Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The first thing Marcus noticed when he opened his eyes was the soft, steady rise and fall of the unknown woman’s chest as she slept beside him.
His gaze lingered on her face, the faint light of morning casting a gentle glow on her features.
She looked bonnie in her peaceful slumber, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders.
Is this the angel I saw at the door? She was real, and from the looks of it, she was me own guardian.
He realized she had stayed by his side all night, no doubt nursing him through his pain.
Her kindness made a strange warmth rise in his chest, a feeling that didn’t belong in the midst of his troubled thoughts.
He tried to move, needing to get up, but a sharp pain shot through his side, and a grunt of discomfort escaped his lips.
Annabeth’s eyes fluttered open at the sound, her gaze snapping to him with immediate concern.
“Ye need to stay down,” she ordered, her voice laced with panic. Her hands hovered near his arm as if unsure whether to help or not. “Ye’ve nae idea how bad that wound is,” she muttered, frustration rising in her voice. “Lie back before ye make it worse.”
“I cannae stay here,” Marcus replied, his voice raspy but firm. “I need to leave. Me clan will be wonderin’ where I am.”
He tried to push himself up again, but the pain in his side stopped him cold. The weight of his clan’s worries pressed heavily on him, and he needed to return to make sure things hadn’t gone south while he was laid up. His determination was clear, but his body refused to cooperate.
Annabeth shook her head vehemently, her brow furrowing as she took a step forward.
“Ye cannae go anywhere—nae yet,” she said firmly, her hands on her hips.
“The wound is poisoned. I cannae sew ye up yet; it needs to be drawn out first. Ye’ll make things worse if ye try to move before then.
” Her voice softened for a moment, concern replacing the initial urgency.
“Ye need to rest. It’ll take days, at least, before ye can move without riskin’ death. ”
Marcus looked at her, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He could see the stubborn determination in her eyes, but he felt the weight of his responsibility pulling at him.
“I cannae stay. I’ve to go,” he muttered, voice hoarse, though the pain in his side made it difficult to argue.
His gaze softened as he noticed the trembling in her lips, the slight quiver of uncertainty that marked her own internal struggle. She didn’t back down, though. She stood there, unwavering, with a fierce protectiveness in her stance.
“Ye’ll do nay one any good dead,” she said softly but firmly.
“Ye’ve got to stay at least a few days before ye even think about movin’, or that wound’ll fester, and ye’ll burn with a fever.
Ye’ll be nay use to anyone, nae even yer clan, if ye die from this.
” Her voice wavered, but her eyes never left him, and she stood her ground.
Marcus’ breath slowed, but he couldn’t stop staring at her. She was right—he knew it. The fever of death she spoke of was not something he ever wanted to face. He couldn’t deny that, despite his overwhelming need to leave, and he didn’t want to anger her—not after all she had done.
But the pride of a laird still burned deep in him, and he was torn between duty and survival. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his tongue as he looked into her eyes, the soft determination in them that matched his own stubbornness.
The silence between them grew heavy, with only the sound of his uneven breathing filling the space. Her arms crossed tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her stance was like a fortress, unyielding and resolute, and for a moment, Marcus felt something shift inside him.
He wanted to argue, to leave, but something about the way she stood there, unshaken and willing to fight for him, made him hesitate. He slowly sank back onto the bed, his body giving in to the overwhelming fatigue and pain.
She is right—I need to rest, nay matter how much I hate it.
Claire stepped into the room with a bowl of steaming stew, her expression curious.
“I thought I heard voices,” she said, her gaze darting between Marcus and Annabeth.
She moved closer to the bed and handed the bowl to Marcus with a kind smile.
“Here, I brought ye some stew to help ye recover. Ye’re in good hands with Annabeth; she’s a fine healer. Me name is Claire.
Marcus took the bowl, his hands still shaky from the pain but grateful for the warmth. He sipped the stew slowly, savoring the comfort it brought.
“Thank ye kindly,” he muttered, his voice still rough. He glanced at Annabeth and then back to Claire, noticing the quiet exchange between them.
“I’m Marcus Reid, Laird MacLennan,” he introduced himself, his tone steady though he could feel the weight of his title as it left his lips.
Both women’s eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, the room fell into an awkward silence. Claire’s hand went to her chest as she gasped, clearly taken aback.
