Chapter One
Loud knocks on the door startled Camden Lewis from his sleep.
Sitting up, his blanket fell to his waist; the coolness of the room sharp against his bare skin.
Persistent bangs on the door of the adjoining room meant someone was either extremely angry with him or his abilities as the village healer were required urgently.
“I am coming!” he yelled out, doubting they could hear him past the thick walls of the cottage.
He yanked on breeches, not bothering with a tunic and hurried in the direction of the loud bangs. After lifting the latch, Camden pulled the door open and immediately frowned at the grim sight awaiting him.
Two men stood on the threshold, straining beneath the weight of a third slumped between them.
The injured man barely seemed whole. His body sagged, his head lolling forward, dark hair clotted with blood.
His clothing hung in tatters, soaked through and stiff, as if he had been trampled by horses.
Even after years tending to wounded men crushed in battle, torn open by blade and arrow, Camden still felt a cold tightening in his chest at the sheer brutality of the man’s injuries.
“Bring him in,” Camden said at once, stepping aside.
They shuffled forward, boots scraping against the worn wooden floor, their burden groaning faintly with the movement.
“Lay him there. On the table.”
Camden moved quickly, pulling a box of clean rags from the shelf with practiced efficiency. He turned to one of the men and pointed toward the buckets near the door. “Go to the well. Fetch water. As much as ye can carry. Hurry.”
The man didnae hesitate. He rushed out, leaving the door ajar. A gust of cool air swept into the apothecary and against Camden’s bare skin, raising gooseflesh, but he paid it no mind. There would be time later to think of his own comfort. First, he needed to ken if this man could be saved.
“What happened?” Camden asked, already turning his attention to the injured stranger.
The remaining man hovered near the table, his face pale beneath a layer of dust and worry.
His eyes darted between Camden and the unconscious figure.
“We dinnae ken,” he admitted. “We found him lying just beyond the village. Alone…” he hesitated.
“It looked as though he had been making his way here. To ye.”
Camden said nothing, his focus narrowing. Carefully, he cut away what remained of the man’s ruined garments. The truth revealed beneath made his jaw tighten.
Bruises—dark and swelling—marred nearly every inch of flesh.
Some were already turning a sickly yellow, proof of older injuries.
His face was so badly beaten that both eyes were swollen shut, and his lips were split and crusted with dried blood.
One arm hung at an unnatural angle, unmistakably broken.
Whoever had done this had not merely sought to harm him, they had meant to destroy him.
The two men who had carried him shifted uneasily. Their task complete, they began to retreat toward the door, though neither could hide the concern in their expressions.
“Will he survive?” the older of the two asked quietly.
Camden paused, his hand resting lightly over the stranger’s chest, feeling for the fragile rhythm of breath beneath his palm. It was weak, but present. Stubborn.
He let out a slow breath. “I will do all that I can.”
The men nodded, seeming to draw comfort from his resolve. They slipped outside and closed the door behind them, leaving Camden alone with the broken stranger.
After setting a pot of water over the hearth, Camden returned to the table and began his work.
Steam had yet to rise, but he could not afford to wait.
He dipped a clean rag into a basin and gently wiped away the blood that masked the man’s injuries, revealing the truth beneath in slow, dreadful detail.
The bruising told its own merciless tale.
This had not been the work of a single blow or even a brief struggle.
The flesh bore layered shades of violence: deep purples and angry reds blooming across his ribs, shoulders, and chest. Whoever had attacked him had not stopped when he fell.
They had continued long after he was helpless.
There were distinct impressions along his side and abdomen, the unmistakable marks of boots.
He had been kicked. Stomped. Left broken on the ground like something no longer worth finishing.
Camden’s jaw tightened as he worked, though his hands remained steady.
If the man lived, it would not be without cost.
His face, already swollen beyond recognition, would bear scars no healer’s skill could fully erase.
And his right arm… Camden carefully touched the limb, feeling the jagged misalignment beneath the skin.
The bones were shattered, not cleanly broken.
Even if it mended, it would never again be as it was.
The arm would remain twisted and weakened.
