Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
F or a moment, Kate was disoriented as she jolted awake, neck stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle in the hard wooden chair. The dim light of early dawn cast unfamiliar shadows across the chamber. Then her eyes fell on Connor as her breath hitched.
Over the past three days, she’d barely left his side as the fever raged through him. Now, in the gray light filtering through the narrow window, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs outside, she could see that his face was no longer flushed with heat. His breathing had steadied sometime in the night, the terrible rasping replaced by the deep, even rhythm of healing sleep.
She leaned forward, pressing the back of her hand gently against his forehead. Cool. Finally cool. Relief washed through her, so powerful she nearly wept.
“If ye’re quite finished pawing at me, I’d like some whisky.”
The gruff voice startled her so badly she nearly toppled from her chair. Connor’s eyes were open, clear for the first time in days, though shadowed with exhaustion.
“You’re awake,” she breathed, then scowled at him. “No whisky.” She scrambled to pour water from the pitcher beside the bed.
He made that particularly Scottish sound in the back of his throat. “Aye, though I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t.” He winced as he tried to sit up. “My head feels like it’s been trampled by horses.”
Kate slipped an arm behind his shoulders, helping him rise enough to drink. She was acutely aware of the heat of his skin through the thin linen shirt, and the solid weight of him against her arm. He drank deeply, then sank back against the pillows with a sigh.
“Ye’re bossier than Moira,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in the words.
“Someone had to make sure you didn’t die,” Kate replied, setting the cup aside. Her hands trembled slightly. Now that the immediate crisis was past, the awkwardness between them rushed back. The last time he’d been conscious, he’d looked at her with such betrayal in his eyes that it had shattered her heart.
Connor’s gaze traveled over her face, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the tangled mess of her hair and state of her dress. Something flickered in his expression, but before she could identify it, he turned his face away.
“How long?” he asked.
“Three days,” she answered. “The fever broke sometime during the night.”
He nodded slightly, still not looking at her. “And the clan?”
Before she could answer, the door swung open. Moira bustled in, immediately noting Connor’s improved condition.
“About time ye rejoined the living,” she said briskly, moving to his bedside. She pressed her weathered hand to his forehead, then nodded in satisfaction. “Fever’s gone. Ye’ve a sturdy constitution, lad, I’ll give ye that.”
“Has aught happened while I slept?” Connor asked, his voice stronger now.
Moira’s expression grew grave. “Aye. Word came yesterday. The MacDonalds ride.”
Connor tensed, immediately trying to push himself up. “How many? How far?”
“Lie still, ye great fool,” Moira snapped, pushing him back down. “Ye’ll do no one any good if ye fall on yer face. Ewan has matters well in hand for now.”
“I need to speak with him,” Connor insisted. His face had gone pale with the effort of sitting up, but determination blazed in his blue eyes. “And the council. Now.”
The healer muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “Aye, I’ll send for them. But ye’ll stay in that bed while ye speak to them, or I’ll tie ye to it myself.”
She turned to Kate. “Make sure he doesna do anything stupid. If he tries to leave this chamber, knock him on his hard head with the pitcher. I’ll fetch Ewan.”
With that, she swept from the room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake. Kate busied herself straightening the bedcovers, avoiding his gaze.
“Ye stayed,” he said finally. It wasn’t a question.
Kate’s hands stilled. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked up then, meeting his eyes directly. “Because I couldn’t leave. Not with you ill. Not with...” She swallowed hard. “Not with things unfinished between us.”
Connor’s expression gave nothing away. “And the brooch?”
“I don’t know where it is,” she admitted. “You took it from me at the cemetery.”
He nodded slowly. “Aye. ’Tis safe.”
Before she could respond, the door opened again as Ewan entered, followed by several older men Kate recognized as Connor’s council of advisors. Their expressions ranged from concerned to openly hostile when they saw her.
“Out with ye, lass,” one of the older men said gruffly. “This is clan business.”
“She stays,” Connor said, his voice quiet but carrying the unmistakable weight of command.
Surprise flickered across the faces of the council members, but none dared contradict him. Kate retreated to a corner of the room, making herself as unobtrusive as possible.
Ewan approached the bed, relief evident in his face as he saw Connor’s improved condition. “Good to see ye with yer wits about ye again, cousin.”
“Tell me what we face,” Connor said without preamble.
Ewan’s expression sobered. “MacDonald scouts were spotted two days ago, near the southern ridge. Last night, our own men reported a larger force gathering in the valley beyond. They fly MacDonald colors, and they’re armed for battle.”
“How many?”
“At least forty warriors, maybe more.”
A murmur ran through the gathered men. Kate felt a chill run down her spine. Forty armed men against a clan already weakened by Cameron’s death and earlier skirmishes.
“Our own numbers?” Connor asked, though from his grim expression, he already knew the answer.
“Thirty men fit for battle,” Ewan replied. “Another ten who could fight if pressed, though they’re either too young, too old, or nursing injuries.”
“Hardly ideal odds,” Connor said dryly.
“Aye, and morale is low,” one of the older men added. “Cameron’s death weighs heavy, and there are those who whisper of ill fortune dogging our steps.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Kate.