“Me Laird, we are very sorry,” she said quickly, her voice tinged with panic. “We had no idea who ye were when ye came here. I hope Annabeth didnae trouble ye too much or be too rude.”
Annabeth looked at Claire, her face flushed with embarrassment.
“Nay, maither,” she replied, turning to Marcus. “I was as rude as a healer would be toward her patient. I’m just glad he’s still alive.” Her voice softened though there was a touch of humor in her eyes as she looked at Marcus.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, ready to point out her rudeness, despite the ache in his side.
“I cannae say I’ve had a ruder welcome,” he replied, his tone light but with an underlying appreciation. “I’m just glad ye were willing to help me, nay matter who I was.” He paused for a moment, his gaze flicking to Annabeth.
“It seems I’ve been fortunate to end up in the care of a kind woman and her maither.”
Claire let out a relieved sigh, clearly easing from her initial shock.
“Well, Me Laird,” she said with a soft chuckle, “we’ll make sure to treat ye like the man ye are from now on. Nay more surprises.” She glanced at Annabeth, who nodded in agreement though her cheeks were still tinged with the flush of the earlier embarrassment.
Marcus shifted slightly, wincing from the pain, as he looked up at Annabeth.
“I cannae be away from my clan longer than two or three days,” he said, his voice strained but firm. “I’ve responsibilities that need me, and they’ll be expecting me back soon.”
Annabeth considered his words carefully then nodded with a slight frown.
“I think the poison will be out of yer system in two days, but ye’ll nae be able to move much after that. I can sew ye up then, but it’ll be too painful to move right after. Ye’ll need time to heal, or it’ll make yer wound worse.”
Marcus leaned back into the pillow, eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words.
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “I can handle the pain, but I cannae afford to be laid up for too long.” He glanced over at her with a questioning look. “And what of me horse? Is he all right?”
Annabeth gave a small smile, relieved by his stoic nature.
“I left yer horse with the neighbor, Murray. He’s a good lad, taking fine care of him for ye. Ye daenae need to worry.”
“Of course, I worry, lass. I’m in a stranger’s home with me horse in the hands of a man I daenae know. Ye’re making me seem like I have nae seen harm.” He moved as though readying to get up, and a groan escaped his lips.
“See. See what happens to ye when ye be stubborn? I’ve asked ye to nae move so much and now look at ye,” she scolded.
“I ken move if need be. Ye daenae understand the burden of me position as Laird. Trust is a danger I cannae let slip through me fingers cause of an injury,” he argued.
“Nay, I wouldnae understand the burdens of a laird as I am just one of the Laird’s villagers struggling to keep a stubborn man from causing himself more harm.” She put her hands on her hips.
“Are ye trying to say I daenae care for me villagers?” His brown furrowed.
“I said nay such thing; if you ken that, then it must be what ye really feel? Nay appreciation at all for what we are doin’ here to save yer life,” she huffed.
Marcus’ tense posture eased a bit at her words, a soft breath escaping him.
“Thank ye,” he said sincerely, his voice suddenly full of appreciation. “I’m grateful for yer help... and for Murray’s care of the horse.” His eyes softened as he looked at her, a quiet gratitude in his expression.
Annabeth nodded with a smile. “It’s all in good heart, Marcus. The villagers here look after one another. Nay one’s left to suffer alone if we can help it.”
Marcus couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth in his chest, something he hadn’t expected.
As Marcus lay back against the pillows, the weight of his injury pressing on his body, his mind drifted. There was something about Annabeth that stirred a strange feeling within him—something he couldn’t quite place.
I’ve met many women in me life, both noble and common, but none have ever left me with this curious tug at me chest. It’s nae her beauty, though she is undeniably bonnie, nor her kindness that draws me.
’Tis the way she moves—decisive and purposeful.
The sharpness in her eyes, the way she commands attention without saying a word.
He watched as Annabeth busied herself with tending to the fire, her hands deftly arranging logs. Her back was straight, her posture proud and unyielding, much like the stubbornness he’d noticed in her when they first spoke.
A part of him admired that—her ability to take charge and make quick decisions without hesitation.
He knew that strength. He’d seen it in warriors and leaders, in those who had lived through hardships and emerged unbroken.
Annabeth was no different; while her battles were not the same as his, he knew that she had struggled since there was sadness behind those brown eyes.