Chapter Four
Beitris snapped awake at the sound of heavy pounding, sharp blows that rattled the wooden shutters. Heart racing, she pushed herself upright and blinked away the remnants of sleep. Was someone hammering on the bakery door at this hour?
Another round of thudding answered her question.
She rushed to the window, lifted the latch, and peered down into the grey-blue light of dawn. The street was empty. No urgent visitor. No impatient customer. Instead, the booming noise came from the village square.
A group of men were hard at work erecting the stage for the spring festival. Hammers rose and fell in quick succession, the clatter echoing against the walls of the surrounding cottages.
“Why must ye start so early?” she muttered, her voice scratchy with sleep. Still, she couldn’t fault them. Most had fields to tend or livestock to mind and wanted the structure built before the day pulled them in different directions.
Despite her initial annoyance, she stayed where she was, elbows braced on the sill as she watched the village shake off the last of the night.
An elderly woman shuffled across the square, wobbling on her cane as she scolded one of the builders with great enthusiasm.
Even from here, Beitris could practically hear the woman’s lecture about waking her.
A man pushing a wheelbarrow heaped with hay trudged past, whistling a jaunty tune. He tipped his hat to the cantankerous woman as she hobbled by, triumphant, having clearly found someone to yell at before breaking her fast.
Beitris smiled. Tokavaig waking up was a sight she never tired of. The mix of impatience, routine, and charm that made the village feel so alive.
Soon the hammering became a natural part of the morning, a rhythmic background beat instead of a disturbance. And then the scent of baking bread rose from the bakery below, drifting into her room like a warm embrace.
“Best way to get up,” she whispered, inhaling deeply.
Unsure what to do with this unexpected stretch of morning, she reached for her journal, quill, and ink. Camden always urged her to record treatments: what poultices worked, which herbs calmed fevers, or which roots proved useless.
But when she dipped her quill, her hand stilled. A blob of ink fell onto the fresh parchment, blooming into the shape of a dark tear.
Her thoughts had already wandered.
Back to Liam.
More specifically, Liam’s exposed, beautifully honed body stretched across the examining table. The memory hit her like a hot flush, stealing her breath. For a man convinced he was diminished, there was absolutely nothing diminished about him.
The man was magnificent, broad shoulders tapering into a sculpted waist, thighs built from years of riding, everything strong except where the injury had marked him. And even the scars, twisted and pale, did nothing to lessen the appeal of him. If anything, they added a rugged dangerous allure.
Not that he noticed. Or cared.
Since the injury, the arrogant swagger he’d once worn like a second skin had been replaced with a quiet restraint.
He kept everyone at a distance, his gaze never lingering long, his expression shuttered as if emotion were a luxury he could no longer afford.
His armor was no longer forged of steel; it was made of silence, solitude, and a fierce refusal to let anyone close.
Except Hendry. The friendship between the two men had been legendary, brothers in all but blood.
But even with Hendry, Beitris had noticed the shift.
Liam’s stance stiffened, his gaze slid away, and his answers shortened.
The bond remained, but the divide was unmistakable.
A crack running through a once unbreakable wall.
A loud bang outside jolted her back to the present. She glanced down at her ink-stained page and sighed, rubbing her forehead.
What had she been about to write?
Instead of documenting treatments, she was daydreaming like a foolish lass about a man who barely tolerated her touch, even when she was the one easing his pain.
She exhaled sharply. “Perhaps,” she whispered to herself, “I should think on a suitable husband instead of wasting time on a man who does nae even see me.”
But even as she said it, even as she tried to force her focus elsewhere, her mind drifted right back to the man she claimed she had no business thinking of.
Liam McRay, her greatest irritation…and the one thought she couldn’t seem to escape.
When Beitris stepped into the bakery, warmth swept over her like a familiar embrace.
The ovens glowed bright at the back of the room, casting golden light over her father as he worked the long-handled peel with practiced precision.
His helper scurried between shelves and counter, handing out warm loaves to the line of eager villagers who’d arrived before dawn.
Customers chatted cheerfully as they purchased their daily bread. Large round loaves for their families and smaller palm-sized ones to nibble on the walk home. The scent of yeast, butter, and toasting crust filled the air, making Beitris’ stomach rumble.
