Chapter 3 In Yer Debt #2
Craeg’s gaze tracked her, suddenly fascinated.
Aye, she was bonnie, indeed, but it was more than that.
She carried herself like someone who knew her own worth.
Her confidence held him captive. Even so, he also found himself admiring her long black hair that hung in thick waves down her spine, and the lean and lithe body underneath her dark-blue kirtle and dun-colored lèine.
As soon as she turned, he averted his gaze.
Hazel returned to him, drew up a stool, and dipped the cloth in water before wringing it out. “Hold still.”
Craeg did as he was told.
Leaning forward, Hazel gently dabbed at the cut on Craeg Maclean’s temple. She was relieved to see it was shallow.
He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away.
The knock on the door earlier had startled her.
Over a fortnight had passed since she’d buried Siùsan.
Anger still gnawed at her gut, yet loneliness dug its claws in too.
The cottage seemed unbearably empty. She ate on her own and had nobody to gather herbs with.
She hadn’t seen anyone else in nearly a moon, not since her mother’s condition took a turn for the worse.
None of the locals knew about Siùsan’s death—and despite that she’d dismissed the woman’s warnings, having a man turn up at her door made her jumpy.
Discovering who he really was had taken her aback.
Up close like this, she took note of the strong line of Maclean’s jaw, lightly shadowed by stubble, and the way his dark hair curled slightly at his nape, where it was damp with sweat. She marked too his sun-kissed golden skin and how his eyes were the color of dark peat.
He was young, Moy’s newly invested chieftain. And handsome.
Aye, few women would be immune to his attractiveness. And she wasn’t made of stone either. All the same, she did her best to ignore how broad his shoulders were beneath his grass-stained lèine, or how his presence seemed to fill her small cottage.
He wasn’t the first—nor would he be the last—comely man she’d tend.
In truth, it was a relief to have something, someone, to focus on. Before he’d knocked, she’d been sitting, staring into the flames of her hearth. She had chores to do, yet a strange apathy had gripped her. She’d found it difficult to summon the will to care.
“This will sting,” she warned, reaching for a jar of salve made with woundwort.
He didn’t answer, although the stoic look on his expressive face made her swallow a smile.
She applied the salve with careful fingers, aware of his gaze on her face. Most men looked away when she tended them—uncomfortable with the intimacy of being cared for. But Maclean watched her steadily, as if she were a riddle he was trying to solve.
His focus on her unnerved her just a little.
“Where is yer mother?” he asked.
Hazel’s hands paused for just a heartbeat before resuming their work. “She died … a fortnight ago.”
Silence followed this admission. Meanwhile, Hazel busied herself tearing linen into strips, avoiding his eye now.
“I’m sorry.”
The simple words, spoken with genuine sympathy, threatened to crack something inside her. Until now, she’d been isolated in her grief and anger. “Thank ye,” she whispered, still not looking his way. She didn’t want him to see it wasn’t just sorrow she battled with.
“It must be difficult,” he added then. “Living here alone.”
“I manage,” she replied stiffly. “Keeping busy helps.”
And it did, which was why sitting by the hearth ruminating would do her no good.
Silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Hazel knelt before him again, reaching for his swollen ankle. She needed to change the subject. Needed to steer the conversation away from herself lest her bitterness seep out. Grief was acceptable. Anger wasn’t.
“How are ye finding yer new role?” she asked, beginning to wrap the linen around his ankle with practiced efficiency.
Warmth rose to her cheeks then. She was being overly familiar; this wasn’t a local cottar sitting by her hearth.
She’d heard about Maclean’s bravery the year before, of how he’d helped the young king.
The news had traveled the length and breadth of Mull.
She felt him tense beneath her hands. A subtle shift, but unmistakable.
“It’s … an adjustment,” he replied, his tone wary now.
Hazel glanced up at him. His jaw was tight, a muscle flexing there.
There was something in his expression—a shadow that hadn’t been there moments before.
“Ye don’t sound particularly enthusiastic,” she observed, returning her attention to his ankle.
She kicked herself then. Mind yer tongue. He’s yer chieftain!
