Chapter 17 A CROSSROADS
HAZEL UNROLLED THE sacking, blocking out the long twilight. Beyond, she could hear the muffled sounds of the castle settling for the night. Men’s laughter from the barracks. The thud of the kitchen shutters being secured.
It was just another usual evening at Moy.
I shouldn’t be here.
But she was.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped back from the window, surveying her small bedchamber. It was comfortable enough, yet too fine for her. She was no lady and was more at home in the infirmary Craeg had readied for her than in this room.
In the aftermath of discovering she was Hamish Macquarie’s curse, all she wanted to do was flee back to her cottage and shut away the world. To lick her wounds in private.
I will, she promised herself, even as her throat tightened. Once this has blown over.
It would be safe now, at least. Her father’s men festered in the bottle dungeon, and his plot had been exposed. Maybe, she’d get herself a dog, a scary-looking wolfhound like Faolan, who’d protect her from intruders. Aye, that was a wise idea.
She moved away from the window, her bare feet padding across the scrubbed floorboards. The bedchamber was warm, but gooseflesh prickled her arms.
Cods. She was flailing about in deep water now.
She was starting to rely on Craeg too much. He’d been her rock that afternoon. How she’d wanted to lean into him. How tempting it was to let someone else carry the weight for once.
But that wouldn’t be fair—on either of them—and that was why she had to leave.
The man had developed an infatuation with her, but that was all it was. An obsession. One that couldn’t last.
And once she left Moy, he’d see sense.
Her hands trembled as she picked up a hog-bristle brush and swept it through her hair in long, even strokes. The familiar ritual should have soothed her. Instead, anxiety churned in her belly.
I will get him into trouble.
Craeg was a chieftain. Young, aye, but powerful. And he risked putting himself—his clan, his position—at risk for her. It was foolish. What if Macquarie retaliated? What if this brought strife to Moy’s gates?
He was due to wed Isla—her half-sister—in less than a fortnight. And he had to go through with it, for the good of his people.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, the sheepskin soft beneath her. Too soft. Her straw pallet at the cottage had been lumpy and thin, but it was hers.
She wouldn’t relax again until she distanced herself from Craeg, until she stepped back into her cottage and closed the door behind her.
Craeg stood before the hearth, one hand wrapped around a cup of wine, the other absently stroking Faolan’s rough head. The wolfhound leaned against his leg, a solid, reassuring presence in the quiet of the solar.
The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. Outside, true darkness was finally settling—that brief window of full night that came so late in a Highland summer. The castle had grown quiet. Most of his household had retired for the evening.
But sleep felt impossible.
His mind kept circling back to Hazel. The devastation in her eyes after Archie had revealed the truth. The way she’d trembled in his arms this morning, trying so hard to be strong.
She was lovely enough to make a man do foolish, rash things.
He took a long swallow of wine, welcoming the burn down his throat.
“Quite a day.”
Alec’s voice cut through his thoughts. His stepfather sat in a high-backed chair near the window, long legs stretched out before him, his own cup of wine dangling from one hand. The firelight caught the grey threading through his blond hair. He watched Craeg with quiet assessment.
Craeg grunted in response, not trusting himself to say more.
“Three men sent to murder a woman because of a seer’s warning.” Alec shook his head slowly. The whole castle had heard the news now. Hazel’s parentage was no longer a secret. “I never warmed to Macquarie but didn’t take him for an imbecile.”
Craeg snorted. “Or a shitweasel?”
“No.” Alec swirled the wine in his cup, studying the dark liquid. “The question is … what will ye do about it?”
Craeg’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know yet.”
That was a lie. He knew exactly what he wanted to do—sail to Ulva with every warrior he could muster and put a blade through Hamish’s throat.
But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t prove to the world that he was his father’s son.
He’d nearly lost control today; he couldn’t do that again.
A chieftain couldn’t act on rage alone. There were alliances to consider. Politics. The safety of his clan.
His betrothal to Isla.
