“What troubles ye, lass?” Marcus’ voice cut through her worry.
She turned to him with surprise. “I thought ye were sleeping.”
“I was for a time. Ye look as though ye have the weight of the world on ye wee shoulders.” His brow furrowed.
I have the weight of the leader of a clan on me shoulders.
She wanted to shout at him. Instead, she tended to the kettle and poured the water into a bowl.
Her hands, though skilled at their work, were trembling more than they ever had before as she walked to his side to tend to his wound. Marcus was no ordinary man, and the knowledgethat her actions could either save or doom him filled her with an unease she couldn’t shake.
“Let me see the wound, so I may clean it,” she said.
“Of course, as ye say, lass,” he agreed.
She looked at him with uncertainty towards his willingness after being previously stubborness. She had treated many before—farmers and travelers—but none with such power and influence. She tried to push the thought aside, but it lingered in the back of her mind like a shadow she couldn’t outrun.
Annabeth’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, studying him with curiosity she hadn’t expected. His body, though battered and bruised, still held a strength that seemed to radiate beneath his wounds. There was a rawness to him, a warrior’s edge that made him both dangerous and captivating.
For a moment, she found herself staring at him, lost in the complexity of his character. His wounds were severe, but his pride seemed to keep him from showing the full extent of his pain.
How many others had seen this side of him? How many had cared for him in this way, with the tenderness I am now giving? The scars he bears as warrior, what battles created them? Who tended to him in those times of need?
She had never felt so out of place, and yet, she had never felt more responsible for someone in her life.
Annabeth shook her head, forcing herself to focus. For now, all she could do was her job. She had to be the healer, the one to help him through this. The rest would come later. But as she adjusted the bandages once more, her heart beat a little faster, and the weight of the situation settled even more firmly on her shoulders.
“I should apologize, Me Laird. I daenae ken who ye were. Me tongue can sometimes get the better of me,” she said.
“I ken the ways of being stubborn,” he replied. “Ye couldnae ken who I was, out here on me own. ’Tis nae right nor proper for a laird to do such a thing.”
“I hope ye will accept me apologies; ’tis a shameful feeling in me now that I spoke to ye in such a way,” she said.
“I accept yer apology, lass, but ’tis proper to show some respect now that ye do ken who I am.” He tucked his chin to his chest and looked at her with a furrowed brow.
“Aye, of course, Me Laird,” she said as she worked, and her eyes met his for a moment. “I am yer subject.”
She continued to work on his side, but all the while the thoughts flowed through her mind.
Why does his stern tone ignite something in me? I daenae ken what it is, but his voice draws it from me. Like a breath, like a whisper, like a spark.
CHAPTER SIX
Marcus lay in the corner of the cottage, watching Annabeth with quiet interest. She was kneeling beside a small child, no more than six, who lay on a cot with fevered eyes. Her hands moved expertly, applying a cool cloth to the boy’s forehead and murmuring softly in Gaelic to calm him.
He was struck by how gentle she was, her focus entirely on the child, her expression a mixture of concentration and compassion. It made something stir within him, a feeling he couldn’t quite name but was drawn to, nonetheless.
Annabeth’s voice was calm and reassuring as she spoke to the child, offering words of comfort in a soft, lilting tone.
“Dinna fash yerself. All will be well,” she said to the child. “Show me where it hurts.”
Marcus watched with admiration. In all his life, he had met many skilled people, but Annabeth’s expertise was different—it was natural, unassuming, and yet completely competent.
There was something undeniably charming about her, something that made his pulse quicken every time she looked at him with those intense, clear eyes. It was more than just her beauty, though he had noticed that too—it was her strength, her intelligence, and the way she commanded a room without uttering a word of authority.
“Now have him take this, and he will be right as the sun,” Annabeth said handing the child’s mother a bundle of herbs as they left.
In his world, people were often too busy chasing power and status to notice the quiet, powerful moments that truly mattered.
