Chapter 3 In Yer Debt
THE BOAR BURST from the undergrowth without warning.
Craeg had only a heartbeat to mark the creature—all bristling fur and curved tusks—before his courser reared. The young stallion’s scream split the air, hooves pawing at nothing. Craeg grabbed for the reins, for Ruadh’s mane, for anything that might keep him in the saddle.
But the stallion twisted mid-rear, and suddenly, there was only sky and the sickening lurch of falling.
He hit the ground hard. Pain exploded through his left side as he rolled, instinct driving him to get clear before those thrashing hooves came down on him.
The impact punched the air from his lungs.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the taste of blood in his mouth and the smell of earth and crushed grass.
When his vision cleared, the boar was gone—vanished back into the forest as quickly as it had appeared. And his horse, the damned fool beast, was already halfway across the clearing, tail high and reins trailing.
“Ruadh!” Craeg tried to shout, but it came out as a wheeze. The fall had knocked the wind out of him, and it took a few moments before he was able to gasp, “Satan’s ballocks … come back here!”
The stallion paid him no mind, disappearing into the trees.
Craeg silently cursed.
Faolan approached him then and nudged him with his nose. The wolfhound then whined.
“All is well, lad,” Craeg rasped. “I think.”
He lay still, taking stock. His left ankle throbbed. His ribs ached with every breath. But nothing felt broken—just bruised and battered. He’d had worse in battle.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upright. The world spun briefly, then steadied. He spat blood—he’d bitten his tongue—and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Faolan nudged him again, his nose wet and cold in his face, and Craeg stroked his head to reassure him.
Christ. What a way for the new Chieftain of Moy to spend his afternoon. Unseated by a boar and abandoned by his own horse. The humiliation of it.
He hadn’t been in the best of moods today as it was and had gone out for a ride to sort out his thoughts.
Alec had told him he didn’t need to accept Macquarie’s offer, yet as the days slid past, he knew he’d have to.
To refuse such an alliance would be perceived as arrogant.
Selfish. He’d just stepped into the role of chieftain.
He still had to prove himself—to his people and his clan-chief.
Making a valuable alliance was part of it.
He’d delayed answering Hamish Macquarie for two weeks, but that morning, he’d sent a missive to him, agreeing to wed Isla.
The moment the birlinn had sailed away, heading for Ulva, off Mull’s western coast, a stone settled in his gut.
Jaw clenched, Craeg managed to get up. However, when he tried putting weight on his left foot, he immediately regretted it. Pain shot up his leg, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. Not broken, but badly twisted. He’d be limping for days.
Craeg looked around, getting his bearings. He’d been riding north from Moy, following the old hunting trails through the woodland of twisted oat, hazel, and ash. Lochbuie village lay to the southeast, perhaps twenty furlongs distant. Too far to walk on this ankle.
But there was a cottage nearby. He’d passed it earlier, tucked away in the woods. The herb-wife’s place. What was her name? He couldn’t remember. The locals sometimes mentioned the woman who lived with her mother and kept to herself.
Craeg huffed another curse.
Well, he’d be paying her a visit whether she wanted one or not.
Fashioning a crude walking stick from a fallen branch, he began to limp through the woods.
Each step sent fresh arrows of pain up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
Faolan paced beside him, tail wagging. However, Craeg wasn’t in such a jaunty mood.
Afternoon was sliding into evening, and the sun was lowering toward the west. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it back to the castle before nightfall.
He’d hoped Ruadh might return, once he’d recovered from his fright. However, he didn’t.
The trees grew thicker as he walked, boughs of twisted oak pressing close on either side.
His lèine clung to his back with sweat. The early evening air was humid.
Reaching up, he touched his stinging temple.
His fingertips came away sticky with blood.
He must have scraped it in the fall. A fine sight he’d make when he knocked on the healer’s door—the Chieftain of Moy, limping and bleeding.
The thought made him scowl.
Eventually, he spotted smoke rising above the trees. The cottage. Relief loosened his chest.
He pushed through a final stand of twisted oaks and emerged into a clearing. The dwelling sat in the center, small but well-maintained, surrounded by a well-tended garden. A donkey stood in a small paddock beside the building, watching him and his dog with a jaundiced eye.
