Chapter Two
Beitris Lewis tore her gaze away from Liam, fighting the urge to groan aloud.
Patience, once one of her proudest virtues, was wearing perilously thin.
Every few days the same pattern repeated itself, an exasperating dance between her duty and his stubbornness.
She would spend half the afternoon searching for him, wandering through the keep, the courtyard, and the paths leading toward the forest. Some days he slipped away like smoke, impossible to find no matter how determined she was.
On others, like today, she managed to catch him before he vanished into the trees.
And every time, without fail, they had the same conversation, her insisting, him resisting, both of them locked in a quiet tug-of-war until he finally relented and allowed her to tend to his care.
She understood why he resisted. She truly did.
Every treatment, every poultice, every careful touch was a reminder of the body he no longer trusted.
The strength he believed had abandoned him.
But understanding did nothing to ease the frustration curling tight in her chest. His reluctance was chipping steadily at the edges of her patience.
On the surface, Liam McRay was the very same man she had known for years.
Unyielding as a stone wall, obstinate as a mule, and determined to meet the world with a jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
Yet everything beneath that carefully maintained facade had changed.
His life had been reshaped and carved into something unrecognizable, though he refused to let anyone see the cracks.
Beitris suspected the truth. She saw the grief he tried to hide, the anger simmering beneath his skin, the quiet despair in the way he looked at his own leg as though it had betrayed him.
Worse still, she knew what the loss of his role meant to him.
Liam had once been many things: a fierce fighter, a loyal clansman, a man who could charm any lass with nothing more than a crooked smile and a well-placed word.
He’d worn that reputation like armor, as if being desired made him invincible.
Now those parts of him had dimmed, and she suspected the blow to his pride cut deeper than any blade ever had.
Beitris had never approved of his roguish behavior in the past, especially when she’d watched girl after girl fall under his spell only to be cast aside once the thrill wore off.
Yet seeing him now, wounded, struggling, stripped of the life he once knew softened something inside her.
It truly saddened her how battle could take more than limbs and strength.
It stole futures, reshaped spirits, and left men like Liam adrift.
Her own daily routine had changed as well, though in far gentler ways.
Where she once spent all her days in the village, helping her parents run the bakery, or working under the healer’s watchful eye, now she traveled to the keep three times a week.
She went to the keep with her brother, Kier, who served the laird as a guard.
Normally he’d slept at the keep most nights, but now on the evenings before her scheduled visits, he returned home so they could travel together.
It made the journey easier for her, though she knew it complicated his rhythm. And yet he never complained. Just as she never once considered her new responsibilities a burden.
If anything, she saw them as a blessing. A chance to do good. To ease suffering. To help men who’d been broken by battle find some measure of comfort again.
Even if one of those men tested both her patience and her resolve more than all the others combined.
Liam gestured for her to enter first. Beitris hesitated just a heartbeat, but it was enough to make her startlingly aware of the warmth creeping up her neck.
For reasons she refused to examine too closely, the idea of turning her back to him made her self-conscious.
Still, she stepped inside, the familiar chamber that enveloped her with the faint scent of herbs, linen, and old stone.
Behind her came the steady, uneven rhythm of his gait, the dull thud of his cane against the floor, the soft drag of his injured leg. Each sound marked him, announced him, reminded her of what he’d survived and what he’d lost.
This was the same room where he had hovered between life and death, where the healer had once debated removing his leg entirely.
She remembered the tension of those days, the hushed arguments, and how Liam, broken, fevered, half-conscious, had somehow still fought tooth and nail to keep his limb.
Now he walked with it, though each step seemed to carve a fresh line of pain into his features.
“Lie down,” she instructed, nodding toward the bed.
She turned away to grant him privacy as he removed his boots and breeches. Even with her back turned, she could hear the faint hiss of breath he made when bending, the slight scrape of leather against stone.
He cleared his throat low, rough.
“I am ready.”
