Chapter 18 A CUP OF WINE
ARCHIE MACQUARIE EYED Hazel with naked suspicion.
“What’s this then?” he muttered as he watched her arrange her supplies on a clean linen cloth spread across the oaken table in her infirmary.
Earthenware pots of dried herbs. A stoppered clay bottle of vinegar.
Clean rags. Her small knife, its blade honed sharp for lancing. “Are ye going to torture me?”
Craeg snorted a humorless laugh. “Now, that’s a fine idea.”
Hazel cut the chieftain a quelling look. He stood behind them, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. Despite his relaxed posture though, tension rolled off him. His gaze was narrowed, his jaw tight.
He still wasn’t happy about this, yet he was allowing it.
She appreciated his cooperation, although she’d been ready to argue with him. If he wasn’t going to condemn this man to death, they had to help him.
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m going to see to that arm … before yer blood sours.”
The barmkin beyond the infirmary was quiet at this hour, the afternoon sun slanting through the open doorway.
Archie Macquarie sat on a low stool opposite Hazel, his massive frame hunched forward, cradling his left arm.
He looked less threatening today—just a man in a sweat-stained linen lèine, his shaven head gleaming in the glow of the nearby brazier.
His stench made Hazel’s eyes water: the sickly-sweet smell of corruption, mixed with unwashed flesh and the damp rot of the pit where he’d been imprisoned.
His arm was grotesque. The skin stretched tight and shiny, mottled red and purple. Pus oozed from the original flea bite, which had swollen to the size of a plum. Angry red streaks radiated up toward the crook of his elbow—the telltale sign that the matter was now serious.
Hazel plunged her knife blade into the brazier’s flames, watching until it glowed red. She then extracted it and turned back to Archie.
His gaze narrowed as he watched it cool.
“This will hurt,” Hazel warned him.
Clenching his jaw, he nodded.
Steadying her breathing, Hazel positioned the knife over the swollen bite. “Hold still.”
She pressed the blade in, piercing the taut skin. Pus erupted, thick and yellow-green, streaming down Archie’s arm. The warrior hissed through his teeth but didn’t pull away. She squeezed gently, coaxing out more of the foul discharge, her stomach roiling at the smell.
“Good,” she murmured. “It needs to drain.”
When the worst of it was out, she reached for the vinegar, unstoppering the bottle. The sharp, acrid scent cut through the stench of infection. “This part will be worse.”
Archie grunted, bracing himself.
She poured the vinegar directly into the open wound.
He jerked back with a strangled curse, his entire body going rigid. Sweat broke out across his forehead, his breathing harsh and ragged. But to his credit, he didn’t cry out or try to pull away.
“Almost done.” Hazel poured more vinegar, watching it foam and bubble in the wound, cleansing it. Archie’s free hand gripped the edge of the stool, knuckles white.
Behind her, she heard Craeg shift and felt the intensity of his gaze burning into her back.
Finally, she set the vinegar aside and began mixing her poultice. Woundwort, crushed in her pestle and mortar. Fresh garlic, mashed to a paste. She combined them, working the mixture until it formed a thick, pungent salve.
The smell was overwhelming—sharp and green and raw. But she was confident it would work.
“Thank ye, Maclean,” Archie said suddenly. He was looking past her, toward Craeg. “For asking her to—”
“Don’t thank me,” Craeg cut him off sharply. “This wasn’t my choice, but Hazel’s. If it were up to me, ye’d still be rotting in that pit.”
Archie stilled, swallowing hard. Then slowly, reluctantly, his gaze shifted to Hazel.
Their gazes met briefly before she began spreading the poultice over the wound. Her movements were gentle but firm, the paste cool against the angry, inflamed skin. Archie flinched but held still.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the brazier.
“I don’t understand,” Archie said finally, his voice rough with pain. “Why would ye help me? After … after everything.”
Hazel’s hands stilled for a moment, and she glanced up. “Because ye were following orders.” She then reached for a clean strip of linen to bind the wound. “Just because ye are Hamish Macquarie’s hound, doesn’t mean ye deserve to die of a soured fleabite.”