A permanent reminder of whatever cruelty had been visited upon him.
Camden exhaled slowly, forcing aside the grim certainty pressing at his thoughts.
First, the man must live.
Fate was merciful in that the man remained unconscious while Camden saw to the injuries.
Plasters were slathered on gashes and cuts, and he bandaged the broken arm.
He also wrapped the man’s chest to help with his breathing as Camden was sure his ribs were either broken or badly bruised.
Then he finished by washing the rest of his body in hopes of keeping the open cuts from becoming festered.
The man made a weak sound, like that of an injured animal, and Camden went to his side, speaking into his ear. “Ye are safe. In my home. I am called Camden. I am the healer in Tokavaig.”
Again the man moaned. Camden chose to believe it meant he’d understood. “Dinnae fret. Ye are safe.”
He’d mixed a strong tincture that would not only help with the pain but also bring sleep.
Lifting the man’s head with care, he brought the cup to his lips and allowed the liquid to trickle into the man’s mouth.
From the way he gulped at the liquid, Camden refilled the cup with water and fed it to the man.
“Rest. There is naught else to be done now but wait,” Camden explained, pulling a thick blanket over the man.
When his cousin, Beitris, entered later that afternoon, a basket looped over her arm, Camden sat beside the narrow table in the healing room, his attention fixed on the stranger.
The man had stirred only once since Camden had coaxed the bitter tincture between his lips, slipping quickly back into the heavy, merciful sleep of the gravely wounded.
Beitris didnae greet Camden. Instead, she went straight to the patient, her movements purposeful, her sharp green eyes already taking in what lay before her.
She leaned closer, studying the man’s battered face, her own pretty features tightening into a deep, troubled frown.
Carefully, she lifted the edge of the blanket, revealing the bruised torso beneath, then lowered it again with quiet care.
“Proper beating he took,” she murmured.
“Aye,” Camden replied, leaning back in his chair, his muscles stiff from hours of stillness and strain. “Two men brought him at first light. Found him lying in the dirt just outside the village. Had the mercy to carry him here.”
Beitris turned then, her keen gaze shifting from the stranger to Camden.
She assessed him in much the same way. Taking in the weariness beneath his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
Without a word, she held out the basket and nodded toward the doorway leading to his living quarters.
“I brought ye food. Eat. Then rest. I will watch over him.”
Gratitude stirred warm in his chest.
“I appreciate ye being here,” he said quietly.
“Take yer time,” she replied gently. “Liam will come for me before sundown.”
At the mention of her husband, Camden felt the familiar mixture of happiness and loss that came whenever he thought of how much had changed.
Beitris now lived just beyond the village with Liam, who served the laird training archers.
Since her marriage, she no longer spent each day at the apothecary as his apprentice.
There had been a time when she was always there, anticipating his needs, tending the injured, preparing herbs, keeping watch when he could not. He had come to depend on her steady presence more than he had ever admitted aloud.
Now she came only a few days each week. The apothecary felt quieter in her absence. Lonelier.
But in moments such as this, with death hovering too close and uncertainty thick in the air, her presence was a blessing he didnae take for granted.
It was much later in the day when the man finally woke. Through one swollen eye, he took in his surroundings. He groaned with every breath and Camden felt for him. “Do ye think to be able to drink some broth?”
The man shook his head and stared at the ceiling. “I…am…called…Brae,” he croaked, his voice a harsh croaky whisper.
“Who did this to ye?” Camden asked.
Brae was silent for a long moment, then just as Camden thought he wouldn’t answer, his cracked lips parted. “M-my brothers.”
Struck silent, Camden could only stare at the injured man. He must have done something very bad for his family to do this to him. He didn’t ask. If and when Brae wished to share, he would.
“I-I didnae mean for the child to die,” the man’s voice became choked with emotion. “B-but it was my fault.”
Camden gave him more of the tincture and water and waited for the man to fall back to sleep.
His muscles stiff and aching from hours of stillness, Camden opened the front door and stepped outside, drawing in a long, steady breath as if he could pull strength from the very air itself. The last light of day lingered on the horizon, warm and golden.