Chapter 5 #2
Her face, usually focused and determined, softened when she spoke to her maither or when she cared for him, and that made him wonder, what kind of life had she led to be so strong, so grounded in her ways?
Marcus had spent so much of his own life driven by ambition, by the weight of his responsibilities as Laird, that he had never stopped to think about what truly mattered beyond that. He had become obsessed with duty and had neglected the quieter, simpler moments that might have brought him peace.
He had always been a man of action, of decisive movements and calculated risks. But here, in the presence of a simple village girl who didn’t seem to need anything from him but to heal, he felt an unexpected desire. It was as if, in her stubbornness and skill, she had unknowingly disarmed him.
The very things that would have irritated him in another woman—her refusal to be moved easily, her quiet strength—were the things that drew him in.
He shifted slightly in the bed, trying to shake off the strange feeling.
This was not the time for such distractions, not when he had responsibilities waiting for him.
But even as he told himself that, a small voice in his mind rebelled, wondering what it would be like to stay a little longer, to see where this feeling might go.
He couldn’t explain it, but it was there, lingering.
Ye’re a strange one, Annabeth. Ye’ve got me thinking thoughts I never thought I’d have.
And despite himself, he couldn’t suppress his appetite as his mind started to wonder toward what it would be like to bed such a woman. He imagined throwing her on the bed and taking her, tasting her.
Annabeth stood by the hearth, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the quiet room. As she glanced over at Marcus, who was resting, her heart gave a jolt.
I cannae believe the man I’ve been tending is none other than Laird MacLennan. I’m lucky he wasnae offended by me curt tongue. Sometimes it gets me in trouble. That wouldnae be a good thing with a powerful and feared man, the leader of a clan that commands respect throughout the land.
The very thought of it made her feel small, insignificant, and yet, there she was, his wounds in her hands, his life dependent on her care. She had never imagined she’d be in this position—nursing a laird, especially one with such a fierce reputation.
She looked back at the pot of water boiling over the fire and let out a quiet breath, feeling a wave of relief wash over her.
At least he wasn’t a raider or a bandit, like the others who had threatened the village over the years.
That was a small mercy. But still, there was something about this man, the weight of his title, that left her feeling uneasy.
The idea that she was the one responsible for his wellbeing seemed almost laughable, and yet, here she was—a simple healer, a village girl, with the life of a laird in her hands, and the realization sent a nervous flutter through her chest.
What if he dies? The whole clan would blame me. Would they understand, or would I be punished? What of Claire? I would be known as the lass that allowed the Laird to perish and be thrown in the dungeons.
“What troubles ye, lass?” Marcus’ voice cut through her worry.
She turned to him with surprise. “I thought ye were sleeping.”
“I was for a time. Ye look as though ye have the weight of the world on ye wee shoulders.” His brow furrowed.
I have the weight of the leader of a clan on me shoulders.
She wanted to shout at him. Instead, she tended to the kettle and poured the water into a bowl.
Her hands, though skilled at their work, were trembling more than they ever had before as she walked to his side to tend to his wound. Marcus was no ordinary man, and the knowledge that her actions could either save or doom him filled her with an unease she couldn’t shake.
“Let me see the wound, so I may clean it,” she said.
“Of course, as ye say, lass,” he agreed.
She looked at him with uncertainty towards his willingness after being previously stubborness. She had treated many before—farmers and travelers—but none with such power and influence. She tried to push the thought aside, but it lingered in the back of her mind like a shadow she couldn’t outrun.
Annabeth’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, studying him with curiosity she hadn’t expected. His body, though battered and bruised, still held a strength that seemed to radiate beneath his wounds. There was a rawness to him, a warrior’s edge that made him both dangerous and captivating.
For a moment, she found herself staring at him, lost in the complexity of his character. His wounds were severe, but his pride seemed to keep him from showing the full extent of his pain.
How many others had seen this side of him? How many had cared for him in this way, with the tenderness I am now giving? The scars he bears as warrior, what battles created them? Who tended to him in those times of need?
She had never felt so out of place, and yet, she had never felt more responsible for someone in her life.
Annabeth shook her head, forcing herself to focus.
For now, all she could do was her job. She had to be the healer, the one to help him through this.
The rest would come later. But as she adjusted the bandages once more, her heart beat a little faster, and the weight of the situation settled even more firmly on her shoulders.
“I should apologize, Me Laird. I daenae ken who ye were. Me tongue can sometimes get the better of me,” she said.
“I ken the ways of being stubborn,” he replied. “Ye couldnae ken who I was, out here on me own. ’Tis nae right nor proper for a laird to do such a thing.”
“I hope ye will accept me apologies; ’tis a shameful feeling in me now that I spoke to ye in such a way,” she said.
“I accept yer apology, lass, but ’tis proper to show some respect now that ye do ken who I am.” He tucked his chin to his chest and looked at her with a furrowed brow.
“Aye, of course, Me Laird,” she said as she worked, and her eyes met his for a moment. “I am yer subject.”
She continued to work on his side, but all the while the thoughts flowed through her mind.
Why does his stern tone ignite something in me? I daenae ken what it is, but his voice draws it from me. Like a breath, like a whisper, like a spark.