Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The inn was scarcely ten paces from the mouth of the alley, yet Duncan found himself acutely aware of every step they took toward it.
The pain in his shoulder throbbed dully beneath his coat.
It was not enough to trouble him, but it served as an unwelcome reminder that the evening had gone rather differently than planned.
He did not allow it to show.
Elaina walked beside him. There was a resolve in her that intrigued him more with every glance.
She was quieter now than she had been in the tavern, watchful without seeming afraid, and Duncan wondered what manner of woman she truly was.
He had known her scarcely an hour and already she had overturned several of his assumptions.
Inside, the inn was warm and crowded. The low murmur of voices kept swelling and breaking like a tide. The innkeeper looked up as they approached. He recognized him instantly.
“Another room,” Duncan said easily, setting his hand upon the counter. “Fer the night.”
The man grimaced before Duncan had even finished speaking. “I’d give ye one if I could, me laird, but we’re full. Nae a bed left that’s nae already claimed.”
Duncan blinked once. Then he huffed a short laugh and turned toward Elaina.
“Well,” he said mildly, “it seems ye’ll have tae share a room with me.”
Her head snapped toward him. “Share a room… with ye?” she echoed, looking delightfully scandalized. “Absolutely nae.”
He arched a brow, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “I ken,” he said solemnly. “It is a terrible burden, being forced intae close quarters with a man so undeniably irresistible. Still, it is only one night, and I trust ye will manage tae keep yer hands tae yerself.”
The color rose furiously in her cheeks. It was not embarrassment alone, but indignation sharp enough to cut. Duncan had the absurd thought that she was never more lovely than when she was thoroughly outraged.
“I assure ye,” she snapped, “resisting ye is nay difficulty whatsoever. It is me reputation that will suffer. I have nay intention of sharing a room with a man I dinnae ken.”
He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Nae even yer savior?”
“Nae even him,” she replied at once.
For a moment he only studied her, taking in the set of her mouth and the fire in her eyes. He was still smiling, still light in his tone, but something in her refusal struck deeper than he expected.
She was right. Entirely right.
He straightened, and the humor eased into something gentler. “Very well. Ye shall take me room. I’ll find somewhere else tae sleep.”
Her expression faltered. “What? Where?”
He tilted his head, and his amusement returned momentarily. “Are ye worried about me?”
“Nay,” she replied too quickly. “I simply dinnae wish ye tae sleep on the street.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then perhaps in the same room after all?”
She shot him a look of pure disbelief. “Perhaps nae.”
Duncan chuckled, then gave an amused shrug. “Worth a try. I’ll sleep in the stable. It would nae be the first time.”
She hesitated, clearly torn between propriety and concern. “That seems… excessive.”
He shrugged one shoulder, feeling the wound protest and ignoring it just as quickly. “I have slept in worse places, I promise ye.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the innkeeper pretending very hard not to listen.
“Come,” Duncan said at last, gesturing toward the stairs. “Let us secure ye a bed before ye decide tae argue me back on tae the floor beside it.”
Despite herself, she followed, still indignant and still proud, but no longer quite so furious. He led her up the narrow stair, listening to the sound of the boards creaking beneath their steps. He paused at the door to his room and stepped aside, letting her pass first.
“It’s nae much,” he said, almost apologetically, pushing the door wider. “But I hope ye’ll be comfortable.”
The room was simple and neat. It consisted of a bed that appeared big and comfortable, a small table, and a chair drawn close to the hearth where the fire had burned low.
Elaina stepped inside and turned slowly, taking it in.
Then she looked back at him and smiled in a way that utterly disarmed him.
“Thank ye,” she said.
The words struck him more sharply than he expected. Gratitude, offered without suspicion or edge, was not something he often received. He inclined his head, suddenly aware of the space between them, of the way the lamplight caught in her hair.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’ll leave ye tae rest. Ye’ve had—”
She moved before he could finish.
“Me laird,” she addressed him, as she stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her warmth, close enough that the faint scent of herbs and clean wool reached him. “Let me see yer wound.”
His body reacted before his mind could. Awareness flared. It was unwanted, inconvenient, but keen. He mastered it by habit, schooling his features into ease.
“It’s fine,” he replied lightly, waving a hand as if to dismiss both the injury and the effect she had on him. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m certain ye have,” she said, looking undeterred. “But that daesnae mean ye should ignore it. Let me see.”
There was no challenge in her tone. All he could see was concern and a quiet insistence that startled him more than anger ever could.
He hesitated. He was not accustomed to being tended, not accustomed to hands that sought to heal rather than measure strength or weakness.
Tenderness was a language he barely remembered how to speak, much less receive.
“Elaina––” he began, intending refusal.
She lifted her hand, but she was not touching him yet. She was merely resting it near his arm, as though giving him time to retreat.
“Please.”
The word undid him far more thoroughly than any command.
