Chapter Eleven
Camden stood in the apothecary doorway long after Anne had gone, the door still swaying faintly on its hinges as if it, too, hesitated to let her leave. His apology hadn’t been strong enough; he’d been too distracted by Anne’s proximity.
Her warmth lingered in the air. Or perhaps that was only his imagination, clinging to the memory of her standing before him. Eyes bright and uncertain, hands pressed to his chest as if she had to remind herself where she ended and he began.
He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a long shaky breath. His heart continued beating strongly and his breathing barely slowed. He’d not expected such a strong reaction.
What were Anne’s thoughts as she walked home, or wherever she headed?
In the years he’d spent tending to the aches and wounds of others, Camden had learned to read what people didnae say aloud. A wince meant pain. A clenched jaw meant fear. But Anne, was a mystery he could not solve with herbs or steady hands.
She had kissed him back.
That much was undeniable.
Yet she had fled as though he’d frightened her, as though the kiss had awakened something she wished desperately to put back to sleep.
She’d not believed him fully, that nothing existed between him and Moyra.
He didn’t blame her; trust was not something Anne would give easily, that much he knew about her.
Camden crossed the room and braced his palms on the worktable. Dried bundles of lavender and yarrow swayed above him, their faint scent surrounding him.
Moyra’s face intruded on his thoughts, sharp and insistent.
He’d been a fool not to stop her sooner.
The way she lingered around him and the apothecary.
The way she weaved her hand through his arm in the village square.
The insinuations she took just a touch too far.
And he had done nothing, thinking silence would spare her feelings, not realizing it gave Moyra the impression he was interested.
In the end his actions hurt both Moyra and now Anne.
Not to mention he had hurt his chances of convincing Anne there was nothing between Moyra and himself.
“Then again what do I ken,” he muttered out loud.
Eara.
The name settled in his chest like an old ache.
He had loved Eara deeply. He’d been hopeful and looked forward to the life he’d thought within reach.
It was all before he had learned how easily another’s affection could be mistaken for something deeper.
Before he had learned how loss could hollow out a man.
But with Anne it felt different. With Anne, it was not memory that stirred him, but possibility.
He closed his eyes and saw her as she had been in the doorway, hair hastily braided, chin lifted in quiet defiance. There had been a softness in her, yes, but also a strength he admired more than he cared to admit.
She had pressed her hands to his chest, not in rejection, but in restraint. Of herself, as much as of him. There was fear in her eyes that he would bring heartbreak and pain.
That realization twisted something inside him. He was just as afraid. Not only of being rejected again, but that he had the audacity to hope for the elusive faithful deep love of another.
He moved to the door and looked out toward the path Anne had taken, though she was long gone.
Was he headed back into the same depths of darkness that heartbreak brought? How could he ever take that step forward, when it felt as if he was on the precipice of falling into a ravine with thorns at the bottom that would tear every bit of flesh from his bones?
A shiver went up his spine and Camden closed his eyes. Perhaps Anne was right to get away from him. As much as he wanted to face the fears, he wasn’t sure if either of them were strong enough.
It pained him to admit it, that as a man who faced sickness, pain, and death regularly, he was terrified of taking a step toward personal happiness.
What would become of him?
He stormed into the back part of the cottage and called out for Brae. The young man appeared, fully dressed, a satchel in hand.
“Glad to see ye are prepared to go. We will be spending the entire day foraging for herbs and be spending the night outdoors. Ensure to get whatever ye will require.” Camden informed a puzzled looking Brae, who was smart enough not to ask any questions.
Camden rushed to his own bedchamber. He had to get away. He needed time in the forest away from the village to think things through.
*
The forest settled into itself as dusk faded into night, the last threads of amber light slipping away behind the hills. Camden tightened the straps of the pack on his shoulder while Brae crouched nearby, carefully tying off a bundle of freshly cut comfrey.
“Mind ye dinnae bruise the leaves,” Camden said, not unkindly. “They lose their strength if ye treat them roughly.”
Brae snorted softly. “Aye, and ye’d think I was handling a newborn babe with how careful I’m being.”
Camden huffed a quiet laugh. “Newborn bairns are nae as easily bruised.”
