Chapter Thirty-Three
Cheers erupted from the Gunn clan. The Oliphant laird looked for a moment as if he was going to have his men attack, but instead he waved at them to stand down.
In the midst of the cheers from the Gunn clan, Morgan heard a cry of fright behind him. He spun around to face Emma and felt as though all the blood left his face. Maisie had her arm wrapped around Emma’s neck with a short sword resting against her throat.
“Ye killed him!” she screamed. Her face was blood red and her eyes bulged, giving her a look of derangement. Morgan took a step toward the woman, and she pushed the sword a bit into Emma’s throat. “Nay! Ye killed my mon, so I will kill yer lady.”
Fighting to stay calm, he held up his hand. “Be reasonable, Maisie. If ye do that, ye will hang.”
His heart was in his throat and all he could see was Emma staring at him, blood dripping down her neck, panic on her face.
“I dinna kill yer man, Maisie, the king ordered him hanged.”
Maisie scowled. “No’ him, ye fool. ’Twas our plan to take over the clan. Me and Patrick. We would have killed that old mon. Now ye killed my mon, and I must kill yer lady.”
Morgan ran his hand down his face. “Ye doona want to do this.”
“Aye, I do. Ye banned me from the clan and ye killed Patrick. I have no’hing left, so why no’ take yer precious lass from ye?”
Just then one of the Gunn warriors came up behind the two women and yanked Maisie back by her hair. Startled, she plunged the knife into Emma’s chest. Most likely in a panic, Emma grabbed the weapon and yanked it out before she fell to the floor.
It was the worst thing she could have done.
“Get the healer,” Morgan shouted as he slid his still-bloody sword into its scabbard and raced to Emma’s side.
“Margaret is the healer now, Laird, and I will fetch her, but I doona think she will be of much help,” said one of the young kitchen maids, who was part of the crowd watching the battle between Patrick and Morgan.
“Get her,” he growled.
A man from the Oliphant clan pushed his way to the front of the men standing behind his laird. “My name is Marcus and I am a healer, Laird. If ye would allow me to look at yer wife, I might be able to save her.”
His first thought was how could he trust a man who was about to fight against the Gunn clan?
While he held a linen someone had passed him against the wound, he looked up at the man and thought of himself lying on a table in an enemy keep and depending on their healer to help him after his horse fell on him.
’Twas as if he’d gone in a complete circle.
With his Emma.
Who could not die.
He wouldn’t allow it.
Morgan reached down and scooped Emma into his arms. “Hold that linen against her chest,” he bellowed at the maid standing next to him.
He turned back to the man who had offered to help Emma. “Aye. I appreciate the offer, but ye will be watched and anything that looks wrong will find ye with a missing head.” He gestured to one of his warriors. “Watch him.”
The Oliphant warrior nodded and began to instruct Morgan on how to carry Emma without making things worse. He also called for another of the maids to bring hot water and clean linens to the bedchamber.
Morgan studied his wife as they moved up the stairs to the bedchamber floor.
She was unconscious, for which he was grateful because she wasn’t experiencing pain, but he also kept watching her chest rise and fall, frantic that it might stop.
He could not lose her. He loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
Have many bairns, many arguments that ended in their bed.
As she was settled on their mattress, the maids entered the room with linens and water. The mon turned to them. “Where is yer healer?”
They looked at each other and shrugged. “She is no’ in the healing hut, sir.”
The man drew in a breath of frustration. “I need supplies. Where is yer healing room?”
Morgan scrutinized the man, then nodded. “My wife is a healer, and the room next to us is set up with her supplies.” He gestured toward the door separating the two rooms.
He glanced at Morgan and said, “Keep pressing hard on her wound.”
Morgan nodded and pressed the linen hard against her chest and brushed the hair from her forehead. He could see trickles of blood running down from the wound, his eyes never leaving her chest.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
*
“It’s been three bluidy days!”
Morgan glared at Marcus Oliphant, who regarded the laird with a sympathetic look. With his laird’s permission, the healer had agreed to not leave with his clan after meeting their healer, Margaret, and finding her unable to monitor Emma’s recovery to his liking.
“Yer healer needs a lot of training, my laird,” the young man had said. “I canno’ leave yer wife in her care.”
“Then ye will stay,” Morgan said. The man had nodded, offering no protest.
The Oliphant laird had laid down his sword after Patrick’s death. The men camped out in front of the castle left the next day after Morgan was convinced they meant no harm and had merely been relying on Patrick’s promises.
However, he had his men watch them and sent a group to follow them all the way to their land.
“That is no’ long for a fever, Laird,” Marcus had replied gently before leaving to attend to a young lad who most likely needed stitches in his arm, according to the maid who helped him into the healing hut.
Morgan ran that conversation through his mind as his fingers slid through his hair and he studied Emma. At least she had awakened before the fever had arrived, so he knew she hadn’t died from the stab wound.
