The book in her lap had long ceased to hold her attention, her gaze blurring over the words as her head dipped. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as the nightshift she wore was delicate and thin.
The warmth of the hearth lulled her, and she blinked wearily, on the brink of surrendering to slumber when the door creaked open.
“Who’s there?” she said, h er eyes snapping up.
Declan stepped through, broad and silent, his presence filling the room. For an instant, relief flooded her face, until the light caught the dark smears across his tunic.
Her breath hitched, her sleepy haze vanishing at once as she rose from her chair. Then she saw it was blood, streaked across his chest and hands.
“Declan!” she cried, her voice sharp and trembling. “What’s happened? Yer hurt!”
He barely looked at her, his tone rough and clipped. “It’s nothin’, Isabelle. Dinnae fash yerself.”
He moved to the whiskey and drank straight from the bottle.
“It’s nothin’? Ye’ve blood all over ye!” she snapped, hurrying to his side.
He waved her off, already unbuckling his sword belt with weary, deliberate movements.
“It’s nae me first fight, lass. I’m fine.” His tone carried that familiar edge of command, the kind that brooked no argument.
But Isabelle wasn’t one to yield easily.
“Fine?” she repeated, incredulous, as he pulled his tunic over his head. The cloth stuck slightly to the wound, and when he tuggedit free, her gasp filled the room. “Saints above, Declan, that’s nae fine! Ye’ve a gash clean across yer chest!”
“It’s a scratch,” he muttered, tossing the bloodied garment aside. His jaw tightened as he reached for a cloth, refusing to meet her gaze.
“A scratch? Ye fool man, it’s bleedin’ still!” Isabelle’s heart pounded as she grabbed a clean rag from the table. “Sit down before ye fall down.”
He stiffened, his voice a low growl. “I said I dinnae need yer help.”
“Well, I’m nae askin’ ye,” she shot back, her chin lifting defiantly. “Ye’re gettin’ help whether ye like it or nae.”
Declan turned toward her then, his dark eyes flashing. “Isabelle,” he warned, his tone thick with irritation. “I’ve dealt with worse wounds than this. I’ll nae be coddled like some bairn.”
Her eyes narrowed, fire flaring in her chest. “Coddled? I’m tryin’ to stop ye bleedin’ like a stuck boar, ye stubborn brute!”
He exhaled sharply, but she was already moving. Grabbing the basin from the table, she poured water and dipped the cloth into it. Her movements were brisk, fueled by both anger and worry. He tried to step back, but she caught his wrist with surprising strength.
“Sit,” she ordered through clenched teeth.
Declan hesitated, his pride warring with exhaustion. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at the wall. “Ye’ve a sharp tongue for such a wee lass,” he muttered darkly.
“And ye’ve a thick skull for such a great warrior,” she retorted, pressing the damp cloth against his chest. He hissed softly as the water met the open cut, muscles tensing beneath her hand. “See? That hurts, so dinnae tell me it’s nothin’.”
He stayed silent, jaw set, though his breathing quickened. She worked carefully, wiping away the dried blood, revealing the long, angry slice across his skin. “What happened?” she asked quietly, her voice gentler now.
“Bandits,” he grunted. “Came at us near the ridge. We sent ’em runnin’, but one managed a lucky strike.”
“Lucky strike indeed,” she murmured, her gaze softening despite herself. “Ye could’ve been killed.”
“I’m nae that easy to kill,” he replied, his tone rough but tinged with weariness. “Ye neednae worry so much.”
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “How can I nae worry? Ye’re me husband, Declan. I ken ye think yerself made of iron, but flesh bleeds the same in every man.”
His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he looked away.
“Aye, well,” he said lowly, “ye’d best grow used to it. This is what I am. A man of battle.”