Connor’s jaw tightened. “Superstitious nonsense. The MacDonalds would have come, regardless. They’ve been looking for an excuse since my father’s death.” He pushed himself upright, grimacing slightly at the effort. “What supplies do we have?”
The discussion turned to practical matters. Food stores, weapons, defensive positions. Kate listened carefully, mentally cataloging the disorganized approach to their preparations. The clan had weapons scattered across three different storage areas. Food supplies hadn’t been properly inventoried. The healers’ stores were depleted after illness.
Kate bit her tongue, watching as the council members argued about priorities. She noticed Connor’s jaw tightening with each passing minute, his patience clearly wearing thin as the men talked in circles.
When the meeting finally concluded, the council members filed out one by one, leaving only Connor and Ewan behind. Kate hesitated by the door, then turned back.
“May I speak freely?” she asked, her voice stronger than she felt.
Connor’s gaze settled on her as he sighed. “What troubles ye, lass?”
“Everything is scattered,” she said, stepping forward. “Weapons in three places, food supplies uncounted, no clear system for who guards which areas or when. In a siege, efficiency matters. If we organize now, we’ll be better prepared when they arrive.”
Ewan crossed his arms. “And what would ye know of siege warfare, lass?”
“Nothing,” Kate admitted. “But I know about organization and efficiency. It’s what I did in my... before.” She glanced at Connor, uncertain how much he’d shared about her origins.
“Give me the day to put systems in place. I can help coordinate supplies, set up rotations, make sure everything is where it needs to be when it’s needed.”
Connor and Ewan exchanged a long look.
“Tell the council,” Connor finally said to Ewan. “The lass will oversee the preparations. She works with you and Nessa. Whatever she needs, see to it.”
Ewan raised a brow, but nodded. “Aye. Though they willna like it.”
“I dinna care what they like,” Connor said, his voice hardening. “Because of the damned MacDonalds, Cameron is dead. Let them come. I will cut down every single one who crosses our threshold. I will have my vengeance. For my father, for my brother, and for my clansmen.”
“For Cameron,” Ewan agreed solemnly.
“For Cameron,” Connor echoed, his eyes dark with promise.
As Ewan left to deliver Connor’s orders, Kate remained, uncertain.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Connor’s expression was unreadable. “Don’t make me regret it.”
* * *
The keep buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Kate moved through the organized chaos, clipboard in hand—a rough approximation she’d fashioned from a small wooden board and parchment. She’d spent the morning taking inventory of weapons, assigning each type to a specific storage area, and creating a simple tracking system using colored fabric strips to mark what was where.
“The spears go there,” she directed a group of young boys, pointing to the rack she had set up near the eastern wall. “Make sure they’re sorted by length, longest at the back.”
The boys hurried to comply, though not without curious glances at her makeshift clipboard and the strange marks she kept making on it.
In the courtyard, men were reinforcing the gates and preparing defensive positions. Kate suggested moving large barrels filled with water to strategic points around the keep, both for drinking and for dousing any fires the attackers might set. The idea had been met with initial skepticism, but Ewan had backed her, and now the barrels stood ready.
She paused in the shadow of the great hall, watching the activity around her. Despite the grim circumstances, there was something oddly satisfying about seeing her organizational systems take shape. Here, at least, she could be useful. Could begin to make amends.
“Ye’ve a knack for this.”
She turned to find Nessa, the keep’s housekeeper, standing behind her. The older woman’s expression was still guarded, but there was a hint of grudging respect in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised by the almost-compliment. Nessa had been one of the most openly disapproving of her presence since the whole brooch debacle.
“Don’t get above yerself,” Nessa sniffed. “I still think ye’re trouble. But ye’ve a practical mind, I’ll give ye that.”
“I’m trying to help,” she said simply.
“Aye, well.” Nessa gestured toward the kitchens. “The grain stores need counting. If ye’re so clever with yer lists and marks, perhaps ye can make sense of them.”
Kate recognized the olive branch for what it was. “I’d be happy to.”
In the kitchen storerooms, she found chaos. Sacks of grain and dried goods were piled haphazardly, with no clear system for tracking what was used or what remained. With Nessa’s reluctant assistance, she established a simple inventory system, using small chalk marks to indicate quantities and creating a rotation to ensure the oldest supplies were used first.
“Saints, she’s daft,” Nessa muttered, watching Kate arrange the storage area. “But the lass gets things done.”
By midday, she had moved on to the makeshift infirmary Moira was setting up in a corner of the great hall. The healer was sorting through her depleted supplies, muttering darkly about the shortage of certain herbs.
“What do ye want?” Moira asked bluntly, as Kate approached.
“To help,” Kate replied, holding up her clipboard. “I’ve been organizing supplies throughout the keep. I thought I could do the same here.”
Moira eyed her suspiciously. “And what do ye know of healing herbs and poultices other than what I’ve taught ye?”
“Nothing,” Kate admitted. “But I can help you track what you have and what you need.”
After a moment’s consideration, Moira nodded grudgingly. “Very well. Come, then. If ye’re to be useful, ye’ll need to know the difference between feverfew and foxglove, lest ye kill someone by mistake.”
