Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Where is he?"
Alba's voice came out sharp, cutting through the murmur of voices in the courtyard. She didn't care. The moment she'd heard the commotion, seen the guards rushing toward the gates, she’d felt her stomach drop with a certainty that something was wrong—
She'd run.
And now she stood in the doorway of the healer’s chamber, her heart hammering so hard she could barely breathe, watching James support Lachlann's weight as blood—so much blood—soaked through his shirt.
"Alba," Lachlann straightened immediately, or tried to. His face went white with the effort. "I'm fine, lass. Just a—"
"Dinnae." The word came out fierce. "Dinnae ye dare tell me ye're fine when ye're bleedin' all over the place."
She was across the space before anyone could stop her, her hands hovering over his side, afraid to touch but unable to stay away.
"It's nae as bad as it looks," Lachlann said, his voice strained but steady. "The arrow barely—"
“"That's fer me tae determine, nae ye." Morag, the healer said watching them both as she emerged from the storeroom, her arms full of clean linens.
"Arrow?" Alba's gaze snapped to his face. "Someone shot ye?"
"Aye."
"And ye're standin' here arguin' with me instead of lettin' the healer tend tae it?" Her voice rose. "What if ye had passed out."
"Wouldnae want that," Lachlann managed, though his breathing had gone shallow. "Told ye... I'd come back... safe."
"Ye call this safe?" But her throat was tight, her eyes burning. "Ye're a terrible liar, Lachlann MacNeil."
The healer took one look at Lachlann and immediately dropped the linens she’s been holding on a nearby table. "Get him on the bed. Carefully now."
James and Alba maneuvered Lachlann onto the narrow cot. He hissed in pain as his side made contact with the mattress, his hand automatically going to the wound.
"Let me see." Morag was already pulling his hand away, her weathered fingers surprisingly gentle as she examined the injury. "Arrow wound, aye?"
"Glancin' blow," Lachlann said through gritted teeth. "Didnae go deep."
Morag turned to Alba. "I'll need ye tae step outside, me lady."
"I'm stayin'."
"Me lady, it's nae proper."
"I. Am. Stayin'." Alba moved to Lachlann's other side, reaching for his hand. "He got hurt protectin' this castle. Protectin' me. The least I can dae is stay with him while ye tend the wound."
Morag looked to James, who just shrugged.
"She's as stubborn as he is," James said. "Ye'll have better luck convincin' the tide nae tae come in."
"Fine." Morag turned back to Lachlann, already reaching for shears to cut away his bloody shirt. "But dinnae faint on me, lass. I've enough tae deal with, without two patients."
"I willnae faint."
"Famous last words," Morag muttered, but she was already focused on exposing the wound.
Alba forced herself to look. Forced herself not to flinch at the angry red gash carved into Lachlann's side, the blood still seeping steadily from torn flesh.
"It's nae too deep," Morag said, echoing Lachlann's earlier assessment. "Ye were lucky, me laird. A few inches tae the right and it would have caught yer ribs."
"Told ye," Lachlann said, his fingers tightening around Alba's. "I'm fine."
"Ye will be," Morag corrected, reaching for a clean cloth. "Once I clean this properly and stitch it closed. Which is goin' tae hurt considerably, so I suggest ye bite down on somethin'."
She offered him a leather strap.
Lachlann waved it away. "I dinnae need—"
"Take it," Alba said quietly. "Please."
Something in her voice made him pause. Then he nodded, accepting the strap and placing it between his teeth.
Alba watched as Morag cleaned the wound with practiced efficiency, noting every flinch, every sharp intake of breath, every time Lachlann's fingers crushed hers with barely restrained pain.
"Almost done," Morag murmured, threading a needle. "Just the stitches now."
The first pierce of needle through skin made Lachlann go rigid. The leather strap muffled his groan, but Alba heard it anyway.
She leaned closer, her free hand coming up to brush sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. "Look at me," she whispered. "Nae at what she's daein'. Just look at me."
His eyes found hers, pain-dark but focused.
"That's it," Alba continued softly. "I had a feelin' somethin' was wrong all day, ye ken. Couldnae sit still. Couldnae focus. I broke one of yer mother's mugs."
