Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Iwoke before dawn with the dream still clinging to my skin like cobwebs.
In it, Dawson had been standing on the cliff edge in a storm, the sword in his hands, and he had turned to me with those green eyes full of goodbye. I had reached for him, but the lightning had struck and he was gone—not back to his own time, but simply erased, as if he had never existed at all.
I lay in my narrow bed and listened to the wind howl against the shutters, my heart beating too fast. It was foolish to dream about him.
Daft to care whether he stayed or left. I had survived Alasdair’s leaving, had survived the loss of my child and my reputation, and I would survive Dawson’s inevitable departure.
But the dream had felt too real, and my chest ached with a loss that had not happened yet.
Kate found me in the great hall before breakfast, her expression serious.
“I know you heard the talk last night. Malcolm MacKenzie is at the village inn,” she said without preamble. “He and six of his men arrived yesterday. They’re here for the market.”
It wasn’t just idle gossip then, it was true. The blood drained from my face. “He’s that close?”
“Aye. The innkeeper’s boy brought word this morning.” Kate’s hand found my arm, steadying. “Connor has already sent word that any MacKenzie who sets foot on MacLeod lands will answer for it. Malcolm won’t dare come near the keep.”
“He doesn’t need to come here to do damage.” My voice came out flat. “He’ll be at the market. Holding court. Telling tales. Making sure everyone remembers what I am.”
I had thought I would have more time to prepare myself. To build my walls, practice the serene expression that hid the churning in my gut. Instead, Malcolm was here—close enough that I could feel his presence like a blade pressed against my throat.
“You don’t have to go to the market,” Kate said gently. “I can make excuses—”
“No.” I straightened my spine with an effort that cost me more than she would ever know. “If I hide, he wins. I will not give him that satisfaction.”
Kate studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “You’re braver than you know, Elspeth.”
I didn’t feel brave. I felt like a rabbit who had just learned that the hawk was circling overhead.
The morning passed in a blur of work. I threw myself into the preparations for the market—sorting herbs to sell, bundling dried lavender, measuring out the healing salves that village women would trade for.
Moira watched me with knowing eyes but didn’t say anything, simply gave me task after task until my hands stopped shaking.
It was nearly midday when Dawson found me in the stillroom, his expression troubled. Moira had gone to check on one of the kitchen lads.
“I heard about Malcolm,” he said without preamble. “At the inn.”
“News travels fast.” I kept my voice steady through sheer force of will, my hands busy with the dried chamomile I was sorting.
“Kate told me. About what he’s been saying. About what he said to you before, in the village.”
Of course, Kate had told him.
“It is ancient history,” I said.
“It didn’t look like ancient history when Kate mentioned his name this morning.” Dawson moved closer, and I felt the warmth of him at my back. “You went white as snow, Elspeth.”
“I do not—”
“I know. You don’t faint, you don’t show weakness, you don’t let anyone see that it hurts.” His voice was quiet, intense. “But pretending something doesn’t wound you isn’t the same as healing from it.”
I turned to face him, my composure cracking. “What would you have me do, Dawson? Enlighten me, aye? You’ve known me for little more than a fortnight—what possible wisdom could you have about what I should or should not feel?”
He didn’t flinch at my anger. Just stood there, those green eyes steady and full of something that looked dangerously like understanding.
“I’d have you let someone stand with you,” he said quietly. “I’d have you stop facing everything alone, as if accepting help were the same as admitting defeat.”
The words hit me like a blow to the chest. For one terrible moment, I wanted to crack open the wall I’d built and let him see all the broken pieces underneath.
The wanting terrified me.
“I have work to do,” I said, and turned back to my herbs.
He was quiet for a long moment. “The lesson. You said you’d teach me about healing. Does that offer still stand?”
I should have said no. Should have told him I was too busy, that Malcolm’s proximity made everything too complicated, that I couldn’t afford the intimacy of teaching when I was already too raw.
“Sit down,” I said instead. “We’ll start with the basics.”
Teaching Dawson was both easier and harder than I had expected.
