Page 51 of The Heather Wife
He was as strong—and as stubborn—as his mother had been before him.
Calum had been steadfast in making right the wrong he’d done to Sorcha, and if it lay within his power to survive, he would.
Domnhall would not allow himself to think any other way.
Chapter 42
Sorcha
The healer’s chamber smelled of smoke, herbs, and blood.
The air was too warm, heavy with breath and fever, the shutters drawn tight against the night. Sorcha stood near the table where they had laid Calum, her fingers rigid around the edges of her cloak. She could hear her own heart more than she could think.
“Hold him,” the healer said.
She moved at once, bracing his shoulders as the old woman bent over the wound.
The arrow jutted from just below his collarbone, a hand’s breadth from his heart.
If it had flown the width of a finger lower, he’d already be gone.
Calum’s eyes flickered open, unfocused.
A harsh sound left him—half curse, half breath. “Sorcha—”
“I’m here,” she whispered. “Hush now. Let her work.”
The healer gripped the shaft close to the skin. “Brace him.”
Sorcha pressed down, her palms against the slick warmth of his skin, feeling the tremor of his muscles under her hands. The arrow came free with a sickening, wet sound, and blood surged forth, hot and fast, pooling beneath her fingers. She knew how much a man could lose and live, but this—this made her heart seize. When Calum went still, for one terrible heartbeat she thought she had lost him.
But the healer’s voice came steady, commanding: “He breathes. Hold fast.”
She pressed cloth to the wound, chanting low under her breath—half prayer, half instruction to her apprentice. The girl brought boiling water and spirits, the sharp scent cutting through the air like a blade.
“Ye’ve taken a wound yourself, my lady,” the healer said without looking up. “Sit down before ye fall.”
“It’s nothing.” Sorcha’s voice rasped. “See to him.”
A gash ran along her upper arm where a raider’s blade had caught her; she’d barely felt it until now, but blood soaked the edge of her sleeve. The apprentice reached for her, but Sorcha shook her off.
“I said see to him.”
The healer muttered something about stubborn fools—then turned back to Calum.
She cleaned the wound, stitched it closed with deft, quick fingers, bound it tight, and left a narrow tube of hollow reed to drain the blood. By the time she was done, the fire had burned low and Sorcha’s knees threatened to give way.
When they moved him to the bed against the wall, she went with him, sinking onto the chair beside it. Her cloak was gone; she didn’t know when she’d lost it. Her arm burned, her whole body ached, but she couldn’t seem to look anywhere but at Calum’s face.
His skin was too pale. His chest rose shallowly, each breath a struggle.
The healer wiped her hands and said softly, “We’ll see how he fares come morning.”
Morning came.
Then another.
Calum did not wake.