“I am,” he answered quickly. “I’m honored to serve my clan.”
Hazel tied off the bandage and sat back on her heels, studying him. He sounded like a man with reservations, yet she refrained from saying so.
“Take yer lèine off.” She gestured to the loose linen tunic he wore. “And I shall take a look at yer ribs.”
Maclean gingerly worked the lèine over his head and cast it aside. However, she noticed the tense set of his shoulders.
Hazel moved close. “Which side did ye land on?”
“My left.” He raised his arm, allowing her to inspect his ribs.
This close, the scent of him washed over her—the spicy scent of warm man. It was also impossible not to admire the breadth of his chest and the hard muscles that sculpted his torso. Another welcome distraction.
Behave, she chided herself. Ye aren’t a giddy lass of sixteen.
Raising a hand, she gently prodded his ribs. “Ye have a pretty bruise coming up,” she murmured. “It’s likely ye have cracked something. I will bind yer ribs.”
He nodded, his jaw flexing.
“I will get ye something for the pain.”
Standing up, she moved to fetch a cup and a jar of willow bark powder.
Maclean watched her mix the powder with water, his expression unreadable.
He accepted the cup she handed him, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sent a tingle up her arm that she firmly ignored.
“I’m to be married,” he said after taking a drink. He grimaced at the bitter taste. “Ye are one of the first to know.”
A pause followed this revelation before Hazel smiled. “Congratulations.” She wasn’t sure what else to say. However, his news hardly came as a surprise. Virile young chieftains didn’t usually remain unwed for long. She then reached for a roll of linen to bind his ribs with.
His features tightened slightly. “Thank ye.”
Hazel settled back down on the stool, across from him. “And who is the lucky woman?” The moment the question slipped from her lips, she froze. Hades. He was her chieftain, not Lochbuie’s smithy. She needed to mind her manners.
A blush rose to his high cheekbones, visible despite his dark tan. “Isla … the Macquarie chieftain’s daughter.”
Something clenched deep inside Hazel’s chest at the name. Macquarie.
Hurriedly, she quashed it. No, she wouldn’t go there. Not now. “A fine match.” She gestured for him to raise his arms, which he did. Then, she moved close once more and started to gently wind the bandage around his bruised ribs.
“Aye, that’s what everyone tells me.”
Hazel inclined her head. Despite everything, curiosity got the better of her, and she forgot herself once more. “Is that why ye were out riding alone?” she asked. “Brooding over yer fate?”
He stiffened, and she gave herself a mental slap. Cods! What’s wrong with me today? She’d overstepped, grossly this time. Now, he thought she was mocking him. Heat flushed over her. She was never usually this reckless. Maybe her mother’s betrayal had loosened something in her.
“Perhaps,” he replied, his tone cooling.
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney.
Hazel tied off the bandage and stood abruptly.
“All done.” She was suddenly aware of how close they’d been sitting.
“Ye shouldn’t walk on that ankle,” she said briskly to cover up her embarrassment.
“I shall make the journey to Moy now and let them know ye need fetching.”
The chieftain rose with care, testing his weight on the injured foot. He winced but managed to stand. “It grows too late in the day for that.” He gestured to where the light was fading outside the open door to the cottage. “I know it’s an imposition … but may I stay the night?”
Hazel stilled.
Meanwhile, Maclean’s expression was guarded now, as if he was bracing himself to be told he could sleep in the shed with the donkey.
Her pulse quickened. She wished to withdraw into the safety of her usual solitude, yet she couldn’t send an injured man stumbling through the forest in the dark. Nor could she put her chieftain in with Duncan or in the woodshed either.
“There’s a pallet in the corner,” she said after a lengthy pause. “Ye can sleep there, and I’ll wake ye at first light.”
“Thank ye,” he replied, his tone a trifle strained. “I’m in yer debt, Hazel.”
Hazel didn’t know how to respond. She was wary of putting her foot in her mouth again.
Duncan brayed then, a jagged noise that came as a relief.
“I’d better see to my donkey,” she said, moving toward the door. “Afterward, I shall make us some supper.”