The words hung in the air between them.
Archie’s rugged features went taut. And, just for a moment, raw emotion flared in his eyes before he mastered himself. It was too late though. She’d seen it. The shame. The confusion. He looked away quickly, blinking hard.
Tying off the bandage, Hazel reached for the small clay cup she’d prepared earlier. The willow bark tea was still warm, bitter-smelling. She pressed it into his uninjured hand. “Drink this. All of it. It will help with the fever.”
Archie took the cup, staring down at the dark liquid. His throat worked as he swallowed. When he finally looked up at her again, his eyes were suspiciously bright. “Thank ye,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Hazel rose, brushing off her skirts. “Ye’ll see me again. The poultice needs changing twice daily. And keep drinking the willow bark tea … I’ll leave more with the guards.”
Archie nodded mutely.
She turned to find Craeg watching her with an expression that was both fierce and tender; one that made her pulse skip.
“Done,” she said softly.
Craeg’s jaw flexed. He jerked his head toward the door. “Black. Get him back to the pit.”
Captain Black appeared from where he’d been waiting outside the infirmary, two guards at his heels. They hauled Archie to his feet, supporting him as he swayed slightly.
As they led him away, their prisoner glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze finding Hazel’s one last time.
Hazel climbed the tower stairs, one hand trailing along the pitted stone wall for balance.
She’d just come from the lady’s solar, where she’d sat with Lady Liza and Lena after supper.
It was good to see Craeg’s mother with a bloom to her cheeks.
However, Hazel had found it hard to concentrate on Lena’s excited chatter or the wool Liza had given her to wind upon a spindle.
After a day surrounded by people, she felt drained.
On edge.
Apart from Archie, she’d tended a couple of other patients today. A farmer who needed a thorn removed from his arm and a bairn with a sore throat and fever. Moy certainly kept her busy.
But it was time to go now, for the moment at least.
Hazel had just reached the landing and was about to climb to the floor above when the door to the chieftain’s solar opened. Craeg stood in the doorway, backlit by firelight. His dark hair was tousled, his lèine unlaced at the throat. He looked tired, strained. “Hazel.”
She froze, one foot on the step.
His gaze roamed her face. “Ye are leaving again, aren’t ye?”
She swallowed, discomfort stealing over her. “Aye,” she said softly. “Tomorrow at dawn … it’s for the best.”
A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Ye will still make regular visits to the castle, as ye promised?”
She nodded, even as her pulse kicked against her ribs.
Their stare drew out for a long moment before he cleared his throat. “Would ye join me for a cup of wine?”
She started to sweat. She should refuse, keep climbing these stairs to the safety of her chamber, where she could bar the door and pretend her heart wasn’t thundering.
Being alone with him was dangerous. The tension between them had grown unbearable.
With each day she remained at Moy, it wound tighter.
But there was something in his eyes that prevented her from refusing him.
“Very well,” she murmured.
Nodding to her, he stepped back, holding the door open wider.
Hazel walked past him on unsteady legs. As she crossed the threshold into his solar, warmth enveloped her—the heat from the hearth, the acrid notes of burning peat and beeswax candles.
Weapons—a claidheamh-mòr and a polearm—hung from the pitted stone walls, as did a large tapestry depicting a sea battle.
A desk sat near the window, covered in parchments, quills, and a clay jar of sealing wax.
Two high-backed chairs flanked the fireplace.
And charging toward her with his tail wagging furiously was Faolan.
The massive wolfhound planted his front paws on her shoulders, nearly knocking her backward. His tongue swiped across her face in enthusiastic greeting.
“Faolan, down!” Craeg's command was sharp, but the dog ignored him completely.
Despite everything—the tension, the fear, the confusion cramping her gut—Hazel laughed. She wrapped her arms around the hound’s shaggy neck, burying her face in his rough fur. “Good eve, lad. Aye, I’m pleased to see ye too.”
Faolan whined with joy, his entire body wiggling.
“He’s never that excited to see me,” Craeg muttered, feigning annoyance.