With a resigned breath, he nodded once. “Very well,” he said. “But dinnae scold me.”
Duncan drew a slow breath and reached for the buttons of his shirt. He unfastened them one by one, then tugged the fabric aside just enough to bare his shoulder. The lamplight caught the plane of muscle and the darkened smear of blood beneath it.
Elaina’s gaze dropped and stilled. For the briefest moment, she looked stunned.
Her eyes widened as if she had not quite expected the sight of him so close and so unguarded.
Duncan felt the pause like a held breath.
Then she blinked, once, and whatever had startled her vanished behind focus and purpose.
“It is nae bad,” she told him calmly, stepping closer. “Painful, aye, but clean. Ye were lucky.”
“Luck had little tae dae with it,” he replied lightly.
She ignored that and gestured toward the table. “Sit. I can clean it properly, and bind it well enough for the night. With what we have here, that is.”
He obeyed without argument, lowering himself onto the edge of the chair. Her skirts brushed his knee as she moved, and he became acutely aware of her nearness, of the careful way she handled him and the faint warmth of her hands as she worked.
“When we reach Castle Grant,” she continued, tearing a strip of clean linen, “I will find arnica fer the bruising, comfrey tae knit the flesh, and yarrow tae keep it from festering. Calendula as well, if I can get it, mixed with honey. If ye follow me instructions, it will heal cleanly, nae even leaving a scar.”
He glanced at her, faintly amused. “Nae even leaving a scar, huh?”
“Aye,” she confirmed, meeting his eyes briefly before returning to her work.
He shrugged one shoulder, then thought better of it when the movement pulled at the wound. “I dinnae mind scars.”
Her hands paused. “Dae ye have many?”
“Aye,” he said simply.
She resumed cleaning the cut, her touch careful but firm. The sting was sharp, but it was the gentleness beneath it that unsettled him more. She treated him not as a laird, nor as a weapon, but as a man whose pain mattered. It was… different.
“They are the lines of me life,” he went on after a moment. “Every one of them marks a choice, a battle, a duty I did nae turn away from. I ken where each came from.”
“And dae they trouble ye?” she asked softly.
“Nay,” he answered, surprising himself with the truth of it. “They remind me I survived.”
Her fingers brushed his skin as she cleaned the last of the blood away, her concentration absolute. “Then let this one remind ye of tonight,” she said. “And of the fact that ye need nae always endure alone.”
Duncan watched her finish the binding, her fingers moving with practiced ease as she tied it off neatly. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet stretched, thick with things he was not accustomed to naming.
At last, he broke it.
“So,” he said, his tone carefully light as he leaned back in the chair, “ye truly mean tae take me up on the offer, then? Follow me tae Castle Grant and become our healer?”
She looked up at him, her hands stilling against his arm. There was amusement in her eyes now, softening the seriousness that had held her moments before.
“Well,” she said lightly, “since ye’ve forfeited yer room fer the night, I suppose I have little choice but tae accept.”
A short laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “That is a dangerous sort of obligation.”
“Ye brought it upon yerself,” she replied, stepping back at last. “One should think twice before offering beds and castles so freely.”
He studied her, struck again by the ease with which she met him. She was quick-witted, unafraid, and far more composed than most women would have been in her position.
“I will hold ye tae it,” he assured her. “Once ye reach Grant lands, there will be nay easy retreat.”
Her smile lingered. “I would nae have agreed if I were seeking an easy path.”
The words struck him with quiet force. Duncan held her gaze a moment longer than was wise, suddenly aware that he had lingered far longer than he intended. He was too long in a room that smelled faintly of her, too long with his coat open and his thoughts dangerously unfocused.
He straightened at once.
“Well, then I shall leave ye tae sleep,” he told her. “We’ll begin our journey in the morning.”
She nodded, rising slightly as if to see him out. “Good night, me laird.”
“Good night, Elaina,” he replied.
He stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind him, exhaling slowly once it was closed.
The hallway was quiet, lit only by a few guttering lamps.
It was quiet enough that he almost didn’t hear the soft scrape of wood being dragged along the floor.
The innkeeper was halfway toward him, maneuvering a chair that looked far more comfortable than anything Duncan had expected to find outside a rented room.
“It’s nae much, me laird,” the man said apologetically, setting it down directly in front of Elaina’s door, “but at least it’s nae the stables.”
Duncan blinked, then smile. He clapped the innkeeper on the shoulder. “It is more than enough. Ye have me thanks.”
The man grinned, gave a brief nod, and retreated down the stairs.
Duncan settled into the chair, stretching his legs carefully, testing his shoulder and finding it manageable.
He leaned back, crossing his arms, positioning himself squarely before the door as though it were the most natural place in the world for him to be.
The corridor was still. Behind the door, she slept… or would soon.
He closed his eyes at last, alert even in rest, thinking that he had guarded many things in his life: land, people, borders, duty.
This, somehow, felt different.