Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Morning had not yet settled into itself when they rode out.
Mist still clung low to the ground, silvering the grass and softening the dark lines of the woodland ahead.
The air smelled of damp earth and pine resin, sharp and clean in a way the castle never was.
Birds stirred overhead, with their calls threading through the quiet like a promise the day had not yet decided to break.
Domhnall rode beside her. He was, as always, silent and watchful.
Guards moved ahead and behind them in loose formation, scattered enough not to draw the eye, yet close enough that Margaret felt their presence even when she did not see them.
Steel whispered softly now and then, leather creaked, a horse snorted and was hushed.
She did not mind the escort. This was different from confinement. This was purpose.
“This way,” she said, already moving.
Domhnall followed without question. The woodland opened gradually, with paths narrowing and widening again as though the land itself were deciding how much to reveal.
Margaret’s attention sharpened. She noted the slope of the ground, the way water gathered and ran and the places where shade lingered longest. When they reached a narrow rise between two stands of oak, she slowed.
There, she thought.
The pass curved away to the left, subtle enough that one might miss it without knowing what to look for. This was the path that Annabel had mentioned, explaining exactly where she would find it. In a few days’ time, if all went as planned, she would walk it again.
She said nothing. She only marked it carefully in her mind and moved on.
“This is good ground,” she said aloud instead. “See how the soil stays damp but nae waterlogged? That’s where ye’ll find woundwort and comfrey.”
She knelt without ceremony, allowing her fingers to brush aside leaves with practiced care. Her hands moved with confidence, distinguishing what could heal from what could harm. She murmured names under her breath, more habit than need.
Domhnall crouched nearby, watching with a focus that made her acutely aware of him again.
“Foxglove grows farther in,” she said without looking up. “Near running water. But we must be careful with it.”
“Aye,” he confirmed. “Too much will stop the heart.”
She glanced up, feeling surprised. “Ye ken that?”
“I have buried enough men,” he replied evenly. “One learns what kills as well as what saves.”
Something in his tone quieted her for a moment. Then she smiled faintly and returned to her task.
“Help me,” she said, gesturing him closer. “Hold these.”
She placed a small bundle of flowers into his hands. They were delicate, pale, and utterly at odds with his size. The contrast nearly made her laugh.
He looked down at them, then back at her. “Like this?”
“Aye,” she replied, warmed by the sight. “Gently. They bruise easily.”
He adjusted at once, and she watched as his large fingers closed with surprising care. “They look… fragile.”
“They are,” she agreed. “And stubborn. Much like people.”
That earned her a look. She moved deeper into the shade, pointing out leaves, roots, stems. He listened.
He also asked questions, and sometimes, he even offered an observation that showed he understood more than she expected.
Other times he looked faintly baffled, holding blossoms like they might leap from his grasp.
“Ye look as though ye’ve been handed a newborn,” she teased.
“I would trust a blade more,” he replied dryly.
They worked easily after that, with her leading and him following, with the guards a distant presence moving like shadows between trees. Sunlight climbed higher, burning away the mist and warming her skin as she filled the satchel at her side.
By the time she straightened again, most of what they needed had been gathered. Comfrey and yarrow lay neatly bundled, foxglove was wrapped with care, and leaves and roots sorted with quiet precision.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Domhnall shifting away, as if his attention was caught by something. She did not look up at once. She simply assumed he had gone to check the perimeter or speak with one of the guards.
A moment passed, then another. She was easing a root free when his shadow fell across the ground beside her. That was when she looked up. Domhnall stood there, with something held carefully between his fingers.
It was a single bluebell flower, pale and freshly picked. Its violet-blue head bowed slightly, resting on the curved stem. Its petals were unblemished and luminous in the sunlight. It was not one she had named or asked for.
She blinked, then smiled despite herself. “Ye ken, I believe I have enough of those.”
“This one,” he said, holding it out to her, “is nae fer healing.”
Her brows lifted.
“It’s given,” he went on, “simply because it’s beautiful.”
The words caught her entirely unprepared. Heat rushed to her cheeks. For a heartbeat she only stared at him, at the careful way he held the flower, as though aware how easily it could be crushed. Then she reached out and took it.
Their fingers brushed, just barely, but it was enough to set her pulse racing.
“Thank ye,” she said, more softly now.
He inclined his head in a small, restrained gesture that somehow felt intimate all the same. Margaret tucked the flower into her satchel atop the herbs. Although it was not given for healing, somehow, it became the most precious thing she carried.
They kept moving after that, deeper into the trees. The work resumed with an ease that felt almost dangerous in its comfort. They did not speak much. They did not need to. Every so often, she caught him looking at her in quick, unguarded glances, and when she met his eyes, he did not look away.
Sometimes he smiled. So did she.
She moved a few paces off the path and bent once more, parting the greenery to examine a low-growing plant nestled close to a fallen log.
She was so focused she nearly missed it.
There was a sudden, sharp rustle.
A hiss.
It made Margaret freeze. The snake was coiled scarcely a foot from her hand, dark and thick-bodied. It had its head lifted, while its tongue was flicking as it prepared to strike.
She did not have time to scream, and Domhnall was already moving.
He seized her around the waist and hauled her back with brutal force, yanking her clear just as the snake lunged where her hand had been.
She stumbled against him, her breath knocked from her chest, as he shoved her behind him without hesitation.
In doing so, he drove straight through a stand of stinging nettles, their serrated leaves whipping against his bare forearms and neck.
The snake recoiled and slid away into the undergrowth, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Margaret scarcely noticed it go. Her attention was fixed entirely on Domhnall.
