“Once you have had your bath and have eaten, you will be left undisturbed.” The countess paused. “This eve, if you have awoken, you are welcome to join our sup.”
She doubted that the MacGruders would truly wish her in their presence. “My thanks,” Emma replied, “but I will most likely sleep through the night.”
“The rest will do you good.”
Rest? However much she wished to sleep, using the shield of night, she would make her escape. The food brought for her supper would come in handy as she traveled.
“Before I go to sleep, I would like to see Sir Patrik.” To tell him good-bye.
Lady Linet hesitated. “He is with a healer. Once she leaves, ’tis best if he rests as well.”
So that was what Lord Grey had whispered to his wife, to keep Emma away from Patrik. Fine then, she would not ask again, but she would see him one last time before she left.
Hands grasping the sturdy woolen coverlet upon his bed, Patrik clenched the aged wood between his teeth as the healer prodded. Yellow candlelight exposed several angry gashes across his shoulder and arm, wounds that had almost cost him his life.
“Bite harder,” the old woman said, her eyes focused on the deepest gash across his left arm.
Patrik complied, trying to focus on anything but the pain as her hands quickly cleaned, then bound the severed flesh.
Her expression held grim satisfaction as she tied the last knot. She held up a ripe concoction. “Swallow this.”
The pungent taste of herbs stung his tongue, and he gulped the water she handed him. “Tastes like mud.”
“Aye,” the healer agreed, “but ’twill lessen the worst of the pain. Rest now. You are not to be about for a sennight.” The healer scowled. “A fortnight it should be, but I have known you too many years to believe you would ever be following that, if you even remain abed for a day.” Though gently spoken, anger coated her words, caused by his attempt on Nichola’s life.
Wood creaked as the chamber door opened. Seathan strode inside, followed by Duncan, then Alexander. The grim expressions upon their faces were far from welcoming.
The healer nodded at Seathan. “He should recover, my lord. With time. As yet, there is no sign of infection.”
“Thank God,” Seathan said.
In silence, the elderly woman secured the pouches of herbs, stowed them within her basket, and then closed the lid. “If he starts a fever, send for me.”
“Aye,” Seathan replied.
Soft footsteps echoed as the healer departed.
As the door closed in her wake, his brothers surrounded his bed. Tension throbbed in the chamber.
Patrik exhaled, taking in his brothers, the scowls on their faces. Nichola’s outburst replayed in his mind. “No matter how many times I beg forgiveness for trying to kill Nichola, it will never be enough.” He ached at the words, needing to say them.
Alexander crossed his arms. “She refuses to see you. A denial I will honor.”
Patrik’s throat tightened. “It is her right.” While he’d lain healing within the crofter’s bed, he’d had time, months to recount his actions, time in which he had found shame and self-recrimination in his attempt upon Nichola’s life. Foolishly, he’d held hope that time could repair the severed ties with his family. But in his musings, Nichola had agreed to see him. Now, he didn’t even have that hope.
Until she forgave him, though his brothers would allow him to remain at Lochshire Castle, their family bond would remain fractured, and this would never again be his home.
“By God’s eyes, how do you live?” Alexander asked. “I saw you die, saw the light fade from your eyes.”
“I . . .” Warmth pulsed within the stone at Patrik’s neck. He frowned and touched the halved malachite, caught the exchange of curious glances between his brothers. “I remember pain, blackness, and then coming awake.” He dropped his hand to his side. “I should have been dead.”
The silence stretched.
Seathan cleared his throat. “There is a pressing issue that cannot wait.”
At the seriousness of his tone, Patrik tensed. Then he knew. “The writ.”
“Aye,” Seathan replied. “Alexander gave it to me. I will send a runner to bring it to Wallace.”