Easier because he was genuinely intelligent—his questions were sharp and thoughtful, showing a mind accustomed to learning quickly. He picked up the Latin names with surprising facility, and his hands were steady when I showed him how to measure and grind.
Harder because every moment of closeness made me more aware of him. The warmth of his shoulder when he leaned in to examine a dried flower. The low rumble of his voice when he repeated the herb names back to me. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he made a mistake and laughed at himself.
“Like this?” He was grinding yarrow in the mortar, his movements still too forceful.
“Gentler.” I reached out without thinking, placing my hand over his to guide the motion. “You’re not trying to crush it into dust. You want to release the oils, not destroy the plant entirely.”
His hand stilled beneath mine. I became suddenly, acutely aware of the warmth of his skin, the roughness of new calluses, the way his pulse beat against my fingers.
Neither of us moved.
“Elspeth,” he said quietly, and my name in his mouth sounded like a question and an answer all at once.
I pulled my hand back as if burned. “That’s enough for today.”
“We’ve only been at it for an hour—”
“I said that’s enough.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. I saw him flinch and hated myself for it, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “I have other duties. We will continue tomorrow.”
He stood slowly, his expression careful. “Did I do something wrong?”
Yes, I wanted to say. You made me feel something. You made me want things I cannot have.
“No,” I said instead. “I’m just—tired. The news about Malcolm has unsettled me.”
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.
Dawson nodded slowly, and I saw the moment he decided not to push. “Tomorrow, then. And Elspeth?” He paused at the door.
“At the market—if Malcolm says anything to you, if he so much as looks at you wrong—tell me. I meant what I said. You don’t have to face things alone.”
He left before I could respond.
I stood in the stillroom, surrounded by the smell of yarrow and chamomile, and pressed my palms flat against the workbench to stop them from shaking.
The evening meal was quieter than usual.
Word of Malcolm’s arrival had spread through the keep, and a tension hung in the air that had nothing to do with the weather.
The MacLeods and MacKenzies had been rivals for generations—blood had been spilled on both sides, grudges nursed for longer than living memory which made my running off with one of them that much worse, but the heart wants what it wants and if I had to do it over, I knew I’d choose love, even though it turned out to be false.
Having Malcolm and his men so close put everyone on edge.
I smiled until my face ached, but my thoughts kept drifting to the market. Two days. In two days, I would have to face him on neutral ground, where Connor’s protection meant nothing and Malcolm’s poisonous tongue could do its worst.
Dawson sat with Brodie and Kate, but I felt him watching me.
His attention was different from the wary glances of the clansmen—protective rather than suspicious or disgusted—but it made me uncomfortable all the same.
I didn’t want his protection. I didn’t want anyone’s protection.
Perhaps I should have stayed in my small cottage or gone elsewhere instead of coming back here to Bronmuir.
I wanted to be left alone, to retreat to my stillroom and my herbs and the careful, controlled existence I had built from the wreckage of my life.
After the meal, I slipped away to walk the battlements. The night was cold but clear, the stars scattered across the sky like spilled salt. I wrapped my cloak tight around my shoulders and let the wind sting my cheeks, hoping the cold would numb the anxious churning in my gut.
I didn’t hear his approach until he was beside me.
“You’ll freeze out here,” Dawson said quietly.
“So will you.”
“Then we’ll freeze together.” He leaned against the stone parapet, his breath misting in the cold air. “You left the hall like something was chasing you.”
“I needed air.”
“You needed to be alone.” He paused. “I can go if you’d prefer to be alone.”
I should have said yes. Should have maintained the distance that had kept me safe for so long.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Stay. I don’t—” My voice cracked slightly. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Something shifted in his expression. Softened. “Then I’ll stay.”
We stood in silence for a long while, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to fill the quiet with meaningless chatter. He simply stood beside me, close enough that I could feel his warmth, far enough that I didn’t feel trapped.
“He told everyone I was a whore,” I said finally, the words escaping before I could stop them.
