Page 147 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

Brennen pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting mine. They trail across my wounds, the blood oozing from my chest and abdomen, flashing with darkness.

“No,” he says, his voice deadly as he pulls the blade firmly across the man's neck. Blood gurgles from the open wound, horrible wet gasps coming from his throat as he fights for air he will never find.

The magic of the curse tugs at me as the wind picks up, a stab of pain pulsing behind my breastbone, but I barely feel it. Shock crashes over me at what I just witnessed, so violent, it rips a gasp from my throat. Brennen just killed a man—slit his throat without any sort of trial or order. He’d executed him. We were no longer in danger, and still, he ended Hamish’s life—because of what he did to me.

Brennen drops Hamish’s body to the ground along with his sword as clothing appears upstream. I'm too weak to move, and yet the river doesn’t care. It lifts me, forcing me to my knees, and Brennen snarls.

“No,” he says, the word brimming with venom. “You willnae wash his clothes.”

He reaches his hands into the water, and to my surprise, the curse relaxes. Brennen takes the clothes, and with a deep voice, he sings my song, rubbing the fabric along the riverbed.

“May Am Breitheamh judge you fully and find you worthy only of suffering,” Brennen says, shoving the clothes back into the current. “I know I would.”

My chest tightens. For Brennen to say such words is no small thing. Not sparing the clothes another look, he lifts me, cradling me to his chest. With steady hands, he grabs the dagger from his thigh sheath, but I am not afraid. Not even as he brings the tip of the knife to my breast. He lifts the blood-soaked dress from my skin, aligning the edge of the weapon with the middle of my neckline, then, in one swift motion, cuts down, exposing the entirety of my chest and abdomen.

“An diabhail!” His eyes flash with pure, undiluted rage as he takes in the multiple stab wounds, blood seeping from each one.

“Death wasnae enough for that bastard,” he hisses, pressing a blanket to my wounds, but they saturate too quickly to allow the cuts to clot. “I should have been here to stop him.”

I don't answer. I can't. The pain is too intense, and the blood loss too rapid. I will not die, but I will sleep until my body heals. It is all I can hope for, to fade into the darkness and escape this agony. Brennen’s face blurs as he reaches out to cup my cheek.

“You can't,” I try to say, but it comes out as a moan.

“Hold on,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine as he rolls up his sleeve with shaking fingers. “You’ll be okay soon, my lark.” Before I realize what he’s doing, he presses his dàn of healing directly against my wounds.

I don’t have time to protest. To tell him to save his magic. His skin touches mine, but nothing happens.

Brennen’s eyes widen with panic, and he presses harder. “What? No!” he says, lifting his arm and bringing it back down to my injuries. “Why isn’t it working?” he asks. I shake my head, unable to answer him. The river surges, a wave that appears from upstream, rippling over the banks and onto my feet, a shock of cold.

I suck in a breath as my body suddenly ignites, the power of Brennen’s dàn tunneling into my skin, but as the water recedes, the sensation stops. Brennen pauses, his brows furrowing.

“It was the river that gave us our dàn,” he whispers under his breath, eyes darting to the water. “I’m sorry, Bea. This is going to hurt,” he says, lifting me. The moment he picks me up, a fresh wave of pain sears through my wounds, and I cry out.

“Shhhh. You’ll be okay soon,” he says, kneeling and lowering me into the river, my head resting on shore. Stars dot my vision as, once again, he presses his forearm against my torso. The feeling of magic branding into my skin once again rushes through me, a searing pain I cannot endure.

I try to pull away, but Brennen presses his other arm firmly across my chest, locking me in place.

“Dinnae move,” he orders, and I still at his command. Not because I want to, but because my entire being is on fire. So much magic flows through my blood, it's hard to breathe. I lock eyes with Brennen, grabbing his forearms, squeezing as I fight against the pain, but it’s useless. The magic sharpens, the sensation of it unbearable.

I cannot breathe. I can hardly think. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if, between the pain of the stabs and the transfer of magic, this might actually do the impossible and kill me.

Brennen strokes my hair, and I turn my head to look at him.

But where his stern features had been creased with worry and fury only moments ago, I now see only relief. He cups my cheek.

“It will be over soon,” he promises.

And then, as if he spoke it into existence, the pain begins to ease. I follow his gaze to the injuries that are already closing. The flow of blood slows, then stops completely.

“It worked. You’re healed,” Brennen breathes, pulling back to examine the spot his dàn once sat on his right forearm. He flips my arm over, tracing the delicate lines.

“How did you know to put me in the water?” I ask, my voice still strained.

Brennen shakes his head. “It’s something Garrick told me, but I didnae realize it until now. Every time you’ve taken my dàn you’ve been in the river. Even when I touched you in the vision, your body was here, waiting for Harold’s clothes.”

“You’re saying it was the river that gave me your magic?”

“Aye,” he says, his voice gentle.