Page 90 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

The week after, all Ceana felt was that happiness. As she slowly recovered and gained back her strength, a part of her couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome. The children checking in on her continuously and Muriel making certain she rested properly helped tremendously.

One week later, she turned a square of boiled linen until the repaired edge lay flat, then folded it into the healer’s bundle beside Muriel’s elbow. The bruises on her arms had faded to yellow at the edges. A layer of new skin covered the scrape across her palm, and a dull ache remained in her wrist whenever she twisted it.

She flexed her hand before lifting another cloth from the basket.

Muriel glanced at the movement as she stripped dried yarrow leaves from their stems. “That is the last bundle ye fold today.”

Ceana sighed. “Ye said that three bundles ago.”

“And ye have ignored me three times.” Muriel swept the leaves into a shallow wooden bowl. “I am beginnin’ to understand how Oscar feels.”

Within the week, Muriel had made the surgery her own, and Ceana was all the happier for it. She inspected the washed linen for thinning while Muriel replenished the herbs spent after the battle.

“Oscar gives orders as if God appointed him to improve the rest of us,” Ceana said. “Ye give orders because ye have seen what happens when people ignore them. There is a difference.”

“The distinction isnae quite as clear as ye think, Ceana.” Muriel tied the neck of a linen pouch. “Did yer sister ignore advice as readily as ye do?”

Ceana smiled. “Daphne listened with great care. She simply did whatever she pleased afterward.”

“Then ye must miss her.”

The cloth under her hand needed no further inspection. She folded it once. “Every day. Her letter helped. She is safe, and she is thrivin’.”

Muriel waited, her fingers resting on the cord around the pouch.

“She never asked me to take her place at the festival,” Ceana continued. “I decided that. I thought me own future held little worth beside what our faither would lose if she ran.”

Muriel tightened the cord around the pouch. “Ye thought yer family would be safe if ye took her place.”

“Aye.”

“Daphne disagreed?”

“Oh well, she couldnae if she tried.” Ceana set the linen atop the finished bundle. “But I ken she wouldnae have let me do that if she was here.”

Muriel’s mouth curved as she returned to the yarrow. “She sounds like a Tulloch.”

“She sounds like our maither when she is angry. I havenae told her that, though.”

They worked for several minutes. Dry stems cracked beneath Muriel’s fingers, while sunlight streaming through the narrow window showed every loose thread in the linen.

Muriel nudged a new pile toward Ceana, then caught it back before Ceana could reach for it. “Ye have told me how Daphne fares. In fact, ye have told me almost everythin’. Ye ken what I have yet to hear from ye?”

Ceana smirked. “What?”

Muriel cocked her head. “Anythin’ about ye. Ye have avoided tellin’ me how ye are farin’ with me braither.”

“I am sittin’ in yer surgery, doin’ work ye told me to leave alone. That should answer ye.”

“All it answers is the state of yer stubbornness. I asked about yer marriage.”

Ceana’s neck grew warm beneath her collar. Muriel watched her with such patience that Ceana knew she could wait all afternoon.

“Marriage is… better than I expected,” she admitted.

Muriel nodded. “Wow, such passion. I am certain Oscar will be overcome.”

Ceana flicked a loose thread at her. Muriel caught it against her apron.