“Those men in yer pit,” Alec continued. “They’re proof of Macquarie’s intentions. Witnesses who could testify to his … murderous intent.”
“They could.”
“And yet, ye haven’t decided what to do with them.”
Craeg shot him a sharp look. Alec’s expression remained neutral, but there was a knowing in those blue eyes. The bastard could always read him too well.
“I’m thinking on it,” Craeg muttered.
“Mmm.” Alec took a slow sip of wine. “And Hazel?”
Craeg’s hand stilled on Faolan’s head. Here we go. The wolfhound whined softly, sensing his tension. “What about her?”
“She’s under yer protection now.”
“Aye.”
“Which complicates things.”
“I’m aware.” The words came out harsher than he intended. He drained his cup, set it down on the mantle with more force than necessary. “She’s innocent in all this. I won’t let Macquarie … or anyone else … harm her.”
Silence stretched between them. The fire popped, sending up a shower of sparks. Faolan lay down, settling his great head on his paws.
“Ye care for her.”
It wasn’t a question. Craeg’s shoulders tensed. He should deny it, should lie. To protect himself—and Hazel—from scrutiny.
But this was Alec. The man he trusted with his life.
“It doesn’t matter,” Craeg said finally.
“Doesn’t it?”
Craeg whipped around to face him. “What would ye have me do?”
Alec stared back at him. “I’d have ye face what’s staring at ye.” His voice gentled slightly. “Ye stand at a crossroads, lad. Don’t fool yerself though … if ye pledge yerself to one woman, while yer heart belongs to another, ye’ll end up the most miserable man on Mull.”
The words hit hard. Craeg opened his mouth to protest, to deny—but nothing came out.
Because Alec was right.
His heart did belong to Hazel. And when she’d wept in his arms that morning, her pain had become his own.
Turning from his stepfather, he growled a curse.
Across the solar, Alec huffed a sigh. “Aye, it’s a fine mess.”
“Did ye see the flea bites on those Macquaries?”
“Aye … ye can tell they stayed at the Lochbuie Inn.”
Laughter followed.
“Archie’s in a bad way today … his arm looks like a slab of meat.”
Approaching the men from behind, on her way to the chieftain’s table at the far end of the hall, for the noon meal, Hazel caught the conversation between a group of warriors. They hadn’t seen her yet. However, when she halted before their table and turned to face them, the men started.
“Mistress Hazel.” One of them nodded to her.
“What’s this about the Macquarie warrior?” she asked.
“Och, don’t worry about him.” He shrugged before picking up his cup and taking a draft of ale.
“Is he ill?”
“Getting that way,” another warrior answered. “Scratched flea bites … and now they’ve soured. His arm’s swollen, and he’s got a fever.”
“With any luck, it’ll worsen and kill him,” someone else added.
Grunts of agreement followed.
Hazel nodded to them and moved on. However, as she did so, her brow furrowed.
Those men had been sent to slay her. She should want them to suffer.
However, her healer’s instinct was stronger than her need for vengeance.
She hadn’t enjoyed watching Craeg interrogate Archie Macquarie the day before.
It had been necessary, yet the brutality had unnerved her.
It had also shown her that although he was young, Craeg Maclean wasn’t a man to be messed with.
It was easy to forget that he was a warrior, that he’d killed. But seeing him deal with the Macquarie men had reminded her.
She’d been relieved when Archie had given up his secret—even if it had devastated her.
And now the warrior was ill. Soured insect bites could turn nasty, fast. He and his friends were currently festering in the pit, the oubliette on the damp southwestern edge of the barmkin.
She didn’t know how long Craeg intended to leave them there, or whether he’d hang them from the walls. And she shouldn’t care.
Soft-hearted fool, she chided herself, taking her place at the chieftain’s table.
Lena was there, teasing Nat about his hair.
She’d just told him it was curlier and prettier than any lass’s—and to Lena’s delight, the captain’s cheeks flushed pink.
