Page 62 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

“How dae ye feel?” the healer asked.

“Like someone ran me through wi’ a spear,” Tav muttered.

Josiah gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. “Aye, well. It was a blade, nae a spear, but close enough. Let’s have a look.”

Tav braced himself as the healer peeled back the blanket and began to unwrap the bandage at his side. The moment the cloth pulled away, pain flared anew, making his breath hitch.

“Hold still,” Josiah said, his tone calm but firm. “It’s clean, which is a bloody miracle. Ye must be made o’ stone.”

Tav gritted his teeth. “More like stubborn.”

Josiah snorted. “That too.”

The salve stung when it touched raw flesh, but Tav didn’t cry out. He’d known worse. But this hurt in a different way. It reminded him of how close he’d come to losing everything. Of how, if the tide had turned a moment later, Agnes might have been standing over his grave instead of his bed.

“Ye fought like hell,” Josiah said after a while. “I heard it took six o’ them tae bring ye down. That true?”

Tav didn’t answer.

“Foolish,” Josiah muttered, applying a fresh wrap with more gentleness than Tav expected. “But brave. And lucky. Most men wouldnae have survived it. Ye were burning up when they dragged ye in. We thought we’d lose ye before nightfall.”

“But ye didnae,” Tav said, voice rough.

Josiah glanced at him, and for a moment, the stern lines of his face eased. “Nay. We didnae.”

Tav let his head fall back again, eyes on the wooden beams above. “Thank ye.”

Josiah nodded once, then finished tying the bandage. “Ye’re out o’ danger now. The wound will ache, and it’ll take time, but ye’ll heal. If ye rest.”

“Resting’s nae exactly me strong suit,” Tav muttered.

“Well, it’s about tae become it,” Josiah said, rising. “They’ll ready a chamber fer ye in the west wing—quiet, warm, and close enough fer me tae check in. Ye’ll rest there. A week, at least. More, if that fever returns. Dae ye understand me?”

Tav managed a wry smile. “Aye.”

“Good. Because I willnae chase ye through these halls if ye decide tae be a hero again. Next time, I’ll let the fever finish the job.”

Tav nodded, genuine this time. “I’m grateful.”

Josiah packed up his things, pausing at the door. “She sat with ye, ye know. All night. Wouldnae eat. Wouldnae sleep. Just watched over ye. Ye’ve been good tae her… it seems.”

Tav lay motionless in the bed, the silence pressing in like a second weight on his chest. Then the healer left, the door shutting with a soft click behind him. That last line lingered. It seems. As if Josiah hadn’t made up his mind about whether Tav deserved her care. And yet, she’d stayed.

Tav closed his eyes. Her touch still lingered on his cheek, feather-light and impossible to forget. He hadn’t meant to reach for her. Hadn’t planned to say anything. But the words had come from somewhere deep, somewhere beyond pain and reason. And the way she’d looked at him with that unguarded sorrow. That barely restrained fear had cracked something open inside of him.

He would heal. He always did. But the thing stirring in his chest… he didn’t know what to do with it.

He turned his head slowly, wincing as the motion tugged on something stitched deep in his side. His breath hissed between his teeth. Gods, it felt like his ribs were being pulled apart and sewn back together with each inhale. But still, he craned his neck enough to look at the chair she had been sitting in.

It was empty now. Just the faint impression of her weight in the cushion, and a folded blanket that had slipped to the floor when she’d stood. He could see her fingers in the way it had been tucked earlier—precise, gentle, as if even a blanket deserved to feel cared for.

A soft chime echoed from somewhere beyond the door, distant but clear. Tav guessed it was the healer summoning help, likely. His body still felt like it had been carved from stone and stitched back together with coarse thread. He barely had the strength to shift against the pillow, let alone rise.

Footsteps followed a moment later, quick but measured. A maid entered the room with the ease of someone used to moving through quiet places. She looked young, no older than Agnes, but her expression carried a sort of practiced calm.

She paused just inside the doorway, her hands clasped neatly before her. When her eyes met his, she dipped into a slight curtsy.

“Yer room’s been prepared, sir,” she said gently. Her voice was soft-edged and certain. “West wing. Warm and quiet. Laird Caithness asked it be close enough fer the healer tae reach ye easily. He said ye might need checking in on more than once a day.”