Chapter 10 For As Long As She Needs Me
HAZEL’S GAZE KEPT drifting to the shadowed woods beyond her cottage as she groomed Duncan. To the paths that wound through oaks toward Lochbuie village. Were those men still there, asking questions? Had someone finally pointed them in her direction?
Sweeping the hog-bristle brush in steady strokes over Duncan’s smoke-colored coat, she peered through the gnarled trunks of the twisted oaks.
She worked methodically, starting at his withers and moving back toward his flanks.
The donkey stood placidly, eyes half-closed in contentment.
It was peaceful work—the kind that usually calmed her nerves.
But not today.
She’d barely slept the night before, starting at every sound. The creak of branches. The rustle of leaves. A wolf’s howl that had made her reach for the knife beside her pallet.
Running the brush down Duncan’s leg, she tried to focus on the task. On the familiar routine that had anchored her life for so many years. But her mind kept spinning. Should she flee? Pack what she could carry and go to Oban as Siùsan had urged? Or should she stay and hope they’d never find her?
She breathed a curse. She was torn, for she loved this place. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
All the same, she had a decision to make.
Duncan’s ears suddenly flicked forward. He tensed beneath her hands.
Hazel froze, her pulse quickening. She heard it then—the thunder of hooves approaching fast through the trees.
Her hand went for the knife at her belt.
A horse and rider burst into the clearing, a large wolfhound racing at their side, and Duncan let out an ear-splitting bray of alarm.
The stallion reared, eyes rolling white, front hooves pawing the air. Craeg Maclean fought to keep his seat, hauling back on the reins.
“Easy, Ruadh!”
The chestnut stallion came down hard, dancing sideways, ears pinned flat against his skull. Meanwhile, Faolan started barking, a loud, deep sound that echoed through the trees.
Hazel grabbed Duncan’s halter, pulling the donkey behind her. Duncan let out another ear-splitting bray.
Wheeling Ruadh in a tight circle, Maclean managed to put some distance between the animals. The stallion fought the bit, his nostrils flaring. Hazel remembered then how skittish the stallion had been that morning when Rankin had fetched Maclean from her cottage.
Meanwhile, the wolfhound continued to bound around excitedly, making a terrible din.
“Sorry,” the chieftain panted. “He hates donkeys. Always has. Quiet, Faolan!”
The wolfhound immediately ceased his barking.
“So, I see.” Hazel’s answer was colder than she’d intended. Her nerves were frayed as it was without the Chieftain of Moy crashing back into her life. And the traitorous flutter in her belly at the sight of him wasn’t helping either. “What are ye doing here?”
His expression was grim. “My mother. She’s ill.”
The urgency in his voice made Hazel’s pounding heart steady. “What are her symptoms?”
“High fever. A wet cough that won’t stop.” He broke off, jaw clenching. “She needs ye, Hazel.”
Lung sickness. That was her guess. Her mind immediately began listing useful herbs and remedies. “How long has she been ill?”
“The cough started days ago, but it’s worsened since yesterday.” His voice roughened. “By this morning, she had trouble breathing.”
“I’ll come.” Hazel was already moving toward her cottage. “Give me a moment to gather my things.”
She ducked inside and grabbed a basket. She then quickly sorted through her herbs, selecting those she’d need: willow bark for fever, dried coltsfoot and horehound for the lungs, woundwort for infection. Honey. Garlic. A jar of goose grease for poultices. Clean linen for compresses.
Her fingers hesitated over the small clay pot tucked at the back of her shelf. Elecampane root. Rare and precious. She’d picked some up from a merchant in Craignure two years earlier and only ever used it sparingly. It did wonders for lung sickness.
Taking it, she added it to her basket.
When she rushed from her cottage, Craeg had dismounted and was holding Ruadh well away from Duncan. The stallion’s ears were still pinned back, and he was blowing hard through flared nostrils. Faolan sat on his haunches now, panting.
Hazel was halfway across to him when she drew to an abrupt halt. “Wait … I can’t leave Duncan here.” It was true. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be at Moy Castle.
“Don’t worry. I’ll send someone back for him.” He then vaulted up onto his stallion’s back and reached down, extending his hand to her. “Come on.”
Hazel hesitated. Ruadh was a hot-blooded beast. She didn’t trust him. Would he tolerate her on his back?
However, urgency spurred her forward. She had to reach Lady Liza soon.