For the next hour, Moira showed her how to identify and prepare various medicinal herbs. Despite her gruff manner, the healer was a patient teacher, correcting Kate’s mistakes without the biting criticism she’d expected.
“Ye’ve quick hands,” Moira observed as Kate successfully ground a mixture of dried herbs into a fine powder. “Grind that any finer and ’twill blow away in the wind.”
Kate set the mortar aside carefully. “Moira,” she said hesitantly, “can I ask you something?”
The older woman blinked. “Ye can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
“Do you really think I’m a witch?”
Moira was silent for a long moment, her weathered hands continuing to sort through bundles of dried herbs. “I’ve seen strange things in my years,” she said finally.
“The old ways still have power in these hills. But a witch?” She shook her head slowly. “Nay, not a witch. Something else entirely, I think.”
“Then why do you still look at me like I might sprout horns at any moment?”
A hint of a smile touched Moira’s lips. “Because ye might yet, lass. Because ye might yet.”
She set a hand on Kate’s arm, the gesture startling in its gentleness. “Ye could have left. Why stay?”
Kate thought about it, surprised by the simplicity of her answer. “Because people need help. And because I can help.”
Moira grunted, a sound that might have been approval. “Well, then. Let’s get back to work. There’s much to do before the MacDonalds come knocking at our gates.”
* * *
As evening approached, Kate found herself drawn to the battlements. The setting sun cast long shadows across the landscape, turning the rolling hills to gold and crimson. In the distance, the sea glittered, deceptively peaceful. Hard to believe that somewhere beyond that beautiful horizon, men were preparing for war.
She leaned against the cold stone, letting the wind tug at her hair. What was she doing here? Playing at being a historical staging and logistics manager while actual lives hung in the balance? She’d spent her career organizing dating profiles and marketing campaigns, not siege defenses.
“Are ye a witch, then?”
The small voice startled her. She turned to find a young boy, no more than six, watching her with wide eyes. His mop of red hair stood up in all directions, and his freckled face was smudged with dirt.
Kate knelt at his level. “No, I’m not a witch. Just a woman trying to help.”
The boy looked unconvinced. “Mam says ye came from the skies like a fairy. That ye stole the laird’s treasure and tried to flee.”
Kate winced at the blunt assessment. “I made a mistake,” she said carefully. “I was scared and confused. Have you ever done something you regretted when you were frightened?”
The boy considered this, then nodded solemnly. “I wet the bed once when there was thunder. Da said only babes wet the bed.”
Kate bit back a smile. “Well, there you go. Everyone makes mistakes when they’re scared.”
“I suppose,” he agreed dubiously. “Are ye going to help us fight the MacDonalds?”
“I’m going to help in any way I can,” she promised.
Apparently satisfied, the boy scampered off, leaving her alone with her thoughts once more. She turned back to the view, watching as the last rays of sunlight slipped below the horizon. In the gathering darkness, she could almost imagine she saw movement on the distant hills, shadows that might be men preparing to attack.
“Ye shouldn’t be up here alone.”
Connor’s voice her made her start. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, his tall frame silhouetted against the torchlight from the courtyard below. He looked better than he had that morning, though still pale, with dark circles under his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she countered.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he took a swig of whisky from a flask. “Stubborn wench.”
“You need to rest.”
“I needed to see for myself how the preparations go.” He moved to stand beside her at the wall, his gaze scanning the darkening landscape. “Ewan tells me ye’ve been most... efficient.”
“I’m trying to help,” she said simply.
Connor nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Aye, so ye are.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind whistling around them. So much remained unsaid between them, about the brooch, about her confession, about the future neither of them could predict.
“Will they attack tomorrow?” Kate asked finally.
“Likely. They’ll want to strike while they believe us weakened.” His jaw tightened. “They’re not wrong.”
“We’ll be ready,” she said with more confidence than she felt.
Connor glanced at her, a question in his eyes. “We?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “Whether you believe that or not.”
He studied her face in the fading light. “Be careful on the morrow,” he said finally. “When the fighting starts, stay with Moira in the great hall. The MacDonalds will target the walls first, but if they breach the gates...”
“I’m not planning on dying,” Kate said, meeting his gaze steadily.
A slight smile crossed his face. “Nay, as I’ve not seen it written on one of your wee lists.”
The unexpected touch of humor caught her off guard, and she found herself smiling back. For a brief moment, the tension between them eased, replaced by something warmer, something that felt like the beginning of understanding.
The moment shattered as a horn blast cut through the night air. Connor stiffened, his hand automatically moving to the sword at his side.
“My laird!” a voice called from the watchtower. “Riders on the southern rise!”
In the distance, Kate could just make out dark shapes moving against the night sky. A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the evening air.
“Saints preserve us,” someone whispered from the walls.
Connor’s expression hardened into the mask of a warrior, all traces of the sick man gone. “It begins,” he said quietly. “Go to the hall, Kate. Now.”
As she hurried down the stone steps, the keep coming alive with urgent activity around her, she felt a strange sense of clarity. Whatever happened, whatever came after, she had made her choice.