Chapter Seventeen
Pain ruled over Liam.
It throbbed through every inch of his body, a merciless, grinding ache that stole his breath and tore raw cries from his throat.
His lips were cracked from fever, his mouth dry as sunbaked earth.
When another surge of agony twisted through him, his body tensed, a strangled moan escaping before he could stop it.
He tried to open his eyes, to drag himself from the thick, muddled haze the herbs kept him in, but the weight of exhaustion anchored him in darkness.
“I’m going to lift yer head now,” came a voice, soft, feminine, and impossibly gentle.
Cool fingers slipped beneath his head, and he flinched at the touch, not from pain, but from the shock of something so kind in a world that had become unbearable.
A cup was pressed to his lips, and water trickled into his mouth. The first drop burned down his throat before it soothed, and then he drank greedily, as if that water alone tethered him to the living.
“More,” he rasped, the word barely more than a croak.
She lowered his head with careful grace before lifting another cup. He drank until it was gone, then slumped back, eyes fluttering as her voice came again, quieter this time.
“The healer is here. He must inspect yer wounds.”
A tremor rolled through him.
“No.” The word formed without thought, his body tensing, every muscle screaming in protest. Tears, unbidden and hot, slipped from the corners of his eyes, sliding silently past his temples to soak the linens beneath him.
“I ken,” she whispered, sorrow threaded through every syllable. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder, the pressure soothing. “But it must be done.”
He didn’t want to look, but the healer’s familiar voice forced his eyes open, just a sliver. He saw the man’s weathered face and the deep lines of exhaustion etched around his mouth.
“I will be as gentle as I can,” the healer promised. “Yer leg is crushed and I cannae set it. Had the bones not torn through, I could have bound it days ago and allowed it to set. But it must be cleaned, Liam. If not, rot will take it.”
Understanding didn’t ease the dread. Knowledge had never dulled pain.
His gaze dropped to the length of his leg, bound tightly in layers of linen from hip to toe. The memory returned with awful clarity, the arrow’s sharp sting just before he fell, the thunder of hooves, the horse’s wild eyes as it trampled past, already dying, its chest pierced with arrows.
He’d twisted in the last heartbeat of consciousness, rolling just far enough to spare his chest. But the leg… and his arm… hadn’t been spared. Bones had shattered like glass.
The sudden exposure of cold air drew him back as the blanket was peeled away.
He shivered violently.
“Cut from here to here,” the healer instructed the woman. “Leave the bandage around his midsection undisturbed. Those wounds are healing well. I’ll tend to them tomorrow.”
He saw a feminine hand holding a knife.
Liam shut his eyes. Silently praying that darkness would come.
It didn’t. He remained lucid. So that when the bandages were cut away and the healer began to work, his hoarse screams filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls like the wails of a soul being torn from its flesh.
“Liam.”
The voice floated through the fog, low and steady, pulling him from the depths of fevered slumber. A warm hand pressed to his forehead, anchoring him further. “Do ye hear me, brother?”
Liam’s eyelids felt like stone, but he forced them open. The world was hazy, blurred at the edges, but Hendry’s face sharpened into view, drawn tight with concern and something far heavier.
“Ye look worse than I feel,” Liam rasped, his voice husky. “Water.”
Hendry helped him drink, steady hands cradling his head. The coolness slid down his throat easing the dryness. When the cup was empty, Liam sagged against the pillow, a long breath slipping past his cracked lips.
“Is it midday?” he asked, glancing toward the narrow sliver of light beyond the window.
A faint smile tugged at Hendry’s lips. “Late in the day. Ye’ve been lost to fever for several days.”
Liam blinked. “Days?”
Hendry nodded solemnly. “Since the battle, it’s been near a fortnight. Ye have been lucid here and there some days. The healer feared ye would nae awaken this time.”
Memories surfaced, blurred pain, distant voices, shadows flickering at the edge of consciousness. “How many?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
He didn’t need to explain. Hendry’s jaw flexed as if he were biting down on grief.
“Ten and two,” he said quietly and began naming them, coming to those Liam called friends and slowly stating the names. “Peter, Lachlan, Colin, and Little Ben.”
Liam flinched as if struck. Each name like a knife plummeting into his chest, and he shut his eyes tight to stop the tears. They came anyway, silent and hot, slipping past his lashes into the linen beneath his head.
“Who went to the families?”
“Cynden and Ian,” Hendry answered gently. “Yer men would never let the dead go alone. Many rode with them. Even some wounded, those barely able to walk, insisted on paying respects.”
Hendry lifted a hand, stopping the question he saw coming. “All of yer men live. Atoll took a blow to the head, but the healer says he’ll recover. That he fell may’ve saved him, they must have mistaken him for dead.”
Liam opened his eyes again, finding Hendry’s steady gaze.
“Will I walk?”
“The healer believes ye will. He does nae ken if ye’ll ride again. At least, nae for a time.” Hendry’s voice cracked then, almost imperceptibly. “But ye’re still here, Liam. And that is no small miracle.”
Liam stared at the ceiling, the names of his fallen men echoing in his mind. Guilt, grief, and gratitude warred in his chest. He was alive, and they were not.
Long after his friend departed, Liam considered all that had occurred. He’d asked Hendry to tell his men not to come see him. He needed time.
“I brought broth with bits of meat,” came the gentle voice. The woman’s words tugged Liam from the haze of pain, and he shifted just a bit then stopped when a piercing ache crisscrossed his midsection.
He turned his head, sluggishly, and forgot how to breathe.
There she was.