The young man shot him a look. “That is a terrible comfort, Camden.”
They moved deeper into the trees, the forest breathing around them. Crickets sang from the undergrowth, and an owl called from somewhere high above. Its low, hollow note echoing through the branches. The air smelled of damp earth and pine sap. Sharp and clean in Camden’s lungs.
“This is where the foxglove grows,” Camden murmured, pushing aside a curtain of fern. “But only take what we need. The forest gives, but it remembers greed.”
Brae nodded, suddenly serious, and began to gather the tall, bell-shaped flowers with careful hands.
They worked in silence for a time, the kind that felt companionable rather than heavy. Camden’s thoughts, however, refused to stay on herbs and roots. They wandered, as they had all day, back to a pair of soft brown eyes and a mouth that had tasted like warmth and restraint all at once.
He shook himself. He had to stay alert; there were thorns and beasts about that one had to be prepared for.
A sound cut through the night.
It was low and broken, somewhere between a whine and a growl.
Brae froze. “Did ye hear that?”
“Aye,” Camden said, already turning toward it.
They followed the sound through a thicket of bramble and moss-slick stones, the moonlight filtering down in pale ribbons. The whimper came again, weaker now, and Camden’s chest tightened.
Near a fallen log, half-hidden in shadow, lay a dog.
It was a mangy thing, mottled brown and white, its ribs showing beneath a rough coat. One hind leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, matted with dark, drying blood. The dog lifted its head when they approached, teeth bared in a warning that lacked any real strength.
“Easy now,” Camden murmured, lowering himself slowly to one knee. “We’re nae here to harm ye.”
Brae swallowed. “’Tis bad, is it?”
“Aye, ’tis bad,” Camden agreed softly. He slid his pack from his shoulder and set it down with care. “But nae beyond mending.”
The dog growled weakly as Camden reached out, then let out a small, pitiful sound when pain overtook fear.
Camden paused, his hand hovering. “I ken, I ken. It hurts. But I can help, if ye’ll let me.”
He glanced back at Brae. “Torch. Low.”
Brae hurried to strike a small flame, shielding it with his hand. The light revealed the wound more clearly. A deep gash along the leg and what looked like a bone knocked out of place.
Camden exhaled slowly. “We’ll have to set it. Here. In the dark. On a patient that can bite.”
Brae’s eyes widened. “Troubling. Is there another way?” The young man perhaps considered leaving the poor creature to fend for itself, or worse. But by the look of pity he gave the dog, Brae worried more about the pain the dog would suffer than being bitten.
Camden shook his head. “Hold its head. Speak to it. Keep it calm.”
Brae crouched, voice trembling just a little. “Ye’re a brave fellow, aye? Strong as any hound I’ve seen. Ye’ll be right as rain soon, ye will.”
The dog flicked its ears at the sound of his voice.
Camden worked with steady hands, cleaning the wound with water and a splash of tincture that made the dog yelp. He murmured apologies with each pained sound, his brow furrowing in concentration.
As he aligned the leg, he felt that familiar pull in his chest, almost like the one he’d felt when Anne stood before him, torn between staying and running.
“Hold fast,” he whispered, though he wasn’t certain if he spoke to the dog or to himself.
With a careful, practiced motion, he set the bone. The dog cried out once, sharp and piercing, then sagged, panting.
Brae blinked rapidly. “Saints above.”
Camden wrapped the leg with clean cloth and crushed comfrey leaves, binding it into a makeshift splint. When he finished, he sat back on his heels, breathing hard.
The dog’s head drooped, but it didnae bare its teeth again. Instead, it inched closer, pressing its warm, shaking body against Camden’s knee.
“Well,” Brae said quietly. “Looks like ye’ve been chosen.”
A faint smile touched Camden’s mouth. He rested a hand on the dog’s side, feeling the steady thump of its heart beneath his palm.
“Sometimes,” he said, “all it takes is someone staying with someone when everyone else has gone.”
The words lingered in the cool night air, and Camden felt their weight settle inside him.
Anne’s face rose in his mind.
He looked down at the wounded dog and tightened his hand just a bit, gentle and sure.
