Chapter Eighteen
Even after reaching Anne’s cottage, neither of them seemed eager to part.
The small dwelling sat warm and welcoming beneath the late afternoon sky, its thatched roof catching the golden light while hens clucked and scratched about the yard as if they owned the place.
The scent of damp earth and florals lingered in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness drifting from her doorway.
Camden lingered near the threshold, speaking of whatever came to mind simply to delay the moment of having to leave.
He commented on the weather, the condition of her garden, the stubborn weeds along her fence.
When he asked how many chickens she kept, both of them burst into laughter at once, the absurdity of his question dissolving the tension between them.
The sound of her laughter warmed him more than sunlight ever could.
He stepped closer, unable to resist. His lips brushed hers in a lingering kiss, soft but filled with unspoken promise.
When he pulled back, he pressed a gentler kiss to her temple, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.
His hand rested at the base of her nape, thumb tracing lightly as if memorizing the shape of her before he forced himself to let go.
“Would ye like to go with me when I speak to Gowan?” he asked quietly.
Anne hesitated, her gaze drifting past him to the rolling fields beyond, thoughtful. “Gowan and I share first meal together, come then. I believe ’tis best that way.”
Camden nodded, though leaving her felt like stepping away from warmth into the shadows. He turned and walked down the path, resisting the urge to glance back more than once.
Every wish seemed to be coming true. There was no doubt in his mind now. She was the woman he was meant to marry. His declaration of love had not been spoken lightly; it was true, a sensation that was now rooted deep in his soul. Stronger, truer feelings than he had ever known.
After spending the day with her, the world itself felt changed.
Lighter. Brighter. His boots seemed to float over the packed earth, barely touching the ground.
He had duties, and it was best to see to his responsibilities, but he’d be counting the minutes until he could see her again.
It seemed an eternity before morning would finally come.
The apothecary greeted him with its familiar herbal sharpness, bundles of drying plants hanging from the rafters, and the faint bitterness of ground roots in the air.
Brae stood at the table, surrounded by scattered leaves and stems, Camden’s ledger open before him.
The lad scribbled intently in his own smaller book.
The dog they’d rescued from the woods lay next to Brae’s feet, seeming to have chosen the younger man over him.
“Ye ken how to read and write?” Camden asked, surprise threaded through his voice.
“Ay,” Brae answered without looking up. “Mum taught all of us. She teaches most of the bairns from neighboring farms as well.”
Camden nodded, oddly impressed. The boy’s focus spared him questions about where he’d been, and he slipped through to the living quarters, fatigue suddenly settling over him like a cloak.
He found a cup of cool water to drink and sat, intending only to rest his eyes for a moment. Sleep claimed him swiftly.
He woke with a jolt to Brae shaking his shoulder. “Someone’s here asking for yer help.”
Camden blinked, pushing sleep away. A small boy stood in the doorway, face smudged with dirt, eyes wide and strained in exaggerated misery.
Jumping up, Camden approached him at once. “Where are ye injured?”
“Nae myself.” The boy’s voice trembled. “I must speak to ye alone.” He cast Brae a suspicious glance and pointed toward the door.
Though puzzled, Camden followed him outside. Evening shadows had begun stretching long across the yard, the air cooling with the coming dusk. “What is it?”
The boy looked about nervously, as though danger lurked behind every corner, then lifted pleading eyes. “Me sista… she’s in trouble. Needs ye to see about her. She does nae wish for anyone to ken.”
Camden’s chest tightened with understanding. This was not unfamiliar. A frightened girl. A secret birth. Fear and shame forcing them to hide. “I will fetch my box. Wait here,” he told the boy.
Weariness tugged at him, and for a fleeting moment he wished Beitris were present to go in his place.
Yet he knew better. In such matters, time could not be spared.
One delay, one hesitation, could cost dearly.
Duty steadied him as he turned back inside, already preparing himself for whatever waited in the night beyond his door.
The boy moved fast, faster than Camden would have expected for someone so chubby, weaving through the narrow lanes without once looking back to see if he followed.
Camden lengthened his stride, his medicinal box bumping at his side as they passed the last open shops, the tavern’s warm glow spilling laughter and music into the evening air.