Tucking her basket over her left arm, she took his offered hand, his grip strong and sure.
“Put yer foot on mine. I’ll pull ye up.”
Hazel did as instructed. He hauled her up with ease, settling her in front of him. His arm came around her waist, holding her steady as Ruadh shifted beneath them.
Pressed against his chest, his thighs bracketing hers, she felt the warmth of him through her kirtle and inhaled the scent of leather and pine.
“Ready?” His breath feathered against her ear.
“Aye.” And she was. In truth, it was a relief to leave her cottage, especially while men were hunting her. Maybe if she was away for a few days, the danger would pass.
He wheeled Ruadh around, whistled to his hound, and urged the stallion into a canter. Hazel reached out, gripping the horse’s mane. Craeg’s arm tightened around her waist, steadying her.
They rode in silence for a time, the only sounds the drum of hooves and Ruadh’s breathing. The forest flashed past—oak and birch, dappled sunlight, the flash of a startled deer. Faolan ran like the wind next to them, a brindled streak against the undergrowth.
“How bad is the fever?” she asked eventually.
“Bad.” His voice was gruff. “She’s been drifting in and out of sleep. Sometimes, she doesn’t know where she is.”
That wasn’t good. Hazel’s mind raced ahead. She’d need to get the fever down first, then work on clearing the lungs.
“Does she have any other ailments?”
“No. She’s always been strong. Healthy.”
Without thinking, Hazel reached for his hand that grasped the reins and squeezed tightly. “I’ll do all I can,” she promised.
“Thank ye,” he replied huskily.
They lapsed back into silence then, and as the journey continued, Hazel found herself increasingly aware of every point where their bodies touched. The solid strength of his chest against her back. The possessive circle of his arm around her waist. The way his breath stirred the hair at her temple.
The contact should have unsettled her, but instead, it gave her comfort.
Leaning forward, Maclean urged Ruadh faster. The stallion responded, his canter flattening into a gallop as the trees drew back and they approached Moy Castle. The wind whipped Hazel’s hair loose from its braid.
And through it all, Maclean held her steady. Protected. Safe.
Craeg’s mother lay propped against the pillows, her breathing shallow and labored. Even from across the room, he could hear the wet rattle in her chest. Her face was flushed with fever, her dark hair plastered to her forehead.
A sweet, musty smell hung in the air: sickness and sweat.
Craeg stood with his back pressed against the wall, arms crossed tightly. He watched Hazel move about his mother’s bedside with quiet efficiency. The room was stifling—a hearth burned brightly despite the warm day—and sweat trickled down his spine.
Christ. What if it’s too late?
He felt so useless standing here. He wanted to do something—anything—to help.
She’d taken a turn for the worse so quickly. This morning, she’d been coherent enough to eat a little broth, to smile weakly at him. Now, she barely seemed to know where she was.
“Liza.” Alec sat hunched beside the bed, bathing his wife’s forehead with a cool cloth. His face was drawn, haggard. “Can ye hear me, mo chridhe?”
Liza’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and wild. “The ship,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse. “We need to … the sails …”
“Ye aren’t on a ship, my love,” Alec replied, low and soothing. “Ye are here. At Moy. With me.”
On the other side of the bed, Lena clutched her mother’s hand, her knuckles white. Tears streaked her young face.
Setting her basket on the small table beside the bed, Hazel began pulling out clay jars and bundles of dried herbs. Her movements were swift, purposeful.
Her steadiness calmed Craeg.
“I need boiling water,” she said, not looking up. “And a small pot to steep herbs in for tea.”
“I’ll see to it.” Craeg pushed himself abruptly off the wall. Striding to the door, he shouted for a servant.
A short time later, a lass appeared with an iron pot of steaming water, wrapped in a thick cloth to keep it warm, and a smaller pot hooked over one arm.
Returning to his position against the wall, Craeg watched as Hazel worked. His gaze tracked every movement. She measured dried herbs into the wee pot with steady hands, poured boiling water over them, and let the mixture steep.
Meanwhile, his mother’s breathing grew more labored.
Craeg’s foot started to tap. He couldn’t help it. Restless energy pulsed in his gut now, clamoring for release.
Hazel leaned over Liza, pressing the back of her hand to his mother’s forehead, then her cheeks, her neck. She listened to her breathing, counting silently. Her expression remained calm, focused, but Craeg marked the slight tightening around her eyes. The way her jaw set.