“Aye,” Brae murmured. “I ken the feeling.”
They built a small fire near the fallen log, the flames crackling softly as the forest watched over them. They shared their meal of a snared rabbit with the dog then Brae wrapped his cloak around the exhausted animal. Soon both were fast asleep.
Camden leaned back against a tree, staring up at the stars breaking through the branches. The half-moon and campfire cast enough light that he could see clearly enough to keep watch.
A foreboding came swiftly. A sense so strong that he stood and looked around, half expecting trouble in the form of a hungry wolf or perhaps men who wished to rob them.
The only thing surrounding them was the rustling of wind through leaves, and a lone hoot of an owl somewhere above his head. But whatever the feeling was, Camden couldn’t settle. He circled their small camp, his eyes searching the surrounding trees. Something was there; he was certain of it.
A soft glow emanated from between the trees.
Camden took a few steps toward it but stopped when it dimmed.
Inching closer, he strained to look into the darkness but could only make out the form of a standing stone.
It had probably been the moonlight reflecting off of it, but cloud cover had dimmed it.
He glanced to the injured dog and Brae sleeping. If something was afoot, surely the dog would sense it and alert them. Then again, he’d slipped herbs into the dog’s water for pain, and it could be the reason the small beast slept too soundly to hear or sense anything.
Lowering, Camden sat again with his back against a tree.
The rough bark pressing through his tunic, his knife resting idle in his hand.
He kept watch, though there was little to watch for.
The forest had gone quiet in that deep, listening way it sometimes did, as if the world itself had paused to breathe.
He stared into the embers and let his thoughts wander where he had tried all day to keep them from going.
Anne.
He could still feel the ghost of her hands against his chest, the softness of her mouth beneath his. He lifted his fingers, rubbing them together as if the memory might still be there, warm and real instead of fading and cruel.
She had left.
Not walked. Not lingered.
Fled.
Camden let out a slow breath and tilted his head back against the tree, closing his eyes.
“Ye made a fool of yerself,” he murmured to the night.
He had mistaken kindness for something more.
He had mistaken her gentleness, her quiet way of looking at him, for feeling.
The kiss at the apothecary had likely startled her.
Probably embarrassed her. Perhaps even offended her.
That he would take such liberties after what had occurred between them at her cottage.
Followed by Moyra’s innuendos. None of which had been fully addressed yet.
The thought sat heavy in his chest.
He glanced toward the dog, its ears twitching in its sleep, one paw jerking as if it chased something in a dream. He had found the pup broken and bleeding, left to the cold and the dark, and he had stayed.
But Anne had not.
Camden pressed his lips together, feeling that old, familiar ache stir, the one he carried like a scar no one else could see.
It could be that was simply the way of things for him.
Some men were meant to build families, to fill their homes with laughter and small, running feet. Some were meant to be chosen. And some were meant to stand a little apart.
He had loved once or had felt something like it. He had believed in the promise of it, in the idea that there might be a woman who would look at him and see not just the healer, not just the man others came to when something was broken, but the man himself.
Eara had taught him how easily a man could be wrong.
“Anne didnae feel anything,” he whispered. “If she had, she would have stayed.”
The fire popped softly, sending a small spray of sparks into the air. Camden watched them rise and vanish, bright for a moment before disappearing into nothing.
Marriage, he decided, was a thing meant for men braver than he was. Men willing to risk their hearts again and again, even after they’d been proven fragile.
He looked down at his hands. Steady, capable, made for binding wounds and setting bones.
Hands meant to fix what was broken.
Not to hold on to what might leave.
A quiet sadness settled over him, gentle but unyielding, like a cloak he had worn for too many years to remember what it felt like to be without it.
He drew his knees up slightly and rested his forearms on them, keeping his eyes on the dark stretch of trees beyond the firelight.
“If it is nae meant for me,” he said softly, as if the forest itself might answer, “then I will make my peace with it.”
The dog shifted, letting out a small, contented sigh in its sleep. Camden watched the slow, steady rise of its chest and felt something twist inside him. Not envy, but a quiet, aching wish.
The embers dimmed further, and the night closed in around him. Still, Camden kept his watch. Because if nothing else, he would always stay.