It all faded behind them too quickly. Soon there were no voices. No lamplight. Only the dimming sky and the darkening line of trees ahead.
By the time they reached the edge of the forest, Camden’s patience had thinned. The air here felt cooler, damp with the scent of moss and decay. Branches creaked softly above, though there was little wind to move them.
“Why did ye nae tell me to fetch a horse?” he asked, irritation edging his voice.
The boy turned, smiling too broadly. “’Tis just a bit further.” The grin lingered a moment too long.
Camden’s steps slowed. The earlier desperation in the lad’s face was gone entirely.
In its place sat something sharp and almost what he’d describe as expectant.
He continued anyway, senses sharpening. He noted footprints pressed into the soil.
Too fresh. Not the scattered wandering of hunters or gatherers, but repeated paths back and forth.
He caught another scent beneath the loam and leaves, a floral scent.
And still no sound of distress from the supposed sister. No crying. No movement. Nothing but the hush of waiting trees.
Camden halted and beckoned. “Come here, lad.”
The boy didnae move closer. He stood a distance away, watching Camden as one might observe a dog deciding whether it would bite.
“What is yer name?” Camden asked quietly, studying him now rather than humoring him.
“Everyone calls me Freckles,” the boy called out and pointed off to the side.
Camden followed the gesture.
Nestled among twisted trunks stood a shack barely worthy of the name. It leaned sideways, boards warped and split, roof sagging like a tired back. No smoke rose from its chimney. No light glowed through its cracks. The place felt abandoned, yet the earth nearby was disturbed by visible footprints.
A warning stirred low in Camden’s gut.
“Me sista is in there.”
Before Camden could answer, Freckles bolted toward the door and flung it open.
“He’s here!” The words echoed with an unsettling brightness.
Camden approached more slowly now. Each step felt louder than it should, leaves crunching beneath his boots. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Even the insects had gone silent.
A faint movement flickered in the corner of his eye, a shadow shifting behind a tree. When he turned to look, there was nothing. He was letting his imagination go wild.
Still vigilant, he tightened his grip on his satchel strap, pulse beginning to pound.
“I am Camden Lewis, the village healer,” he called, voice calm though tension coiled beneath it. He reached the doorway, senses straining.
The air carried the metallic tang of something unfamiliar. Oil? Rust? He had just begun to turn, instinct screaming too late when something heavy slammed into the back of his skull.
Light burst across his vision. The world lurched violently sideways. He staggered, trying to right himself, but his limbs no longer answered properly. Sound stretched into distant echoes, warped and hollow.
He realized then this was not a lass in need of his help. No, this was a trap. The ground struck him cold and hard. Darkness surged inward, swallowing thought, swallowing sight. And the last thing he heard before everything vanished…was the boy laughing.
Consciousness returned in fragments. First came the pain.
It throbbed through Camden’s skull in heavy pulses, each beat of his heart sending a sharp echo behind his eyes. He groaned faintly, the sound rough and unfamiliar to his own ears, and tried to shift. The effort sent the world tilting. Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision again.
He stilled taking in slow, deep breaths.
Gradually, he felt well enough to take inventory of his surroundings.
Beneath him was not cold earth but something softer.
Rough linens. The faint scratch of wool against his skin.
Several smells lingered in the air: Herbs he did not recognize, mingled with something sweeter and cloying. Oil lamp smoke. Perfume.
His eyes opened at last and the room swam into focus slowly.
Dim light flickered across wooden walls and a low ceiling.
He was inside the shack, and it was morning by the light that managed to make it past the tangles of branches of the surrounding trees.
Shadows stretched across the cot he lay in.
He tried to move his arms and found they obeyed only sluggishly, heavy as though weighed down by stone.
Then awareness struck him colder than the forest air ever could.
He had no clothes on. His chest tightened, instinctive alarm cutting through the haze. He attempted to push himself upright, but the motion sent a violent wave of dizziness through him, and he sank back with a strained breath. His head pounded mercilessly.
A quiet sound reached him. Fabric shifting. Camden forced his gaze to the side.
There, seated in a chair beside the bed, watching him with unwavering patience was Moyra.