She slipped between customers with a murmured excuse me, lifted onto her toes, and pressed a kiss to her father’s stubbled cheek.
He smiled, his bright red hair more tousled than usual, curling with heat and humidity.
Beitris waved farewell, then ducked through the back door that connected the bakery to the cottage where her parents lived.
Her mother greeted her the moment she stepped inside, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. “There’s my girl,” she said warmly, her smile bright as ever. She smelled of cinnamon and lavender, comforting scents that always made Beitris feel ten years old again.
Together they set about preparing first meal. Chopping, stirring, and laughing softly at nothing at all. They’d just finished laying out the table when her father burst in, pushing back his sleeves.
“Not much time,” he announced, grabbing a plate. “I must eat in a hurry.”
He said the same thing nearly every morning, and her mother responded in the same way, shaking her head, patting his shoulder as if to soothe a restless ox, her eyes soft with affection.
It never failed to make Beitris smile. How she loved them.
Her father, stout and broad with greying temples, and her mother still graceful and slender, her golden hair pinned back neatly at her neck.
“I’ll come help after I check on Gowan,” Beitris said, sipping her tea.
“No need,” her father insisted, waving her off. “Timothy has things well in hand. And when he leaves, yer ma and I will manage fine.” He winked. “Go on and tend to those who need ye. ’Tis a worthy calling.”
Her heart softened. “I believe helping ye is just as worthy.”
“Aye,” her father conceded, “but the sick can’t bake bread for themselves.”
After they ate, Beitris fetched her shawl, overcoat, and healing box before heading across the village to the blacksmith’s home.
The morning sunlight had begun to warm the cottages, glinting off iron signs and dew-dusted fences.
She knocked at Gowan’s door, waited, and when silence greeted her, pushed gently inside.
Anne stood at the table, shoulders shaking, both hands pressed to her face.
Beitris hurried over. “Has something happened?”
Anne startled so violently she nearly dropped the cloth she was holding. “Saints above, ye scared me.” Her gaze darted toward the door, half-expecting someone else to appear.
Color rose to her cheeks as she wiped her tears. “Nay… nay. I was only warming food for Gowan.” She gestured toward the bedchamber. “He may be awake. He seems better today.”
But her voice quivered, and the tightness around her eyes told another story. Beitris longed to ask what troubled her, but Anne’s forced steadiness made it clear the woman had no intention of sharing.
“I’ll look in on him,” Beitris said gently.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Gowan sat upright in bed, arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing a scowl as dark as his tousled hair. His expression twisted further when he saw her.
He was a handsome sight. His dark brown hair fell to his shoulders in unruly waves, framing a strong jaw and full mouth set in a stubborn line.
His skin was olive-toned, sun-kissed, and warm.
But it was his eyes that arrested her. They were a striking hazel, light and bright against the darkness of his hair, and right now fixed on her with a mixture of irritation and embarrassment.
“Morning, Gowan. How fare thee?”
“I am well enough,” he announced immediately, as if rehearsed. “That is, I mean, I no longer require lying about or being poked and prodded.”
Beitris arched a brow. “Would ye prefer I fetch Camden, so he might sear the wound shut when ye tear it open by moving too soon?”
Gowan flinched, his bravado cracking like thin ice. “Verra well,” he muttered. “Ye can look. But ’tis a waste of yer time.”
She knelt beside him and inspected the wound. The burn was healing well, the edges no longer angry and inflamed, the surface clean, and the smell far reduced. Fresh air, washing, and rest had clearly done their work overnight.
“It looks better,” she said, gently prodding the healthier tissue. “But ye will stay in bed another day. If ye push yerself, ye’ll undo the healing.”
He grumbled something under his breath but didn’t argue.
Behind them, Anne watched from the doorway, her expression unreadable.
And Beitris couldn’t help but wonder if the blacksmith’s wound was the only thing festering in that household.
His gaze followed her movement as she moved around the room, and when she placed her hand on his brow, there was a spark of something akin to interest. “Are ye Camden’s kin?” he asked.
“I am his cousin and apprentice.” Beitris took a bottled tincture from her box, placed a few drops into a wooden bowl, added ground herbs, and mixed it quickly with a small wooden spoon. She then took the bowl to the bedside.