Lachlann's eyebrows rose in question.
"Aye, I ken. Clumsy of me." She kept her voice light, conversational, anything to distract him from Morag's needle. "Cut me hand on the pieces. See?"
She held up her bandaged palm.
Lachlann's eyes narrowed. He reached up with his free hand, pulling the leather strap from his mouth. "Ye're hurt?"
"It's just a scratch."
Lachlann's expression darkened. "That needs cleanin' properly."
"It was cleaned. Cook took care of it."
"Did she stitch it?"
"It daesnae need stitches, Lachlann."
"Morag."
The healer studied the cut with a critical eye. "He's right. It could use a stitch or two, just to keep the edges clean. Otherwise ye risk infection."
"But—"
"Dinnae argue," Lachlann said, settling back against the pillows. "If I have to suffer yer fussin', ye have tae suffer mine."
"That's completely different. Ye were shot with an arrow."
"And ye were hurt while I wasnae there tae protect ye." His hand found hers again, holding tight. "So humor me, lass. Please."
Alba wanted to argue. Wanted to point out the absurdity of comparing a minor cut to an arrow wound.
But the look in his eyes stopped her.
"Fine," she said instead. "But I'm stayin' beside ye."
"Wouldnae have it any other way."
Morag finished Lachlann's stitches first, twelve neat sutures that pulled the wound closed. Then she turned to Alba, gesturing for her to sit on the stool beside the bed.
"Give me yer hand, me lady."
Alba extended her palm, keeping her other hand firmly wrapped around Lachlann's. She barely felt the needle pierce her skin, too focused on watching his face, on the way his jaw clenched despite the pain he had to be in.
"There," Morag said, tying off the final stitch. "Both of ye are patched up now. Me laird, ye'll need tae rest fer at least three days. Nay ridin', nay trainin'."
"Three days?" Lachlann tried to sit up. "I have a prisoner tae question, patrols tae—"
"Three. Days." Morag's voice brooked no argument. "Or those stitches will tear and ye'll be stuck in that bed fer three weeks instead. Yer choice."
Lachlann's jaw worked, but he nodded.
"Good." Morag turned to Alba. "Keep him still, me lady. And dinnae let him convince ye otherwise. He's worse than a child when it comes tae followin' orders."
"I heard that," Lachlann muttered.
"Ye were meant tae." Morag gathered her supplies, heading for the door. "I'll check on ye both tomorrow. Try nae tae dae anythin' foolish before then."
The door closed behind her, leaving them alone.
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and their slightly uneven breathing.
"Ye should rest," Alba said finally, though she made no move to release his hand.
"So should ye."
"I'm fine."
"Ye're exhausted. I can see it in yer eyes."
"That goes fer us both."
His mouth curved. "Aye, well. We make quite a pair, dinnae we?"
"A pair of stubborn fools," Alba agreed. But she was smiling now, the terror of earlier slowly fading into something softer.
They sat like that for a long while, hands clasped, neither willing to be the first to let go.
Outside, the castle settled into evening rhythms. Footsteps passed in the corridor. Voices drifted up from the courtyard.
Eventually, James returned to help Lachlann back to his own chamber—a process that involved considerably more cursing and stubborn pride than strictly necessary.
Alba walked beside them, steadying Lachlann when he swayed, ignoring his protests that he was perfectly capable of walking on his own.
By the time they got him settled in his bed, full darkness had fallen outside the windows.
"Thank ye," Lachlann said quietly as James left to check on the prisoner.
"Fer what?"
"Fer bein' here. Fer stayin'." His hand found hers again. "Fer carin' enough tae worry."
"Of course I worried." Alba's voice went soft. "I told ye tae be careful."
"I was careful."
"Clearly nae careful enough."
"Alba—"
"I ken." She squeezed his hand. "I ken it wasnae yer fault. But that daesnae make it any easier tae see ye hurt."
"I'm sorry, lass."
"Dinnae be." She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Just... heal. Please."
"Aye." His eyes were already drifting closed, exhaustion and pain finally catching up. "I will."
Alba stayed until his breathing evened out, until she was certain he was truly asleep. Then she carefully extracted her hand and slipped from the room.
