Page 52 of The Heather Wife
The wound festered despite the healer’s work. His skin burned, and sweat gathered along his temple, soaking the pillow beneath his head. The infection had taken hold. The healer brewed tinctures of yarrow and willow bark, laid poultices over the wound, prayed and swore in equal measure—but the fever climbed higher with every passing hour.
Sorcha did not leave him.
She changed the cloths, cooled his brow with damp linen, forced water between his lips when she could. When her strength failed, she leaned her forehead against his arm and simply breathed with him, matching her heartbeat to his, willing it not to stop.
The other women came and went, soft as ghosts.
Katherine brought fresh linen and broth, her eyes red but determined.
Isla cleaned the floor where blood had dried in dark smears.
Moira lit candles near the bed and whispered prayers in Gaelic.
They spoke little. Their quiet presence filled the room like a hymn.
Once, when Sorcha tried to rise and nearly fell, Katherine caught her.
“Ye’ve a wound that needs tending,” she said. “Let me bind it, at least.”
“I can manage.”
“Ye canna if ye faint dead away.” Katherine’s tone brooked no argument.
She led her to the hearth, sat her down, and cut away the bloodied sleeve. The gash along Sorcha’s arm was deeper than she’d admitted. Katherine cleaned it gently, her hands steady despite the tremor in her voice.
“I remember the first day ye set us to train,” she murmured. “Couldn’t even draw a bow. Ye said strength comes slow—but steady, if the heart wills it.”
Sorcha managed a faint smile. “Did I say that?”
“Aye. And I mean to prove ye right. So ye’ll rest now, Lady MacRae. We’ll see to the clan.”
When Sorcha tried to protest, Katherine laid a hand over hers.
“Ye’ve done enough fighting for one night.”
The words undid her more than any wound.
She nodded once, unable to speak, and let the women do as they would.
They moved about the keep like quiet fire—organizing food for the men, tending to the wounded, keeping watch along the walls. The rhythm of life carried on because she had taught them how. That knowledge both steadied and broke her heart.
On the third night, the fever worsened.
Calum thrashed against the sheets, his skin flushed and burning.
The healer tried more tincture; nothing helped.
Sorcha held him still, whispering his name until her voice went hoarse.
“Calum… please.”
She wiped his face with a cloth, the water cooling as soon as it touched his skin.
“Ye said ye’d no leave me again. Ye said we’d begin anew. Do ye hear me? Ye’ve still debts to pay—words to keep.”
He didn’t stir. His breath came ragged and shallow.
Her tears fell freely now, landing hot on his chest. “Don’t ye dare,” she whispered, shaking. “Don’t ye dare leave me again.”
