Rowan’s lips pressed together, her brow furrowing. “I see.”
“Is there somethin’ wrong?” he demanded, the guilt of not finding her sooner beginning to creep in and morphing into anger with nowhere to be directed. “Are there injuries she’s hidin’?”
“Of course, there are injuries she’s hidin’,” she replied, shaking her head at the woman’s stubbornness. “And they will heal. The bruises, the broken ribs, those just need time. She’s starved near to the bone. Still, she’s a strong wee thing. But I will tell ye this, Me Laird, that lass wasnae raised to live small. Perhaps she spent some time in an orphanage, but that wasnae where she was raised.”
Darragh looked toward the door, weighing the woman’s professional assessment, then he said, “Aye, I’ve had me suspicions. I daenae ken what she’s runnin’ from, but it’s somethin’ frightenin’ enough that she doesnae want any help.”
“Well,” Mrs. Rowan said after a beat, “we cannae do anythin’ if we daenae ken what she’s scared of, but I’m happy to report that nae of her injuries are life-threatenin’. I’ll send a maid to bring her to her quarters. Hazel should be finishin’ up shortly.”
When she turned and began to walk down the corridor at a brisk pace, Darragh reentered the room. Hazel was smoothing downthe woman’s gown while Isla returned the tinctures to their proper places with intense focus. He stayed back, waiting for the two to depart.
“I assume they’ve informed ye that ye need to rest while ye heal,” he said, stepping closer to her, examining the faint remains of bruising and the angry marks around her wrists.
“Aye,” she said, meeting his gaze with a challenging expression of her own.
For a moment, the silence stretched between them. Finally, Darragh broke it, asking, “What is yer name?”
Her fingers tightened at her sides, her face paling. The fear that coursed through her was so sharp that he felt it as if it were his own. She seemed to relive something in that moment, something that went deeper than the hunt.
“Very well,” he said, keeping his voice controlled, though frustration leaked through. “Ye willnae tell me yer name. How do I call ye then, lass?”
“Ye just did,” she said, her eyes still locked onto his. Even through her fear, she refused to bend.
“I did?” he responded, frowning slightly.
“Aye,” she answered coolly. “Lass.”
He huffed, nearly smiling at her wit. If this display was directed at anyone but him, he might have found humor in it. As it stood, she was hindering his mission.
“I daenae ken why ye cannae tell me yer name,” he pressed, stepping in closer. She tensed, her jaw tightening as she stayed stubbornly silent. “Or perhaps ye could tell me who yer kin are.”
