Marcus looked at her, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He could see the stubborn determination in her eyes, but he felt the weight of his responsibility pulling at him.
“I cannae stay. I’ve to go,” he muttered, voice hoarse, though the pain in his side made it difficult to argue.
His gaze softened as he noticed the trembling in her lips, the slight quiver of uncertainty that marked her own internal struggle. She didn’t back down, though. She stood there, unwavering, with a fierce protectiveness in her stance.
“Ye’ll do nay one any good dead,” she said softly but firmly. “Ye’ve got to stay at least a few days before ye even think about movin’, or that wound’ll fester, and ye’ll burn with a fever. Ye’ll be nay use to anyone, nae even yer clan, if ye die from this.” Her voice wavered, but her eyes never left him, and she stood her ground.
Marcus’ breath slowed, but he couldn’t stop staring at her. She was right—he knew it. The fever of death she spoke of was not something he ever wanted to face. He couldn’t deny that, despite his overwhelming need to leave, and he didn’t want to anger her—not after all she had done.
But the pride of a laird still burned deep in him, and he was torn between duty and survival. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his tongue as he looked into her eyes, the soft determination in them that matched his own stubbornness.
The silence between them grew heavy, with only the sound of his uneven breathing filling the space. Her arms crossed tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her stance was like a fortress, unyielding and resolute, and for a moment, Marcus felt something shift inside him.
He wanted to argue, to leave, but something about the way she stood there, unshaken and willing to fight for him, made himhesitate. He slowly sank back onto the bed, his body giving in to the overwhelming fatigue and pain.
She is right—I need to rest, nay matter how much I hate it.
Claire stepped into the room with a bowl of steaming stew, her expression curious.
“I thought I heard voices,” she said, her gaze darting between Marcus and Annabeth.
She moved closer to the bed and handed the bowl to Marcus with a kind smile.
“Here, I brought ye some stew to help ye recover. Ye’re in good hands with Annabeth; she’s a fine healer. Me name is Claire.
Marcus took the bowl, his hands still shaky from the pain but grateful for the warmth. He sipped the stew slowly, savoring the comfort it brought.
“Thank ye kindly,” he muttered, his voice still rough. He glanced at Annabeth and then back to Claire, noticing the quiet exchange between them.
“I’m Marcus Reid, Laird MacLennan,” he introduced himself, his tone steady though he could feel the weight of his title as it left his lips.
Both women’s eyes widened in shock, and for a moment, the room fell into an awkward silence. Claire’s hand went to her chest as she gasped, clearly taken aback.
“Me Laird, we are very sorry,” she said quickly, her voice tinged with panic. “We had no idea who ye were when ye came here. I hope Annabeth didnae trouble ye too much or be too rude.”
Annabeth looked at Claire, her face flushed with embarrassment.
“Nay, maither,” she replied, turning to Marcus. “I was as rude as a healer would be toward her patient. I’m just glad he’s still alive.” Her voice softened though there was a touch of humor in her eyes as she looked at Marcus.
Marcus raised an eyebrow, ready to point out her rudeness, despite the ache in his side.
“I cannae say I’ve had a ruder welcome,” he replied, his tone light but with an underlying appreciation. “I’m just glad ye were willing to help me, nay matter who I was.” He paused for a moment, his gaze flicking to Annabeth.
“It seems I’ve been fortunate to end up in the care of a kind woman and her maither.”
Claire let out a relieved sigh, clearly easing from her initial shock.
“Well, Me Laird,” she said with a soft chuckle, “we’ll make sure to treat ye like the man ye are from now on. Nay more surprises.” She glanced at Annabeth, who nodded in agreement though her cheeks were still tinged with the flush of the earlier embarrassment.
Marcus shifted slightly, wincing from the pain, as he looked up at Annabeth.
“I cannae be away from my clan longer than two or three days,” he said, his voice strained but firm. “I’ve responsibilities that need me, and they’ll be expecting me back soon.”
Annabeth considered his words carefully then nodded with a slight frown.
“I think the poison will be out of yer system in two days, but ye’ll nae be able to move much after that. I can sew ye up then, but it’ll be too painful to move right after. Ye’ll need time to heal, or it’ll make yer wound worse.”
Marcus leaned back into the pillow, eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words.
