Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
T wo weeks later and Freya was starting to feel like she was forgetting what the sky looked like. Holed up in her hut with the stranger was consuming all of her time and she was starting to run low on supplies. But there was no denying the progress she had made. No longer was his skin peeling and cracking from dehydration and sea salt.
She wanted to see his eyes again.
But, apart from that first day, he hadn’t woken up at all. Not even for a moment. She hoped it meant something good, that he was healing and on his way to recovery. Perhaps he would wake up properly soon. She didn’t need to keep changing out his poultices anymore, and soon the stitches she had put in would be removed.
That morning she was looking at the wounds again, checking the progress of his healing while going through her usual morning routine of cleaning him with a cloth. The bowl of water on her lap was infused with a softly fragrant oil and milk. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from tracing the outlines of the tattoos that ran down the right side of his body.
Where had he come from? He had to be Scottish. That much she was rather certain of. But she couldn’t stop herself from wanting to know more about him, where he came from… what his smile might look like.
“Oh, now ye are being a right fool.” Freya muttered to herself, dropping the rag back into the bowl, hissing in irritation as the water sloshed over the sides and onto the top layer of her skirt. Carefully, she rose and moved to place the bowl on the counter. Grabbing another bit of cloth, she dipped it into the water and then placed the cool cloth on the back of her neck, closing her eyes as she focused on the cooling sensation. She needed to get out of this hut if she was starting to wonder such silly things about a man who might have had his brains scrambled right inside of his head.
Against the sounds of wood burning in the hearth, she had been hearing the man mumbling sounds for the better part of the morning, his lips barely moving and no other outward signs of life in him at all. They weren’t even words, at least not that she could tell. It was a good indication that his throat was working, and the saltwater hadn’t sanded it away. But he was losing weight, and she needed him to wake up soon or else she was going to have to figure something else out. Broths were only getting him so far. He needed to eat, if he could.
Pulling the cloth from the back of her neck, Freya silently counted to four in her mind before lifting her head and setting about taking inventory of her supplies. She would perhaps be able to run out quickly tonight, after everybody else in the village was asleep. She knew that their talking and gossip was getting bolder by the day. Nothing else exciting ever seemed to happen out there, so all they spoke about was her mystery man.
If they saw her leaving him unattended, they were very likely to go poking around. It was best not to give them that opportunity.
Making notes on a small piece of paper as she went, she must have been puttering about for a solid half an hour before she realized that she was being watched. Silent, mossy green eyes tracking her every movement around the small space. But unlike last time, his eyes were clear and bright—attentive and focused.
Freya’s gut twisted.
It wasn’t a wholly unpleasant feeling, but she hadn’t ever felt anything like it before.
He was trying to speak. His lips moved, and no sound came out. He swallowed dryly, attempted to wet them and speak once more, but he was struggling. Realizing that he needed water, the paper she had been working on fell right out of her hands as she hurried over to help him take a drink of water. It dribbled down the side of his face. Why did she feel so flustered? This wasn’t like her at all.
“Thank ye,” the man said, his eyes drifting shut as if the effort to speak took far more out of him than he had otherwise anticipated.
“O-of course, it’s me duty.” She answered and could have kicked herself for it.
“Who are ye?” He asked, his throat hoarse from disuse over the last two weeks.
“I’m the village healer, ye are in me home.” She answered, holding the water up once more which he accepted slowly. “Ye’ve been asleep fer almost a full fortnight. Dae ye… ken who ye are?”
The man started to answer on reflex alone, but then his eyes unfocused, drifted to the ceiling as he seemed to struggle to pull a word from the tip of his tongue that merely just kept slipping away.
“Ye shouldnae strain yerself,” Freya muttered. “Take yer time, I’m sure that things will come more easily tae ye after ye get some of yer strength back.”
It was hard to tear her eyes from him, even if only for so long as to glance behind her.
“Rest,” Freya said with a gentle touch to his chest before turning away. “I’ll put something on the fire.”
It was another kind of comfort for her to set about making a stew. It would do him good to have some hearty vegetables and enough meat to make him feel stronger. It was the same as any of her potions and tonics that she would make. All the same process of measuring, but instead of using the herbs for medicine, she was using them for seasoning.
“We should come up with a name fer ye.” Freya supplied as she worked.
“Hm?” The man hummed softly, his voice drifting slightly as she spoke.
“Until ye can think of yer own name? Perhaps just something so that I dinnae have to keep calling ye the dead man in me head.” Freya continued.
He laughed. Well, as close to a laugh as he truly seemed capable of making. He coughed, the sound having irritated his throat most likely. She waited for a long moment, and then decided that she was going to need to make some tea as well. That would help his speaking return to him more easily.
“And what dae ye suggest?”
Freya turned, tapping the end of her wooden spoon against her chin as she gave herself permission to look at him. To really look at him. It was one thing to admire him when he was asleep, but with him looking at her? She felt almost giddy. “Finnegan is just too long…”
He winced. “Dae I look like a Finnegan?”
“Ye have nae idea what ye look like, either, dae ye?” Freya said, just realizing that fact herself. She couldn’t imagine it. It wasn’t like she went around admiring herself in every puddle and lake that she found but she just knew what she looked like.
The man shook his head slightly, and then winced, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
“Hm. Nathan?” She offered. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was as close to one as she could come up with off the top of her head. With his eyes, the sandy brown hair, and the natural tan on the bits of skin that hadn’t been burned… she couldn’t explain it but he looked like a Nathan to her.
The man on the bed nodded once. “Nathan it is,” he said softly, settling back down into the bed as his eyes grew heavy once more.
Why did she keep looking back over her shoulder? Just to check his condition, of course. That could be the only reasonable explanation for what she was doing. He seemed to be sleeping again, which was good. His body had burned off his fever quite some time ago, and the wounds were all closed but that didn’t mean that he was anywhere near ready to be on his own two feet.
Setting the heavy pot onto the fire to start to boil, she nearly dropped the damn thing as an insistent pounding came to her front door. No doubt Tristan was back, yet again, insisting to be allowed inside. There was nothing he hated more than to be barred access to something he considered to be his.
Freya’s jaw set firmly as she headed to the door, ready to give the man yet another piece of her mind when the pounding came again, more insistent this time. They were hitting her door so loudly that the wood was rattling. Her brow furrowed.
“If ye break me door, there will be hell tae pay!” She called angrily as her hand hesitated over the latch.
“If ye ken what is good fer ye, Freya, then ye will open the door.” Tristan answered haughtily. “We just wannae speak tae the man.”
“We?” She muttered to herself, her heart plummeting into her stomach as she unlocked the bolt. Tristan stepped forward immediately, placing a hand on her door and pushing so hard that the handle was wrenched from her grip so that everybody gathered outside had a better look into her private home. It didn’t matter that they had all been inside of her home at one point or another over the years; the way Tristian was doing it was invasive and she wasn’t going to stand for it.
Tristan was standing there with the entire village council surrounding him. No doubt he had been taking all of this time and his wounded ego to rile the men up into a frenzy of nonsense that wasn’t necessary in the first place.
“We just wannae talk tae him. Now, behave, and step aside so that the men can dae what’s necessary.”