Alba couldn't sleep.
She tried. God knew she tried. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lachlann bleeding in the courtyard, saw the arrow protruding from his side, felt the terror that had gripped her chest like a vice.
Finally, she gave up.
The castle was quiet as she slipped from her chamber, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders against the chill.
Her feet carried her through familiar corridors, up winding stairs, toward the walls where the night air would be cold and clear and might somehow settle the chaos in her mind.
She emerged onto the battlements, expecting solitude.
Instead, she found Lachlann.
He stood at the far edge, one hand braced against the stone, looking out over the dark expanse of ocean.
Moonlight painted him in shades of silver and shadow, catching in his hair, outlining the strong line of his shoulders.
"Ye should be restin'," Alba said softly, moving toward him.
He turned, unsurprised by her presence. "So should ye."
"I couldnae sleep."
"Neither could I."
She reached his side, noting the careful way he held himself, favoring his injured side. "Daes it hurt?"
"Aye." He didn't bother lying. "But I've had worse."
Alba wanted to argue, to scold him for being out of bed when Morag had explicitly ordered rest. But instead she moved closer to enjoy the view of the island.
Wind whipped across the battlements, cold and sharp. Alba shivered.
Immediately, Lachlann carefully shrugged off the cloak he'd draped over his shoulders and wrapped it around her instead.
"Ye'll freeze," she protested.
"I'm fine." He adjusted the fabric, pulling it snug around her shoulders before drawing her against his side. "Better now, actually."
They stood like that, pressed close for warmth, watching the waves crash against the rocks far below. The ocean stretched endless and dark, broken only by scattered moonlight dancing across the surface.
"We have the prisoner," Lachlann said after a while. "The archer. Tomorrow I'll have tae question him."
Alba nodded against his shoulder. "What will ye ask?"
"How many men Torquil has. What his plans are. Whether this was just a scoutin' party or somethin' more." His arm tightened around her. "Anythin' that might help us prepare."
"And if he willnae talk?"
"Then we'll find other ways tae get the information we need." His voice had gone hard. "I willnae let Torquil threaten what's mine."
What's mine.
The possessiveness in those words should probably have bothered her, should have made her bristle at being claimed like property.
Instead, it sent warmth flooding through her chest.
"I'm sorry," Alba said quietly. "Fer all of this. Fer the danger I've brought tae yer home."
"Dinnae." Lachlann turned her to face him, his hands gentle on her shoulders. "Dinnae apologize fer things that arenae yer fault. Ye didnae ask fer any of this."
"But—"
"But naethin'." He leaned down until their foreheads touched. "Ye're here because I chose tae keep ye here. Because I wanted ye safe.”
“Thank ye.”
The wind picked up, carrying the salt-scent of the ocean and the distant cry of seabirds. Alba shivered again, but not from cold this time.
"We should go back inside," she said, though she made no move to step away. "Ye need tae rest. Morag will have both our heads if she finds us out here."
"Probably." But Lachlann didn't move either. "Just... a few more minutes?"
"Aye." Alba pressed closer, letting his warmth seep into her. "A few more minutes."
They stood together on the battlements, wrapped in the shared cloak and comfortable silence, watching the dark ocean and the darker sky beyond.
Time seemed to slow, to stretch, until Alba couldn't tell if they'd been standing there for minutes or hours.
Finally, reluctantly, she pulled back.
"Come on," she said softly. "Before ye fall over from exhaustion and I have tae carry ye back tae yer chamber."
"I'd like tae see ye try."
"Dinnae tempt me." But she was smiling as she took his arm, carefully avoiding his injured side. "I'm stronger than I look."
"I ken ye are, lass." His hand covered hers where it rested on his arm. "Stronger than ye think, even."
They made their way back down from the walls, moving slowly through sleeping corridors. At Alba's chamber door, Lachlann paused.
"Thank ye," he said quietly.
Alba rose on her toes and kissed him, soft and brief but full of promise.
"Sleep well, Lachlann MacNeil."
His smile was crooked and warm. "Aye, lass. Ye too."
She slipped into her chamber, closing the door softly behind her.
And for the first time that night, when she climbed into bed, sleep came easily.