Craeg had yet to join them. The aroma of rich pastry and venison wafted through the hall then as serving lads brought in platters of pies.
A delicious noon meal, and yet she had no appetite for it.
A stone had settled in her gut.
She’d slept fitfully the night before. Then she’d spent the morning in her bedchamber sorting through her basket of dried herbs. The mundane task had steadied her nerves.
Even so, she didn’t feel like herself today. But hearing about Archie’s swollen arm and fever had roused her a little. It gave her something else to focus on besides the nagging knowledge that she couldn’t stay at Moy Castle.
There was much she didn’t have control of in this world. She couldn’t have prevented the rape that resulted in her birth, or her father’s paranoia that had led to her becoming a marked woman. But she had a gift with herbs. An instinct for healing. It was how she coped when life became hard.
And so, as a lad poured her a cup of wine, she began thinking about which of her herbs would help Archie. A poultice of mashed woundwort and garlic, aye, that would do the trick. And a brew of willow bark to help with the fever. That was what he needed.
The afternoon sun blazed overhead as Hazel climbed the stone steps to the ramparts. Her pulse was unsteady, her palms damp.
She’d been wrestling with this decision for hours.
Pacing her chamber. Staring at her collection of herbs without really seeing them.
The logical part of her mind screamed that she was mad—those men only wished her harm.
Yet the healer in her couldn’t ignore suffering, even when it belonged to her enemy.
Craeg stood near the north tower, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze. Captain Black was with him, pointing toward something in the distance. They were deep in conversation, their voices low and serious.
Her steps faltered. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps she should turn back before they saw her.
Too late.
Craeg’s head lifted. His gaze met hers, and everything else seemed to fade. Black was still talking, but the chieftain wasn’t listening anymore. His gaze held hers, intense and searching, and heat unfurled in her belly despite the sea breeze cooling her skin.
He said something to Black—she didn’t catch what—and the captain nodded, casting her a curious glance before disappearing down the stairs.
Then they were alone.
Craeg closed the distance between them with measured strides.
Hazel’s mouth went dry.
“Is something amiss?” His brow furrowed then, and one hand lifted as if to touch her face. He then checked himself, and his arm fell back to his side.
“I need to see Archie Macquarie.”
The words came out in a rush. Craeg went still, his gaze shuttering. “Why?”
“A wound on his arm has soured. He has a fever.”
“Good,” he grunted. “Let him rot.”
“Craeg—”
“He came here to slit yer throat.” His voice sharpened. “And ye want to help him?”
She lifted her chin, meeting his stare despite the way her pulse raced. “I’m a healer. It’s what I do.”
“Not for him.” He moved closer, crowding her against the parapet. “Not for any of them.”
“Are ye going to kill the Macquaries?” The question hung between them.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No.”
“Then let me see to his arm.”
“Hazel—”
“Please.” She placed her hand on his chest, felt the heavy thud of his heart beneath her palm. “I can’t just let him suffer. I know what they came here to do. I know I should want vengeance. But I won’t become someone who can ignore pain, even when it belongs to the enemy. It’s not who I am.”
His hand covered hers, pressing it harder against his chest. His eyes blazed with something that made her breath catch—anger, aye, but also something fiercer. Something possessive.
“Ye are too good,” he said hoarsely. “Archie doesn’t deserve yer help.”
“Maybe not … but I wish to give it.” She paused then, marshaling her thoughts. “It was a shock indeed, to learn what a terrible man my father is … but I’m not like him.”
Her comment was pointed. Deliberate. Craeg had told her that he feared he’d inherit his father’s black character, yet she wanted him to know his story was his own to write. He could choose his own path in life too.
Silence fell then, swelling between them as the wind whipped her hair across her face. Reaching up, he gently brushed it away.
Hazel’s breathing caught. He shouldn’t be doing that. Especially not up here on the walls, where anyone could see them.
As if reading her thoughts, Craeg sucked in a deep breath and stepped back. “Very well, Hazel,” he said, his expression veiling. “But I’m coming with ye.”