His body was still poised for both defense and violence, but his skin… his skin was already reddening where the nettles had struck. Angry welts bloomed along his arms, crawling up his throat. The furious irritation was spreading visibly by the second.
“Ye…” Her voice caught. “Ye’re hurt.”
He looked down at himself, dismissive even as the rash flared. “It’ll pass.”
“Ye went straight through nettles,” she said, utterly incredulous at what she had just witnessed. “Ye didnae even look.”
“I was looking at ye.”
The words landed hard. Her heart hammered as she reached for him without thinking. Her fingers fluttered just above the inflamed skin before she stopped herself. “That rash will burn fiercely. We should nae ignore it.”
“Are ye harmed?” he asked instead.
She shook her head. “Nay. Thanks tae ye.”
Silence took hold of them both, but she knew better than to linger.
“Sit,” she said firmly, echoing his earlier command with no trace of apology. “Ye have just ruined several perfectly good layers of skin for me. The least ye can dae is allow me tae tend tae ye.”
And this time, she did not wait for his permission. Nor did she give herself time to think. Thinking would have led to fear, and fear had no place there.
She knelt at once, setting her satchel on the ground and opening it with practiced speed. Her hands were steady now, as she allowed her mind to narrow to the task and remedy the way it always did when someone was hurt. Around them, the forest seemed to hold its breath.
“This is nae jest,” she said, assessing the rash as it spread across his forearm and along his neck. “Ye forced yer way straight through the nettles. That was foolish.”
She bit her tongue the moment she said it, because she knew well why he had done it.
“I’ve been called worse,” he replied playfully.
“Be quiet,” she said without looking up.
To her mild shock, he was.
She drew out a small cloth and dampened it from her flask, gently cleansing the inflamed skin. He sucked in a breath despite himself as the cool water touched the rash.
“Tell me if it burns too sharply,” she said.
“It burns too sharply,” he echoed.
She glanced up at him once, utterly unimpressed. “That is nae what I asked.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
She crushed fresh leaves between her fingers, combining plantain and yarrow, working them into a paste with efficient, practiced motions.
The scent rose clean and green, sharp beneath the loam and resin of the forest. When the poultice was ready, she applied it carefully, as her fingertips brushed his skin with deliberate gentleness.
She was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was, kneeling between his knees. She had her hands on him and his attention was fixed entirely on her. She felt it in the way his breathing shifted and in the stillness he held as though afraid to disrupt her.
She focused harder.
“This will draw out the irritation,” she murmured. “And cool the skin. Ye’ll want tae keep it bound fer a few hours.”
“Ye speak as though ye’ve done this often,” he pointed out.
“I have,” she replied. “Usually tae people far less inclined tae sit still.”
She tore a strip of linen and wrapped it neatly around his arm, securing the poultice in place. Her fingers brushed the inside of his wrist as she tied it off, and the contact sent an unwelcome awareness skittering up her spine.
She ignored it.
When she moved to tend the rash along his neck, she hesitated before reaching up.
Her fingers skimmed the edge of his collar, pushing it aside to reach the reddened skin beneath.
He went utterly still. Her hand rested just below his jaw, and her thumb was close enough to feel his pulse. It was steady.
“Daes this hurt?” she asked softly.
“Nay,” he answered, but the word carried a restraint that had nothing to do with pain. They were both too aware of how close they stood, of how narrow the space between breath and touch had become.
Margaret’s attention lingered despite herself.
His skin was warm beneath her fingers, marked here and there by faint scars.
They were old ones, pale and smooth, crossing muscle that was taut with control rather than tension.
She traced one almost without realizing she had done it.
It was simply curiosity overtaking caution.
This was a man shaped by survival, by choices written into flesh.
He drew in a slow breath but did not move away.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him then, feeling startled not by the actual permission, but by how simply it was given.
Her fingers continued to explore his skin gently, mapping the lines of him with care rather than intent. She was acutely aware of how improper this was, and yet the world seemed to have narrowed to the rise and fall of his breath and the steady calm of his pulse beneath her thumb.
“Have ye ever touched a man?” he asked in a voice that was down to a whisper.
The question was not sharp. There was no teasing in it. It was asked as one might ask whether she had ever walked a certain road.
Her breath caught. “Nay.”
The admission surprised her with its honesty.
His eyes searched hers for what felt like a small eternity. She could see her own reflection in their depths, and it made her wonder who she was to him.
“Then ken this,” he said. “I am nae unwilling.”
Her fingers stilled.
“If ye wish tae ken,” he continued, “I am yers tae explore.”
The words settled between them, heavy with meaning and care. She didn’t hear him make a claim or a command this time. No… this was an offering.
Margaret felt heat rush to her cheeks, to her chest, to places she had no words for. She withdrew her hand slowly, as though the act itself required intention.
“I should finish tending tae ye,” she replied, but every word was torn from her lips.
A corner of his mouth curved. “Aye.”
She finished quickly after that, binding the last of the poultice and drawing her hands back as though the air between them had grown hot enough to burn.
“There,” she said, rising to her feet. “That should prevent blistering.”
He looked up at her, and it was the sort of look he gave her when he didn’t want her to know what he was thinking. It drove her mad.
“Ye are very capable,” she heard him say.
She swallowed. “Someone has tae be.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The role reversal hung between them. Now, he was the one seated and wounded, while she was standing over him, composed and in command. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
At last, she stepped back and closed her satchel. “We should return,” she urged. “Before either of us proves any further how reckless we can be.”
He did not argue. As they resumed walking, the guards falling back into position around them, Margaret was acutely aware of something. Some things, once touched, could never be unknown again.