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“It is a scratch,” Caelan grunted.

Before Rowan could argue further, Morag descended upon them like an angry hawk. The housekeeper marched out of the kitchen corridor, a wooden spoon still clutched in her fist, her eyes zeroing in on the blood dripping onto her clean floor.

“A scratch?” Morag demanded, planting her hands on her hips and glaring up at the towering warlord. “If that is a scratch, I am the Queen of Scots. Move yer stubborn hide into the solar this instant. If ye bleed on me good rugs, I will finish the job that raider started!”

“Morag, I have a debriefing with Duncan…”

“Ye have a debriefing with a needle and thread,” Morag snapped, pointing her spoon toward the corridor. “Walk. Now.”

Mabel watched in stunned silence as the most feared man in the Highlands actually let out a weary sigh and obeyed the housekeeper, trudging down the hall toward his private solar. Rowan offered Morag a grateful, exhausted salute before turning back toward the courtyard to check on the rest of the returning patrol.

“Isla,” Morag barked, spinning around, “fetch the yarrow salve from the pantry. And bring a basin of hot water. Move, lass!”

Isla scrambled toward the kitchens. Morag hurried after Caelan, leaving Mabel standing alone by the tables.

For a moment, Mabel simply stared at the drops of blood on the stone. The stark reality of Caelan’s life, the constant, unyielding violence he faced simply to keep the glens secure, hit her with fresh clarity. Without waiting for an invitation, she gathered her skirts and followed the trail of blood down the corridor.

When she reached the open door of the solar, Caelan was sitting heavily in the large oak chair near the hearth. He had stripped off his leather coat and the ruined linen shirt beneath it, leaving his broad chest bare to the warmth of the fire. Morag was standing beside him, pressing a thick white cloth against a nasty, jagged slash that ran along his lower ribs.

“Hold this,” Morag ordered, slapping Caelan’s own hand over the cloth. “Press hard. I need to mix the salve, or this will fester by nightfall.”

Caelan hissed as she applied pressure, his eyes squeezing shut.

Suddenly, a loud, catastrophic crash echoed from the direction of the kitchens, followed immediately by the sound of a dog barking frantically and a scullery maid screaming.

Morag closed her eyes, letting out a breath that sounded like a boiling kettle. “If that hound has stolen the roasted mutton again, I am roasting the beast alongside it.”

Mabel stepped quietly over the threshold. “Go, Morag. I can tend to him.”

Caelan’s eyes snapped open. His gaze locked onto Mabel, his entire body going rigid. The sudden tension rolling off him had nothing to do with the wound on his side.

“Miss Mabel,” Morag said, hesitating slightly. “It is a nasty cut. Ye should nae have to dirty yer hands with it.”

“I helped the healers at MacAllister Castle all the time,” Mabel assured her, walking forward with a calm confidence she did not feel. She took the clean basin of hot water and the linen strips from a wide-eyed Isla, who had just appeared in the doorway. “Go save the mutton, Morag. Isla, fetch the salve and leave it on the desk.”

Morag gave Caelan a stern look. “Sit still for her, or I will box yer ears.”

The housekeeper hurried out, chasing Isla and the chaos down the hall.

The heavy oak door remained ajar, but the solar suddenly felt incredibly small, intimate, and quiet. The only sound was the crackle of the peat fire and the harsh, shallow rhythm of Caelan’s breathing.

Mabel set the basin on the small table beside his chair. She wrung out a clean cloth in the hot water.

“Ye daenae need to do this,” Caelan said, his voice a low, rough rumble. He looked anywhere but at her face. “Send for one of the guards.”

“The guards have heavy hands, and they are likely tired from the patrol,” Mabel replied evenly. She stepped closer, invading his space. The sheer heat radiating off his bare skin washed over her, smelling of rain, horses, and copper. “Move yer hand, Caelan. Let me see the damage.”

He hesitated. Slowly, he lowered his hand.

Mabel knelt beside his chair. She kept her focus on the wound, refusing to let herself look at the vast expanse of his chest. The cut was deep, slicing across the muscle over his ribs, but thankfully, it had not hit anything vital.

She gently pressed the hot, damp cloth against the edge of the wound to clear away the drying blood.

Caelan sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his hands gripping the wooden arms of the chair so hard the timber creaked.

“I am sorry,” Mabel murmured, lightening her touch. “Does it sting?”

“It is fine,” he grunted, his knuckles stark white. “Just finish it.”