Then the fever had set in and he was frantic again. Marcus was compassionate with him while they waited for Emma to wake up. He also spent time with Margaret, patiently teaching her various things about healing.
The two of them spent time in the garden, with him showing her the various plants and herbs she needed to be an effective healer.
It was what Emma should have been able to do, if Morgan had just paid attention and noticed how she’d been rejected by his clan because of Patrick and Maisie’s poisonous lies. Now it was too late.
Nay. She would recover and she would teach the girl the ways of a healer and this would be behind them. It had to be so…
“Morgan.” Her voice, scratchy, hoarse, low, rose from the bed.
He hopped from the chair he’d been sitting in for days watching Emma.
His heart racing, he leaned over the bed and looked into her eyes, the most beautiful, deep-hazel eyes he’d ever seen.
“Ye are awake, love.” He reached for the cloth in the bowl beside the bed and swiped at her sweating face, much as she had when he’d had his fever.
“Aye. Why is it so hot in here?” She swallowed.
Morgan looked over at the young maid who had just brought up a mug of ale for him. “Find the healer.”
She nodded, placed the mug on the table next to the bed, and left the room.
“I think I’m hot because my fever is gone,” Emma said.
He ran his finger down her no-longer hot cheek. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, lass.”
“Aye. When yer body is starting a fever, ye feel cold and shiver. Once the fever breaks, ye feel like ye need to cool off.”
He studied her as she talked and just shook his head, both amazed and grateful to see her alive and giving him instructions.
“I’m verra thirsty,” she said.
He could hear the dryness in her throat and walked away from the bed to the table where the mug of ale stood.
She frowned. “Who has been taking care of me? Margaret?”
Now that she seemed to be doing better, he relaxed and actually smiled. “Nay. I’m afraid Margaret is no’ capable of handling the healing by herself just yet.”
Emma nodded. “Aye. I was starting to teach her when she decided she dinna need my help.” She shrugged, then winced.
Morgan understood her pain; how often had he moved in a normal way only to feel a stab of unexpected pain while he healed? Now he handed her the mug of ale and wondered if a tonic would help her. “Marcus said if ye woke up ye should only take sips.”
Emma nodded and sipped obediently. “Who is Marcus? I dinna ken we had another healer here.”
“Are ye familiar with karma, wife?”
She frowned. “Nay.”
“In the Buddhist religion, karma is something that happens to ye as the result of yer actions.”
“I ne’er heard that word before.”
Morgan grinned. “A mon passed through our clan years ago when I was just a lad and told us many things about Buddhists. One of the things they believe is karma.”
She frowned. “What does the Buddhist religion and karma have to do with my injury?”
“Marcus Oliphant is from the clan that attacked us and he ended up treating ye.”
She frowned and then, as she began to understand, she smiled. “Just like ye ended up in yer enemy’s keep being treated by their healer.”
“Aye.”
Emma shifted and winced.
Morgan fluffed the pillows on the bed and arranged them so she could sit up. “I will have one of the maids fetch ye some food.”
She grabbed his hand before he moved. “Before ye do that I have another need.” Her face turned a bright red.
Morgan frowned and then smiled as he realized her need. “Aye. I can help ye to the garderobe or I can pull the chamber pot from underneath the bed.”
If possible, her face grew more red. “Nay, husband. Mayhap ye can get one of the maids to help?”
He slapped his thighs and stood. “Verra well. I wanted to send for food, so I will ask one of the kitchen maids to help ye while I get us something to eat.”
“Remember, Morgan, I canno’ eat heavy food after awakening from a fever.”
“She is right, m’laird.” Marcus walked into the room and smiled at Emma. “I am so verra happy to see ye awake and out of yer fever, m’lady.”
Emma grinned. “Ye must be Marcus Oliphant.”
“Aye, m’lady.”
“Thank ye so much for helping Margaret. I had wanted to work with her, but I ne’er got the chance.” She glanced sideways at Morgan, who huffed. He knew she was right. He was thankful she was awake and alive to nag him about it. She might never let him forget it, and for that, he was grateful.
“As soon as ye are able to go to the great hall, we will fix all that, my love.”
Marcus quickly jumped in. “Margaret is verra smart and learns fast. But with a clan this size, she needs help.”
It almost seemed as though the man was waiting for them to say something. When they did not, he looked down at Emma. “I would like to take a look at yer injury, m’lady.”
Morgan frowned. It had been fine with him when the healer had needed to remove the top of Emma’s linen when she was asleep, but now that she was awake, he didn’t like the idea.
The man must have noticed Morgan’s reluctance, and said, “If ye care to stay and help me move yer wife, m’laird, that would be fine.”
Morgan relaxed. “Aye. I can help.”
Once she was adjusted to how the healer wanted her positioned, Emma and Morgan clasped their hands together and held on tightly. They gazed at one another.
“I love ye,” they both mouthed.
Karma.