“Malcolm. In the village square three years ago. He waited until the market was at its busiest, until everyone could hear, and he announced it like a town crier. Bronmuir takes in whores now, does it? Or just MacLeod whores who spread their legs for MacKenzie men? Whores who carry bastards in their bellies.”
Dawson went very still beside me.
“I just stood there,” I continued, my voice flat and distant.
“I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, or do anything but listen while he listed all the ways I had shamed myself and my clan.
The pregnancy. The fact that Alasdair was married.
The way I had crawled back to Bronmuir like a beaten dog after it all fell apart. ”
“Elspeth—”
“The worst part wasn’t what he said. It was the faces of the people listening. Some were horrified, aye. But others...” I swallowed hard. “Others nodded. As if they’d been thinking it all along and were grateful someone had finally said it aloud.”
“Those people are fools.” Dawson’s voice was rough with barely contained anger. “And Malcolm MacKenzie is a coward who attacks women because he doesn’t have the courage to face men.”
“He’s Alasdair’s cousin. He was defending his kinsman’s honor.”
“Alasdair has no honor to defend. He lied to you, used you, and abandoned you. The only person who should be ashamed is him.” Dawson turned to face me, and in the moonlight, I could see the fierce intensity in his eyes.
“You trusted someone who didn’t deserve it. That makes you human, not shameful.”
My throat tightened. No one had ever said that to me before. Not Connor, not Kate, not even Moira. They had accepted me back, had protected me from the worst of the whispers, but no one had ever looked me in the eye and told me I had nothing to be ashamed of.
“You barely know me,” I whispered.
“I know enough.” He reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and tucked a strand of wind-blown hair behind my ear.
“So soft, like the finest silk.” His fingers lingered for just a moment against my cheek, warm despite the cold.
“I know that you’re brave, and kind, and stronger than you give yourself credit for.
I know that you’ve survived things that would have broken most people.
And I know that Malcolm MacKenzie’s opinion means nothing—less than nothing—compared to the truth of who you are. ”
The tears came before I could stop them. Not the great wracking sobs I had taught myself to suppress, but a slow, silent stream that traced cold paths down my cheeks.
Dawson didn’t try to comfort me with empty words. He simply stood beside me, solid and warm and present, until the tears stopped and my breathing steadied.
“Thank you,” I said finally, my voice rough. “For... this.”
“Anytime.” His voice was low, sincere. “I meant what I said earlier, Elspeth. You don’t have to face things alone. Not anymore.”
The words cracked something open in my chest—something I had kept carefully sealed for four years.
“I should go in,” I said. “Before we both catch our deaths.”
“I’ll walk you to your chamber.”
It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t argue.
We walked in silence through the cold corridors, our footsteps falling into sync. When we reached my chamber door, I turned to face him.
“Good night, Dawson.”
“Good night, Elspeth.”
I slipped into my chamber and closed the door, pressing my back against it until my heartbeat slowed. Then I crossed to my narrow bed and sat down, staring at my hands in the darkness.
Malcolm’s words echoed in my head—the old words, the ones I had carried for years. Whore. Disgrace. Ruined.
But beneath their familiar sting, something else was taking root. Something warm and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
I was cared for Dawson Carrington. Not just attraction, not just gratitude—something deeper. Something that made my chest ache when he smiled, made my pulse quicken when he said my name.
And that terrified me more than Malcolm ever could.
Because Malcolm could only hurt me with words and memories. He could only touch the wounds that had already scarred over. But Dawson—Dawson could hurt me in ways I hadn’t been hurt since Alasdair. He could make me hope. Make me want. Make me believe that joy might not be temporary after all.
And when he left—because he would leave, why would he stay? He would take pieces of me I couldn’t afford to lose.
I lay down in my cold bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind howl outside.
Protect yourself, whispered the voice of experience. Keep your distance. Don’t let him in.
But another voice, smaller and more treacherous, whispered back. What if Kate was right? What if he’s worth the risk?
Sleep, when it finally came, was full of green eyes and lightning and the sound of someone calling my name from very far away.