His stomach dropped. That wasn’t good.
“The fever’s consuming her,” Hazel murmured, but there was steel beneath the gentleness. “I must make it draw back.”
“Can ye help her?” Lena’s voice was small and frightened. “Make Ma better … please.”
Hazel turned to meet Lena’s gaze. “I’ll do everything I can,” she replied. “But ye must understand … lung sickness is serious. The next day or two will tell us which way this goes.”
The words punched into Craeg’s chest, while Alec’s fingers clenched around the cloth he still held.
“What do ye need from us?” Craeg asked, breaking the weighty silence.
“Help me keep her comfortable. We’ll take turns through the night … she mustn’t be left alone. And we’ll need to get my healing brew into her, even if she fights it.”
Alec nodded jerkily. A moment later, he resumed bathing Liza’s face, and the tenderness in that simple gesture—the love—made Craeg’s throat constrict.
If she dies, it will destroy him.
Hazel strained the brew she’d been steeping and brought it to the bedside. “Lady Liza,” she said softly. “I need ye to drink this. Can ye sit up for me?”
Liza’s eyes opened again, but they were glassy. “Who—?”
“My name’s Hazel. I’m here to help ye.” She slipped an arm behind Liza’s shoulders, supporting her with surprising strength. “Just a few sips.”
But when she held the cup to Liza’s lips, his mother turned her head away, mumbling incoherently. Fighting.
“Ma.” Craeg moved forward, unable to stay back any longer. “Ye need to drink. Please.”
At the sound of his voice, Liza’s gaze found his. For a moment—just a heartbeat—clarity flickered in her fever-bright eyes. “Craeg?”
“Aye. I’m here.” He dropped to his knees beside the bed, on the opposite side to Alec, taking her free hand in both of his. It was burning hot, as dry as parchment. “Please, Ma. Drink. For me.”
Something in his voice must have reached her. She let Hazel tip the cup to her lips and took a small sip. Then another. The brew dribbled down her chin, but she swallowed some of it.
“That’s better,” Hazel murmured, her voice soothing.
When half the cup was gone, Liza turned her head away again, exhausted by the effort. Her eyes closed. Hazel eased her back against the pillows. “That’ll do for now … but she’ll need to drink more shortly.”
Craeg stayed kneeling there, gripping his mother’s hand as if it were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. Maybe it was.
“I should have called ye yesterday, Hazel,” he said finally. Guilt clenched hard in his chest. “But I thought a night’s sleep would see her right.”
“Ye weren’t to know,” Hazel replied, cutting him a sympathetic glance. She then moved back to her basket, pulling out more herbs and a jar of what looked like rendered fat. “And I’m here now.”
The sharp scent of garlic filled the air as she worked, mixing ingredients in a small bowl. Goose grease, Craeg realized. She was making a poultice.
“This goes on her chest,” Hazel explained, warming the mixture over the fire. “It’ll help break up the congestion.”
Alec nodded, his expression raw. When Hazel returned to the bedside, he shifted back with obvious reluctance, not wanting to leave his wife’s side for even a moment.
Hazel unlaced the neck of Liza’s shift, exposing the skin above her breasts, and began spreading the warm poultice across her chest. The smell was pungent—garlic and something sharply herbal that made Craeg’s eyes water.
But his mother’s breathing seemed to ease almost immediately. The tight, wheezing sound in her chest loosened slightly.
“There,” Hazel said, covering the poultice with a square of linen. “I’ll change this later on.”
Watching her work—those steady, capable hands, that unshakeable calm—settled the drumming of Craeg’s heart.
There was no panic in Hazel’s movements, no fear.
Just competence and quiet determination.
She knew what she was doing. More than that, she cared.
He could see it in the gentle way she touched his mother, in the patience with which she’d coaxed her to drink.
“How long before we know if it’s working?” he asked after a spell.
Hazel glanced at him once more, her gaze steady. “The fever should start to break by tonight, if the willow bark does its work. But the lung sickness …” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “That will take longer. Days, possibly.”
A brittle silence settled over the chamber.
A nerve jumped in Alec’s cheek as he nodded. Meanwhile, Lena grabbed her father’s hand, gripping tight.
Craeg drew in a slow, deep breath. They all had to be patient. They had to wait this out.
“I’ll stay,” Hazel said then, surveying their stricken faces before she met Craeg’s eye again. “For as long as she needs me. I won’t leave her.”