A lass he’d seen only from a distance in the village, now sitting at his bedside.
Her flame-red hair was pinned at her nape, though rebellious curls had escaped, curling around her exquisite face.
Blue eyes the color of a cloudless sky met his, and her lips, soft and pink, curved into a smile that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his wounds.
He’d never spoken to her before, but she’d captured his attention long ago.
That hair had turned his head, her curves had held his attention.
More than once, he’d found himself searching the crowd at the village square for a glimpse of her.
Then he’d seen her once, accompanied by a Ross warrior whose hand gripped her elbow possessively.
Liam had turned away. Best not to chase what might already be claimed.
“It is best that ye eat,” she said, leaning in, her brow creased with worry. “Ye’ve nae had a bite in days. The healer asked that I do my best to feed ye all the broth and some bread.” She motioned to a small table next to the bed.
Sure his stomach must be caved in by the hollow feel of it, he didn’t feel hungry at all. He’d always been a hearty eater, enjoying food as much as he enjoyed admiring women. He scanned her face, glad for the distraction from the pain racking his body.
“Aye, I will eat,” he croaked, reaching shakily toward the table.
The lass gave him a smile that reminded him of a mother telling her child they were being naughty. “Nae yet. Let me help ye sit up a bit first.”
His body tensed, dread replacing the idea of eating. Moving would hurt. Each time he’d been jostled in order for his bandaging to be changed and his wounds inspected, Liam had ended up drenched in sweat, panting and in so much pain he’d cried out.
He closed his eyes and gave a hesitant nod.
Seeming to understand his reluctance, she gave him a gentle smile. “I will do my best to nae hurt ye.”
Her hands were warm, steady, and slow as she slid an arm behind his back and lifted him with surprising strength. “Dinnae help me,” she murmured. “I’ll stop when ye’ve had enough.”
The floral scent of her hair reminded him of the outdoors, and he inhaled deeply. Her proximity pulled him away from the painful throbbing across his hips.
Once she’d propped him against two rolled blankets, she did something unexpected… She climbed onto the bed, sitting carefully beside him, her hip pressing lightly to his uninjured thigh.
Her cheeks turned a charming shade of pink. “It’s easier to feed ye from this angle.”
He wanted to protest, to reclaim his pride, but his limbs trembled from the effort of sitting. Still, he managed a faint smile. “I’m no invalid, lass. I can feed myself.”
She gave him a dry look and dipped the spoon into the broth. “Aye, I can see that, ye’re shaking like a leaf. I cannae imagine how much pain ye are in.” Her expression wasn’t one of pity, instead the pinched brow radiated annoyance.
With all the grace of a battlefield surrender, he opened his mouth allowing her to spoon the soup into his mouth.
The broth touched his tongue, warm and savory.
He closed his eyes as he swallowed, not just from the pleasure of the food, but from an unidentifiable sensation at how close she was at the moment.
Albeit a moment when he wasn’t his best, not exactly the picture of masculinity.
Yet, Liam had to admit, he enjoyed admiring the beauty.
“What is yer name?” he asked after another sip.
“I’m called Beitris,” she said, offering him more soup. “I live in Tokavaig.”
Of course he was aware already that she lived somewhere near the village, but her name, he’d not known it. It suited her perfectly.
He studied her as she fed him. Watching the way loose strands of hair framed her delicate features. The way weariness sat at the corners of her mouth and between her brows.
“It’s kind of ye, helping the healers,” he murmured.
“I came to check on one of the warriors,” she said, dipping a piece of bread into the broth. “But once I saw how much work there was to be done, I stayed to help. It felt wrong to do naught.”
Of course. A warrior. Probably the same man from the village.
“What’s his name?” Liam asked, doing his best to sound casual.
“Keir,” she replied, her face brightening. “Ye must ken him. He has served the laird for years.”
Keir. Red-haired, muscular build. Liam remembered him now, not one of his own, but known to him. A good enough man.
“Is he still abed?”
“Aye,” she said. “Recovering from sword wounds. But healing well.”
“He is lucky, then. To have ye looking after him.”
Beitris grinned, mischief softening her fatigue. “My brother finds my hovering a curse. Which means, of course, I do it all the more.”
He blinked. “Brother?”
She nodded. “Aye. I am younger by a year, but he swears I was born to make his life miserable.”
Relief rolled through Liam like a wave lapping the shore’s edge. His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “I’ve a sister myself. Thank the saints she lives far off, or I’d never ken peace.”
Too soon, Beitris handed him a cloth to wipe his mouth and gently helped him recline again. He gritted his teeth against the pain but couldn’t keep the low groan from escaping.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said softly, brushing an unruly curl behind her ear before slipping from the room.
Once she’d gone, Liam called for help to relieve himself, a humbling task.
Then he had help shifting positions to avoid sores.
Every movement sent fire through his body, and by the time he was settled, he lay panting, damp with sweat.
Thankfully, cook brought a hot cider with herbs helped to ease the pain somewhat.
He stared at the rafters above, heart pounding for reasons beyond injury. There was a time not long ago when he would’ve pursued a lass like Beitris without hesitation. A flirtation. A kiss. Perhaps more.
But now?
He flexed his toes, left foot, then right foot. It hurt, but they moved. That small victory burned with hope and dread. Would he walk unassisted again? Ride? Draw a bow?
Would he ever be a warrior again… or had the battlefield claimed more than just his strength?
Liam closed his eyes and pushed the questions aside, choosing instead to focus on the ache in his muscles as he willed them to move.
For now, pain was better than despair. Pain meant he still lived. And tomorrow, she’d return.