“That’s because I give better scratches.” Hazel’s fingers found the sweet spot behind Faolan’s ears, and the dog’s eyes rolled back in bliss.
Craeg moved to the small table near the hearth, pouring wine from a clay jug into two wooden cups. His movements were careful, controlled—but she marked how tense his shoulders were.
Finally, Faolan released her and padded over to collapse in front of the fire with a contented groan. Hazel smoothed down her skirts, suddenly acutely aware that she was alone in the laird’s solar with him. At night. With the door closed behind them.
Shite. This was exactly what she’d wished to avoid.
“Here.” Craeg pressed a cup into her hand. Their fingers brushed, and hunger clenched low in her belly. Just the merest touch had her aching for him.
This was bad. Very bad.
Taking a grateful sip of wine, she cast Craeg a veiled look. “How is Archie?” she asked, needing to fill the silence with something, anything.
“Still alive,” he replied, a groove appearing between his dark brows.
“And his fever. Is it—”
Craeg set his cup down with more force than necessary, cutting off her question. He turned to face her fully, and the look in his eyes stole her breath. “I sent a missive to Hamish Macquarie today.”
Her stomach dropped. “What?”
“I’ve broken off the betrothal … to Isla.”
The cup nearly slipped from Hazel’s fingers. “But the alliance—”
“Can go hang itself.” He took a step toward her.
Dizziness crashed into Hazel. Reaching out with her free hand, she groped for the back of the nearest chair, needing something solid to hold onto. “Ye don’t know what ye’re saying.”
“I do.” He closed the distance between them in two strides.
“Craeg.” Her voice broke on his name.
Reaching out, he took the cup of wine from her and set it down on the mantlepiece. “Ye consume me.” His hands came up to frame her face, thumbs stroking across her cheekbones. “I can’t think of anything else.”
Her pulse went wild. “But ye have responsibilities.”
“The devil take my responsibilities.” The words exploded from him. “Do ye think I care about duty when all I want is ye?” He broke off then, breathing hard.
The confession hung between them, stark and desperate. Hazel’s throat started to ache. “No, Craeg. Ye’ll wed Isla Macquarie,” she said, her voice shaking. “Soon. That’s how this ends.”
“Not any longer. Meeting ye has changed me, Hazel. I no longer hunger for glory in battle,” he plowed on. “Let other men die for Scottish freedom. Ye have taught me what truly matters in life.”
Hazel started, shocked by his admission. He’d hinted at a change in perspective when they’d foraged for herbs together, yet she hadn’t realized how deeply he felt it.
“All I want is ye, lass.” He broke off there, his gaze burning into hers. “I want to kiss yer skin until I’ve committed every inch of it to memory. I want—”
Craeg never finished his sentence, for Hazel couldn’t bear it any longer. She couldn’t fight against this tide, not when her own need was slowly driving her insane.
Surging forward, she crushed her mouth to his.
Craeg made a sound—half groan, half prayer—and hauled her against him. His arms banded around her waist, lifting her onto her toes as he kissed her with desperate hunger. His lips were hot and demanding.
She opened for him, and his tongue swept into her mouth. Heat shivered through her. She was melting in his arms. Her hands fisted in his lèine, pulling him closer, needing more.
And then they were moving. He was walking her backward across the solar.
Her spine hit the wall, yet she barely noticed.
All she could think about was that his body now pressed against hers from chest to thigh.
She could feel every hard plane of him, the thunder of his heart matching her own.
His hands slid into her hair, tilting her head back so he could deepen the kiss.
A whimper escaped her throat. Hades. He kissed her like she was air, and he was drowning.
“Hazel,” he groaned against her lips. “Christ, Hazel.”
“Don’t stop.” Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, tangling in his hair. Lust twisted deep in her belly. Hot and feral.
Murmuring her name once more, he kissed along her jaw, down the column of her throat. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and her knees buckled. “Is this what ye want, lass?” he asked, his voice choked now.
“Aye,” she gasped. “More!” With that, she pulled his mouth back to hers, kissing him wildly.