Chapter 21 DEFIANCE
THE WIND TORE through the barmkin, whipping Hazel’s unbound hair across her face.
She pushed it back with nervous fingers, watching as grooms led horses from the stables—stamping, snorting coursers with glossy summer coats.
Ruadh was among them. The chestnut stallion tossed his head, side-stepping as Craeg checked his girth with deft, efficient movements.
Dressed in braies, tucked into high boots, a dark leather jerkin over his lèine, and a broadsword strapped across his back, the chieftain’s jaw was set with determination, his shoulders tense.
Around him, his warriors prepared for the journey to Duart Castle. Captain Black barked orders. Men checked weapons and provisions. The morning sun broke through the clouds scudding above, while dust devils spiraled across the wide courtyard.
Hazel stood near the tower steps, arms wrapped around herself.
It wasn’t cold this morning, yet she shivered.
Ever since she’d joined Craeg and his family for bannocks earlier, a stone had sat in her belly.
Outside these walls, she was forthright and bold.
Independent. But now, her fire was guttering.
Last night had been delicious … exciting. And as she’d lain in Craeg’s arms afterward, she’d felt at peace, in control of her destiny and ready to take the next bold step. But now, in the cold light of day, she regretted agreeing to all of this.
She knew nothing of clan politics, of alliances and betrayals, of the intricate dance of power that governed these people’s lives. And if she were honest, those things didn’t interest her.
And yet here she was—about to become a chieftain’s wife. She’d caused a broken betrothal, something which would likely drag Craeg into conflict with one of the most powerful men in the Isles.
Her throat tightened. What have I done?
“Hazel.”
Craeg’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. She looked up to find him standing before her, his dark eyes searching her face. “Walk with me.”
Swallowing, she nodded.
He took her hand, his palm warm and calloused against hers, and led her to the shadow of the armory. Out of earshot, yet not away from curious stares.
“Ye are worried,” he said quietly once they were alone.
She wanted to deny it, but that wasn’t her way. “Aye.”
“Ye think Loch won’t agree to our marriage?”
“And what if he doesn’t?” Her voice rose slightly. “What then? Will ye defy him? Will ye start a feud over me?”
“If I must.” His hands came up to frame her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Hazel, listen to me. I will not let ye down. No matter what happens at Duart … no matter what Loch says or Macquarie does … we will be together.”
Her pulse started to thump in her ears. He meant those words, but the weight of reality often crushed good intentions. He wasn’t thinking clearly—and neither had she been the night before. She wished now that she hadn’t given in so easily.
She had her own survival to think about too, her own happiness.
“Ye talk as if everything will work out,” she whispered. “But life isn’t that simple.”
“Life rewards those who go after what they want.” His voice turned fierce. “I will fight for ye.”
Their gazes locked for a moment. And then, before she could respond, his mouth captured hers. His hands slid into her hair as his tongue swept her lips apart. She could taste his determination. And despite her misgivings, she melted into him.
Around them, the barmkin went quiet. Gazes drilled into them—warriors pausing in their work, servants stopping to stare. But Craeg didn’t care. He kissed her as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. His eyes glittered. “We will be together,” he said, his voice hoarse now. “Never doubt that.”
She nodded, not sure she was capable of speech.
“I should be away a day or two at most.”
Then he was gone, striding toward Ruadh. He swung into the saddle and gathered the reins. Captain Black and the others mounted as well, forming up around their chieftain.
Craeg looked back at her then. Their gazes met across the courtyard, heat pulsing between them.
Hazel’s breathing caught.
Wheeling Ruadh toward the gates, he rode out, his warriors following in a tattoo of hooves. Hazel stood frozen, watching until they disappeared under the portcullis. Only then did she become aware of the silence pressing down on her.
Slowly, she turned.
Liza stood near the stable entrance with Alec at her side. But she wasn’t watching the gates where her son had just vanished. Instead, she observed Hazel, her gaze shadowed.
“Ye have gentle hands.”
Hazel looked up, meeting Archie Macquarie’s eye. She then managed a half-smile. “A healer should have a light touch.”
He snorted. “The physician back in Ulva doesn’t … he just likes to bleed ye … and will hack off a limb rather than try and heal it.”
Hazel grimaced. Unfortunately, such healers existed. She’d heard a few unpleasant tales over the years.
“Moy is lucky to have Hazel,” Rankin spoke up then. Craeg’s stepfather leaned up against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. He’d insisted on being present when she saw to her patient. “Her talent isn’t something we take for granted.”
Warmth crept up her neck at the compliment.
It unbalanced her. Ever since Craeg had departed earlier that morning, she’d been on edge. It was a relief to be able to focus on something practical.
Dipping her head, she finished unwrapping the soiled bandage from Archie’s upper arm. It was hard not to wrinkle her nose at the smell. Not as foul as before—for the pus had drained well—but unpleasant, nonetheless.
Dusty light slanted through gaps in the timber walls of her infirmary. The sounds of daily life drifted in through the open door: geese honking and the rise and fall of voices in the barmkin.
Archie sat on the stool, stripped to the waist. His shaven head was bowed as he watched her work, his expression unreadable.
The wound was healing. The angry red streaks that had radiated out from the soured flea bite had faded. The swelling had gone down. “It’s drawing back now,” she announced, reaching for her pestle and mortar. “Ye will be right in a week.”
Archie grunted, eyeing her as she pounded fresh woundwort and garlic together. The pungent smell filled the small space. No doubt he wondered what his fate would be. Craeg still hadn’t announced what he planned to do with the Macquarie prisoners.
“Ye hear whispers in the pit,” Archie said then, drawing her attention. “The guards have loose tongues.”
“Aye?”
“Is it true that ye are to be wed to Maclean?”