Craeg limped toward the door, leaning heavily on his makeshift staff. His ankle was swelling now—he could feel his boot growing tight.
He raised his fist and knocked. Once. Twice.
Silence.
Then, from inside, the sound of movement. Footsteps. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out.
She was tall—nearly as tall as him—with long black hair pulled back from her face.
Her eyes were a startling blue, the color of deep water, and they took him in with a single sharp glance that missed nothing.
Not his torn clothes, nor the blood on his face, and not the way he was favoring his left leg.
“I need a healer,” Craeg announced, feeling his cheeks warm. “Ye are the herb-wife, I take it?”
The woman didn’t immediately respond. She studied him for a long moment, and he had the uncomfortable sense of being weighed and measured. Finally, she nodded. However, she made no move to invite him in. Instead, discomfort flickered across her features. The door started to slowly close.
He cleared his throat. “My name’s Craeg … what’s yers?”
The door halted.
Her gaze narrowed. “Hazel.”
It was a frosty welcome to say the least, and he was rapidly losing patience.
“Well, Hazel. My ankle’s throbbing worse than a rotten tooth. Can I come inside?”
Another awkward pause followed before she nodded once more and reluctantly drew the door open.
Craeg limped indoors, grateful for the dim coolness of the cottage interior, Faolan padding behind him.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with sharp, woody green scents.
A small fire crackled in the hearth, and beside it sat a table covered in mortars, pestles, and various jars and bottles.
“Sit,” Hazel commanded, gesturing to a stool near the fire.
He obeyed, lowering himself carefully. The movement sent fresh pain shooting through his ribs, and he couldn’t quite suppress a grunt. Whining, Faolan rubbed up against him.
“Stop fussing, lad.” Reaching out, Craeg ruffled his ears. “I’m not dying.”
Hazel knelt before him, her movements efficient and practiced. “What happened?”
“A boar spooked my horse. I fell.”
“And the horse?”
“Bolted. The coward.”
Something that might have been amusement sparked in her eyes.
He stilled, taken aback by her response. Usually, lasses—especially those of his own rank—simpered around him. He wasn’t used to one being so indifferent. It made him want to impress her.
Hazel reached for his boot. “This might hurt a little.”
It did. Craeg’s jaw clenched as she eased the leather off, revealing an ankle that was already purple and grotesquely swollen. She probed it gently with long fingers, and despite the pain, he found himself noticing how capable those hands looked. Strong and sure.
“Not broken,” she said finally, confirming his earlier suspicions. “But badly sprained. Ye’ll need to stay off it for a while.”
Craeg snorted. “I don’t have time for that. A chieftain can’t sit around idle.”
Hazel stiffened, her blue eyes snapping wide. “Ye’re Craeg Maclean?”
He nodded, suddenly embarrassed. Clearly, she found it hard to believe. He then offered her a contrite smile.
She sat back on her heels. “I heard rumors a while ago that yer mother was readying herself to pass rule of Moy to ye.”
“Aye, well, she did. A fortnight ago.”
Moments passed before the healer visibly relaxed. Her shoulders lowered, and the faint groove between her eyebrows smoothed. He’d initially thought her a bit cold, but it became obvious to him then that she was merely wary of strangers. He wondered where her mother was.
Hazel’s lips lifted at the corners then, and he marked what a full, lush mouth she had. Her face was delicate with high cheekbones. He found her both pretty and striking. She was younger than he’d expected, although it was hard to guess her age. She was likely older than him, but not by much.
For a few moments, Craeg forgot his throbbing ankle and ribs. Forgot the suffocating sensation that had driven him from the castle this afternoon.
Faolan moved toward her then, tail beating on the rushes.
“Greetings, handsome.” Hazel flashed him a warm smile and stroked his head.
“His name’s Faolan,” Craeg murmured.
“He has kind eyes.”
He smiled. “He worries over me more than my mother.”
Hazel huffed a laugh. Her expression sobered as she ran her gaze over Craeg. “Ye have a graze to yer temple,” she observed then. “Did ye hurt anything else when yer horse threw ye?”
“My ribs,” he admitted.
“Aye, well, I’ll have a look at them too … but first let’s clean ye up a bit.”
Rising to her feet, she went to fetch a bowl of warm water, a clean cloth, and a clay bottle from a shelf.