Page 58 of The Heather Wife
Calum studied her — the faint line between her brows, the way her hands trembled slightly as she set the cup aside. She still kept a wall between them — thinner now, perhaps, but there. He couldn’t blame her. He’d earned that distance long before the arrow ever found him.
Before he could speak, the door creaked.
Agnes bustled in, a tray in her hands and disapproval written clear on her face. “Saints preserve us, it smells like death and fever in here,” she muttered. “My laird, ye’ve woken? Good. Now mayhap we can talk sense into this stubborn lass.”
Sorcha turned, startled. “Agnes—”
“Don’t ‘Agnes’ me.” The old woman set the tray down with a thump and planted her fists on her hips. “You’ve not had a proper meal in four days, Lady MacRae, nor a wash since the night of the raid. You’ll come with me downstairs to eat, and then ye’ll go get yourself clean before you scare the poor laird back into unconsciousness.”
Calum tried not to smile. “She’s not wrong.”
Sorcha shot him a glare that might have felled a lesser man. “I’ll not leave ye.”
He met her gaze steadily. “I’ll no’ die while ye’re gone, Sorcha. I’ve survived worse.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Ye dinna ken that.”
“Aye, I do,” he said softly. “Go. Let Agnes see ye fed and cleaned. I’ll still be here when ye come back.”
Agnes nodded approvingly. “Listen to your husband, lass. He’s right for once.”
Sorcha looked between them, battle flickering in her eyes. Then, slowly, she gave in. “Fine. But only for a short while.”
Calum inclined his head, relief slipping quietly through him. “Take your time. That’s an order.”
Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smile. She stood, the plaid slipping from her shoulders as she gathered herself. Before she turned, she hesitated — just a moment — and laid a hand gently over the bandaged wound at his chest.
“Rest, Calum.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Go on, love. I’ll be fine.”
Her breath caught faintly at the word, but she said nothing, only nodded and followed Agnes out.
The door closed, and silence returned — thicker now, heavy with all that had been left unsaid.
Calum exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in his ribs, the weight of the days he’d lost. He was alive. Sorcha was alive. That was enough — for now.
He rested for a while, listening to the muted bustle of the keep beyond the walls — hammers striking, distant shouts, the sound of Strathloch healing itself. When the healer passed through to check his bandage, he stopped her.
“Have Duncan sent up when he’s able,” he said.
The woman nodded. “Aye, my laird.”
It wasn’t long before Duncan’s boots sounded on the stair. He entered quietly, bowing his head. His face broke into a grin when he saw Calum upright.
“By God, it’s good to see ye awake,” he said, his voice rough with relief. “Ye gave us all a fright.”
Calum’s mouth curved faintly. “Ye think I’d let a wee arrow fell me? It’ll take more than that.”
Duncan laughed, pulling up a stool. “Ye sound more yourself already. Sorcha’ll be glad o’ that. She’s near torn the keep apart watchin’ over ye.”
“I ken,” Calum said quietly. “She’s… stronger than any man I’ve met.”
“Aye, that she is.” Duncan leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It’s a wonder, truly. I’ve seen her leadin’ the women since the raid — keep’s never run smoother. Ye’re lucky, my laird.”
“I know it.”
Duncan hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “Speakin’ o’ luck… there’s a woman I’ve been seein’ more of myself.”
