Page 53 of The Heather Wife
The healer touched her shoulder. “Lady… he’s past hearin’ ye.”
“I dinna believe that.” Sorcha’s hand found his. “He hears me. He must.”
Hours blurred.
The fire burned low; the world shrank to the sound of his breathing and her own.
When the healer at last left to fetch more herbs, Sorcha slid from her chair to her knees beside the bed.
She bowed her head until her forehead touched his arm.
Her whisper was a broken thing. “I’ve prayed for many things in my life, but never like this. I prayed for victory, for justice, for vengeance. But not for mercy. Not until now.”
Her voice wavered, the words falling like confession.
If she’d not spared Liam—if she’d finished what justice demanded when she’d had the chance—none of this would have come to pass.
“If this is punishment for what I’ve done,” she whispered, “let it be mine instead. Take me, if that’s what fate demands—but let him live. Please.”
Her hand trembled as she reached for the brooch pinned at her breast—the one he had used to fasten his mother’s plaid when he’d given it to her. She unclasped it and laid it in his palm, folding his fingers over it.
“Ye gave me this to keep,” she murmured. “So I’ll keep ye too, stubborn fool that ye are. Come back to me, Calum. Come back, and I’ll never shut ye out again.”
For a long time, there was nothing.
Then—a faint twitch beneath her hand.
His fingers, slack moments ago, seemed to stir against hers.
Her head snapped up.
“Calum?” she breathed.
No answer—only a sigh, shallow but steady. The fever had loosened its hold a little; the flush in his cheeks had dulled, the frantic pulse slowed. The healer returned moments later, and when she touched his brow, her face changed.
“His heat’s lessened,” she said softly. “He’s fightin’ it.”
Sorcha nearly sagged to the floor. She pressed her lips to his hand, shaking with a relief she didn’t dare release. “Then he’ll live,” she said fiercely. “He will.”
The healer hesitated. “If his strength holds, aye.”
“It will,” Sorcha said. “It must.”
Dawn came pale and cold.
The light slanted through the shutters, touching Calum’s face.
He slept deeply now, breath even, his skin cool beneath her touch. The worst, she prayed, had passed.
Sorcha sat slumped in the chair beside him, exhaustion heavy in her limbs. Her head rested against his arm, her hand still caught in his. She meant only to rest her eyes for a moment—to stay near, to listen for any change in his breath. But the weight of the day pressed hard, and the sound that reached her through the shutters held her fast.
Outside, the courtyard was quiet. The smoke of battle had long since cleared, the air sharp with the scent of damp earth and ash.
Along the walls, Katherine and the others kept vigil—bows in hand, eyes scanning the dark horizon. They watched for any sign that the raiders might return while the warriors beyond the gate finished burying the last of the dead. Theirheads were high, their shoulders squared, and their voices low with song:
“Tha mo ghaol air àirigh,”(My love is on the high seas).
Sorcha’s lashes lifted faintly, her mind turning toward the sound. She remembered her mother singing it to her while they worked the loom or tended the hearth—and sometimes, in the quiet hours of night, when she’d fought against sleep, her mother’s voice would rise soft and steady with those same words.
