Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Lachlan felt Marian drift off to sleep before they reached the gates.
It was a gradual release. Her body melted against his, then her breathing grew deeper and steadier. Her weight shifted slightly, and his arm instinctively tightened around her.
She was finally at peace, and he knew in his heart that he would do anything to keep it that way.
His horse slowed as they approached the gates, and his eyes narrowed as he caught the torchlight ahead.
Word had reached the clan. It always did.
The guards straightened as he approached, pulling the heavy iron gates open with a low groan of protest. One of them stepped forward as if to speak, then stopped when his eyes fell on Marian.
The shift in the air was immediate. Voices paused mid-sentence. Movement stalled. Even the servants tending to the castle turned their heads.
Lachlan did not look at them. He dismounted his horse without hesitation and carefully shifted Marian in his arms. Her head lolled slightly against his shoulder, and he carried her through the courtyard without a word, ignoring his people’s stares.
Their eyes lingered on the blood at her temple, the way his tunic wrapped around her, and her face—a peaceful contrast to everything else. They bent their heads as he passed, but their murmurs soon picked up as they lifted their heads again, craning their necks with curiosity.
“’Tis her,” one of the men said a touch too loudly, and the others nodded in agreement.
A few of them leaned closer, not daring to raise their voices further.
“Aye. The English lass from London… the one with the claim.”
“She spoke like she had nay fear at all,” another murmured, as though recalling it only now.
A wave of hushed whispers followed, before a woman asked softly from behind, “What has happened to her?”
A maid near the steps clasped her hands together, her gaze fixed on Marian’s still form as though struggling to reconcile her peaceful face with her bloodstained dress.
Just then, Lilly burst out through the castle door, wrenching free of Mrs. Campbell’s grasp.
“My Lady,” she sobbed loudly, throwing herself at Lachlan’s feet and blocking his path. “Forgive me, my Lady. I have failed you.”
Mrs. Campbell rushed forward, pulling her up from the ground as Marian stirred lightly in Lachlan’s arms.
His eyebrows drew together, slightly irritated that the noise would wake Marian before they were inside the castle.
“Silence.” The command was quiet but sharp enough to still every man present. “Lady Marian is injured,” he added, glancing at Lilly. “But she is well.”
The maid’s eyes widened instantly, relief flashing across her face as she released a heavy breath.
Lachlan turned away from her. “Her chambers arenae fit to receive her,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “She will stay in mine until they are restored.”
There was to be no discussion about it.
His eyes fell on Mrs. Campbell, and she nodded immediately, dragging Lilly along as she directed the others away from the corridors.
Lachlan did not slow down as he carried Marian through the castle doors, but his steps were careful as he ascended the stairs with her in his arms.
Eventually, he stepped into his bedchamber, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Marian’s eyes fluttered open as her back met a soft mattress.
The warmth of the room enveloped her, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that had whipped at her face on the ride back to Glen Carrick.
The last thing she remembered was Lachlan’s voice as he had muttered soothing words in Gaelic that she did not understand.
Mo chridhe.
She had kept the word in her heart and remembered it now, exhaling softly.
She blinked, her vision blurring slightly at the edges.
Where am I?
The room around her looked unfamiliar, and she knew immediately that it was not her chamber. Her gaze drifted across the stone walls to the hearth, where the flames danced lazily.
Her ears caught the low whistle of the breeze that usually came from the ridges along the glen, and she sighed in relief.
Glen Carrick.
She shifted slightly, feeling the thick pile of soft fur beneath her. A shadow moved at the edge of her vision, and she turned her head slightly, pain flaring instantly at her temple.
She winced. Her hand flew to the spot where she had been bleeding, and the memories immediately came back to her.
Her chest tightened.
“Easy, lass.” Lachlan’s voice sounded from the other side of the room, soothing and warm.
Marian turned her head gently to look at him.
It is Lachlan’s bedchamber.
Her pulse quickened at the realization.
Lachlan appeared beside the bed, sinking onto the edge with a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth draped over his arm.
“I need to clean yer wound,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes. “It might sting.”