She sat comfortably, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on him as though she had been waiting for this exact moment.
The dim sunlight danced across her features, leaving half her face in shadow and half illuminated, making her expression difficult to read, calm, composed and something else. Something beneath it.
They were alone.
Camden swallowed, his throat so dry that his voice was hoarse when he finally managed to speak.
“Moyra.”
Even that single word cost him effort. His body refused to cooperate, strength draining away before he could gather it. He tried again to shift and failed, frustration and unease twisting inside him. His mind struggled to assemble the pieces. The forest, the boy, the blow. What did it all mean?
His pulse began to quicken.
“What… What happened?” he rasped, forcing the question past aching lips.
Moyra didnae answer immediately. She simply continued watching him, her gaze intent, as though studying something fragile and newly captured.
And as the silence stretched between them, Camden felt something he had not allowed himself to feel in many years. Helplessness. Not from injury alone. But from the creeping certainty that whatever happened, he would not leave that place unscathed.
Camden forced air into his lungs, steadying himself despite the pounding in his skull. “What… is this?” His voice was rough, each word dragged through pain. “Why am I…here?”
She tilted her head, considering him like a puzzle she had already solved. “Ye are here to serve a purpose. It is warmer than the forest floor, would ye nae agree? Freckles and I had quite the time getting ye naked and on that bed.”
His jaw tightened. He tried again to move, to gather strength into his limbs, but they answered sluggishly. Whatever had struck him had not been the only thing done. Moyra had given him herbs. He looked to his medical box, and it had been strewn open.
He met her gaze fully. “Tell me why I am here,” he demanded.
There was something dark that flickered across her expression. “I hear things, Camden,” she said quietly. “The village is small. Tongues are loose. Especially when lovers forget themselves near cottages and paths where eyes might wander.”
His stomach clenched, and Camden thought he would become sick. Whether it was from dread or the herb mixture she’d given him, he wasn’t sure.
Moyra rose from her chair and crossed the short space between them, her steps unhurried. “Ye declared yer love for her.” The words were soft, almost conversational. “Anne.”
The name hung in the air.
Camden’s pulse surged despite his weakness. He said nothing, but the tension in his body betrayed him. Moyra hadn’t heard about it; it was obvious the woman had been following him. That someone had witnessed his moments with Anne sickened him.
Moyra’s smile didnae reach her eyes.
“I gave ye my attention. My patience. My time. Everyone in the village expects we are courting.” Her voice cooled, each word precise. “And ye cast me aside for a woman who barely dares meet a man’s gaze.”
He swallowed, forcing strength into his voice. “If ye brought me here for wounded pride—”
“Pride,” she interrupted sharply. Then, just as quickly, her composure returned. “Ye have made a fool of me, and I will nae have it.”
When Camden remained silent, she continued, “I dinnae want ye… not anymore.” She circled back to her chair, sitting once more as though settling in for a performance.
“What I do want and will have is revenge, Camden. Not with blades or shouting like some tavern whore. Something quieter. Something that lingers.”
His heart began to pound harder now. Not for himself.
“What have ye done?” he demanded, though the effort of holding his head up made his vision blur.
Moyra studied him for a long moment, savoring the question. “Anne will have a terrible day,” she said lightly. “Freckles is such a useful child when properly motivated.”
Cold spread through Camden’s chest.
“She has a kind heart, does she nae? Anne.” Moyra’s tone softened mockingly. “The sort who goes to see about old people. One who does nae hesitate to help.”
His fingers dug weakly into the bedding, dread tightening around his ribs. “Moyra…” His voice dropped, raw with warning. “Dinnae involve her.”
She lowered into the chair and leaned back, watching him with quiet satisfaction. “I wonder what she will do when she is sent on this fool’s errand.” She studied him, her gaze lingering on his bare chest. “It is a pity that I never had ye properly. Perhaps in time…,” she paused for effect.
“Or perhaps,” she added gently, “ye will think of something to say to me… and I just might change my mind when it comes to Anne.”
The room seemed to shrink around him. Pain pounded in his skull. His body refused to obey. And for the first time since waking, fear fully took hold, sharp and suffocating.
“What do ye want from me?”
“For ye to hurt.”