Her stomach dropped. She kept her gaze fixed on the mortar, grinding harder than necessary. She didn’t want to discuss her life with this man who’d come to murder her, but she didn’t want to lie either.
Reluctantly, she nodded.
Silence fell in the storehouse, and Hazel braced herself for mockery. Of course, he’d laugh or sneer or say something crude about a bastard healer spreading her legs for a chieftain.
However, he didn’t.
Wary now, she raised her chin to find Archie watching her with something that almost looked like pity.
“He’s young,” Archie said slowly. “Impulsive. Such hot-headed behavior can get a man into trouble.”
The warning in his voice made her sweat. Of course, the Macquarie chieftain would be incensed. She didn’t need reminding of the risks that came with Craeg’s choice. In truth, she’d thought of nothing else since his departure earlier that day.
“I’ve seen it before,” he added gruffly. “When a man throws aside duty for desire … it rarely ends well.”
The words hit too close to home. Queasiness rolled over her as she began spreading the poultice over his wound.
“That’s enough from ye, Archie.” Rankin’s voice rumbled through the cramped space. “Leash yer tongue.”
Archie’s lips compressed. His gaze flicked to Rankin, then back to Hazel. Something passed between them—an understanding that a storm was coming.
Swallowing hard, she finished applying the poultice and wound a clean linen strip over his forearm. She then tied it off.
“Lads!” Rankin called out.
Two guards hauled Archie to his feet and pulled his soiled shirt back over his head. The big man didn’t resist. He simply let them drag him toward the door.
As he passed Hazel, their gazes glanced off each other once more. In the depths of his pale-blue eyes, she glimpsed another warning. And then he was gone, the guards marching him back across the barmkin toward the pit.
Hazel started clearing up her things. Her chest was tight, her breathing shallow. The walls closed in.
“Are ye well, lass?”
She glanced up to see Rankin in the doorway. His gaze was veiled.
“Aye,” she said, forcing a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice.
“He won’t be the last to comment on ye and Craeg.” Rankin’s voice was low, sympathetic, although with an edge she recognized. A caution not that dissimilar to Archie’s. “Ye will weather worse. And ye must ready yerself for it.”
She gave a jerky nod and focused on gathering her supplies—the mortar and pestle, the soiled bandages, the clay pots of herbs. Everything smelled of pus, vinegar, and crushed garlic. Her stomach churned. She needed to clean up.
Rankin departed then, clearly sensing that she didn’t wish to converse.
Relieved, she grabbed a cake of lye soap, a wooden bucket, and her basket and stepped out into the daylight. She wondered then about her role as herb-wife going forward. Craeg had told her he wanted her to tend to Moy’s residents, but that was before he’d proposed marriage to her.
Would he change his mind? He might not want his wife dirtying her hands with such things.
Queasiness assailed her, as it had years earlier when Ewan had told her that becoming his wife would mean she’d have to give up being a herb-wife. It had signaled the end of their relationship.
She’d need to talk to Craeg about this. She had no wish to spend her days at a loom or ordering servants around. Her healing skills were too valuable to abandon.
The barmkin was even busier than usual this morning, for an iron merchant had stopped off at the castle.
He and his wife would bed down in the great hall overnight, wrapped up in their cloaks, but at present, they were busy selling their wares—hinges, tools, knives, and cooking pots—from the back of a large wagon.
A cluster of men and women, from both Moy and Lochbuie, surrounded them, haggling.
Glad that everyone’s attention was elsewhere, Hazel made her way across to the well, skirting around where a lass threw grain for a cluster of honking geese.
The well stood in the northern corner of the courtyard, its stone rim worn smooth by centuries of use. Two servants were there, drawing water. Both wore clean kirtles, their hair neatly braided. Hazel recognized them; the lasses waited on the chieftain and his family.
They looked up as Hazel approached, their expressions cooling instantly.
“Morning,” she greeted them.
Neither lass answered.
Setting her basket down, she reached for the rope and lowered the bucket into the darkness below. The splash echoed up, hollow and distant.
The maids started whispering to each other. Hazel didn’t want to hear what passed between them, but she caught snatches of it, all the same. Words like ‘shameless’, ‘bastard’, and ‘thinks highly of herself’ stung her ears.
Her jaw tightened. She hauled the bucket up, arm muscles burning. Anger spiked through her then. She didn’t need to be here—didn’t have to put up with such disdain.
Water slopped over the sides as she lifted the pail onto the rim. She then poured the water into her own bucket and plunged her hands into the cold water, scrubbing at the residue of herbs and infection that clung to her skin with the block of soap.
The women finished filling their pails. As they turned to leave, one of them—a comely redhead—spoke just loud enough to be heard.
“Can ye believe it? A common born, shameless besom, thinking she can be Lady of Moy.”
Her companion laughed. “Aye, who does she think she is?”
“Mark my words, the clan-chief will put an end to this nonsense.”
“If he doesn’t, Craeg Maclean will. Once he’s plowed her furrow a few more times, he’ll tire of her. She’ll be back in her hovel in the woods before Samhuinn.”
Fury washed over Hazel in a hot prickling wave, but she didn’t look up. Instead, she pretended she hadn’t heard them. She was a woman of one and thirty, not some spineless chit of sixteen who’d burst into tears at an insult.
All the same, she wanted to hurl her bucket of water over them.
Their laughter faded as they walked away, leaving her alone at the well with her basket of healing supplies.
Anger pulsed in her throat.
Those lasses thought they’d cow her with their vitriol, but instead, they just made stubbornness harden like a core of iron in her chest. Aye, she had her reservations, yet her pride was greater.
Craeg had chosen her, and together they’d prove all the naysayers wrong.