Marian nodded before she had the chance to think about it, her throat thickening slightly.
Her eyes followed him as he dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it out carefully. His large, calloused hands moved with surprising gentleness for a man known across the Highlands as a warrior.
He brought the cloth to her temple. Marian flinched, and he pulled back slightly.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“No, it is…” Her voice was slightly hoarse. “It is fine. Please.”
Lachlan nodded.
He worked slowly, wiping the dried blood off her temple with careful strokes. His brow furrowed in concentration as he leaned in, and his jaw clenched harder.
Perhaps he is angry with me.
He met her eyes again, and his face instantly softened. Her fears vanished at once.
“Lachlan…” His name left her lips like a breath she had been holding for hours, and he stilled.
“Aye?”
“I am all right.”
Lachlan inhaled, his chest rising slowly. “Ye’re nae,” he said quietly. “Ye’re hurt. Ye nearly died today.”
“But I didn’t.” Marian reached up, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Because you came for me.”
He released a breath then. Something shifted in his expression, his anger giving way to something softer.
“I’ll always come for ye, Mairi,” he vowed. “Always.”
Marian swallowed. She knew he was speaking the truth. She knew it before he even said it. She had watched him kill a man for her. She did not need any more proof to know that he would always fight for her.
Her fingers curled tighter around his wrists, and he looked at her, an emotion flitting briefly across his face. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“I need to check yer ribs,” he said, setting the cloth aside. “Ye seem to have been hurt there.”
Marian’s breath caught. She’d almost forgotten about that injury amid the chaos. But now that he mentioned it, she could feel the deep ache in her side with every breath.
“I…” She hesitated. “I do not think anything is broken.”
“Let me see anyway.”
There was no arguing with that tone.
Marian nodded slowly, her cheeks warming despite herself.
Lachlan’s hands moved to the laces at the side of her dress—what remained of them, anyway. The fabric was already torn, hanging loose around her shoulders.
“May I?” he asked, his fingers hovering.
She nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He worked carefully, easing the fabric down just enough to expose her side. His touch was light, but she felt its warmth spread through her like a mild fire.
When his fingers pressed gently against her ribs, she hissed in pain.
“There,” he said grimly. “Bruised, at least. Maybe cracked.”
“It’s not that bad,” Marian assured. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest, and it had nothing to do with the pain.
Lachlan’s eyes met hers, and the look in them made her breath catch. It was fear. Not for himself, but for her.
“Ye could have died, Mairi,” he rasped. “Do ye understand that? If I’d arrived even a moment later—”
“But you didn’t,” she interrupted. “You arrived exactly when I needed you to.”
His hand was still pressed against her ribs, warm and solid. Her body was still exposed. Slowly, carefully, he drew the fabric back up over her side, covering her again.
Marian’s eyes drifted to the dark stain on his trews, and her brow furrowed slightly.
“Your wound… It’s bleeding,” she said, her voice sharper than she had intended.
Lachlan glanced down as though he’d forgotten about the wound entirely. “’Tis nae,” he uttered dismissively. “’Tis only the stain from before.”
“Lachlan…” She sat up slowly in bed, moving to pick up the damp cloth he’d used on her.
“Marian.” His hand found hers, squeezing gently. “I’m fine. Ye need to rest.”
“But I am not tired,” she lied.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ye’re a terrible liar, Sassenach.”
She lay back in bed, releasing a breath. “Perhaps,” she relented, looking at him again. “But I do not want to sleep yet.”
She hoped that her fear would not show in her voice—that if she slept, she would dream of all the unpleasant moments she’d faced.
Lachlan seemed to understand. He shifted, settling himself more comfortably on the edge of the bed.
“Then I’ll stay with ye,” he said, as though there were no other choice. “Until ye’re ready.”
Marian’s eyes stung. She blinked rapidly, willing the tears away. She’d cried enough today. But one escaped anyway, trailing down her cheek.
Lachlan caught it with his thumb, gently brushing it away.
“Ye’re safe now, Marian,” he murmured. “I promise ye that.”
She reached up, her hand finding his where it rested against her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.