Beitris faced him, schooling her expression into calm professionalism. As always, she warmed her hands first, rubbing them briskly until heat bloomed in her palms. Then she scooped a generous amount of the minty poultice, its strong scent filling the small room.
She began at his calf, applying slow, firm pressure. The heat of his skin radiated through her fingers. Beneath her touch, his muscle jerked and tightened. A soft grunt escaped him.
Her gaze flicked upward.
He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, cheekbones taut.
Even undone by pain, there was something fierce in him.
A solid strength coiled tightly, barely leashed.
His upper body remained powerful, the sculpted lines of his chest and arms evidence of a life spent training, fighting, living at the edge of danger.
Even his thighs, one scarred and twisted by injury, held the remnants of formidable strength.
He thought himself ruined. She could see that in the way he avoided his reflection. The way he refused to meet her eyes for long. But he was wrong. He remained very much a man women would look at twice and think on long after. Not that she’d ever confess such a thing. He’d become unbearably smug.
She always draped a cloth for modesty’s sake, but working near his left hip and thigh meant she caught brief, intimate glimpses she had no business noticing. She had to keep her eyes forward glancing down briefly to ensure to place her hands on the right area.
“I am sorry,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended. “I ken this part hurts.”
After smearing more poultice across her palms, she pressed them to his upper thigh. The reaction was immediate; a deep, guttural sound tore from him. His stomach tightened, chest expanding sharply as he dragged in a breath.
Her hands glided down the length of his muscle.
It resisted at first, tense as a drawn bowstring, but slowly, reluctantly, it yielded beneath her touch.
His breathing quickened. A sheen of sweat gathered at his brow.
Once the pain subsided, as it always did, the intimacy of her touch pressed in around them, thick as warm air.
Two more passes and she finished with his thigh. Next came his hip. Both of them stilled for a heartbeat.
This was the place they dreaded for different reasons. For Liam, it was agony. For her… it felt far too intimate. Too invasive.
“Would ye like a drink?” She reached for the wooden cup before he even answered.
He nodded and pushed himself up on his elbows. She held the cup to his lips, looking anywhere but at his mouth. He drank deeply, herbs tinting the water with a calming scent.
When he lay back again, tension hardened his features.
Something in Beitris ached at the sight. A tiny, treacherous part of her longed to cup his face, to smooth away the pain, to show him a gentleness he’d likely mistake for pity. But that was a line she could not, would not cross.
From all the rumors, Liam was a man who had never cared for a woman beyond the span of a brief seduction. He’d left behind more broken hearts than she could count. She refused to let hers join the heap.
His eyes cracked open, cutting through her thoughts. “Why are ye waiting?” His head lifted just enough for his gaze to catch hers.
Heat flared at her cheeks. Saints help her, she’d been staring.
“I was giving ye a moment to rest,” she lied smoothly, though her voice was a pitch too high… and his narrowed eyes made her nervous.
Once more, Beitris warmed her hands, rubbing them briskly until heat grew in her palms. The sharp, minty scent of the poultice rose like a cool wave, soothing and almost invigorating. She coated her fingers with the mixture, then placed both hands carefully on Liam’s hip.
His entire body tensed beneath her touch, bracing for the pain he expected.
She began at the outer curve of his hip, working in slow, deliberate circles.
The heel of her palm pressed deeply into the muscle, coaxing it to soften under her hands.
She moved with practiced precision, letting her fingertips guide her, seeking out knots, tightness, places that required firmer pressure or gentle coaxing.
Gradually, she felt the tension bleed out of him. His breathing eased. The rigid set of his jaw loosened.
“It seems this area is healing faster than the leg,” she murmured, her palm sliding along warm skin.
“Aye,” he said, voice low. “Are we done then?”
“Almost.”
“I need ye to stop,” he said abruptly, his tone tight, almost urgent.
“Not until I’m done,” she snapped before she could temper the words.
He exhaled sharply, one long, resigned breath. “Fine.”
And then she understood.