He could feel her breath against his cheek, warm and soft. Her hair spread out over his shoulder, a stray lock tickling his ear. Brendan’s chest constricted.
“Ye saved me,” he whispered. “I was fevered. I… I couldn’t think straight. The last thing I remember is falling to the ground, and Argentum howling.”
The dog perked up at the mention of his name, tilting his head. Brendan noticed a lump in his throat.
“What are ye doing here?”
He wished he hadn’t said it like that. It sounded accusing, ungrateful, as if he hadn’tdreamtof her in his house, in his arms, every day since he’d met her. He couldn’t be with her, of course, he’d always known that. He couldn’t be with anyone, not with his past hanging over his head like a boulder ready to fall. If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t want to be withhim, either.
Freya sat up carefully, stretching out sore shoulders and a stiff back, not looking at him.
“I had a bad feeling,” she responded simply. “I came to check on ye, intended to be back within a few hours. There’s porridge for breakfast. Hungry?”
As soon as she said that magical word,hungry, Brendan realized that he was, in fact, starving. He nodded, swallowing hard, and Freya threw a quick, wry smile down at him, and got to her feet. He made to sit up and follow her, but she responded as if she could see him, despite having her back turned.
“Stay there. Don’t get up. Ye need rest, aye?”
“I’ve had worse wounds than this,” he responded. “I was just unlucky this time. Is there a needle and thread? I’ll sew it up myself.”
She cast a quick look over her shoulder. “Ye sure? I can do it.”
“I’ve sewn up my own wounds before. Besides, ye have done plenty.”
She still had her back turned, bustling around the kitchen. Taking a length of black thread and a curved needle out of a cupboard—she’d snooped around his house, then, Brendan realized with a wry smile—and handed them to him.
It was simpler to take off his shirt altogether, so Brendan did so. Besides, it was warm in the house. He got to work at once, unrolling the bandages and gently scraping off the poultice which had probably saved his life.
When he glanced up, Freya was looking at him, expression intent. The moment their eyes met, she reddened and looked away. Biting back a wince, Brendan got on with his bloody work. The pain was bad, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
“Did… did ye speak to me last night?” he asked, choosing his words carefully.
Her shoulders stiffened. “Maybe. What did ye hear?”
“Something about being a healer. About it being a bloody, dirty work.”
The shoulders relaxed. “Aye, that was me.”
“It’s clear that ye are a healer, though,” he remarked, gesturing with the bloody needle to the old poultice. “Ye could be useful in that convent, ye know. Ye could do some good.”
“I only know how to do a couple of remedies. I like being useful, but I am no healer.” Freya confessed. “I often felt… Well, I often felt in the way, which I suppose is the opposite of being useful.”
“I disagree. Sabotage is the opposite of being useful. Feeling in the way or not helpful only means that ye haven’t discovered what’s best for ye to do, yet.”
She considered this. “I suppose that’s a good way of looking at it.”
When the wound was stitched up, Brendan snapped off the thread, tying it securely, and rebandaged it. Freya came to sit on the rug beside him, with two steaming bowls of porridge and a smaller bowl for Argentum, who attacked the food as though he’d never eaten.
“They’ll have noticed I’m gone by now,” she said, voice quiet. “No sense in rushing back.”
“Ye saved my life,” Brendan said firmly. “The Abbess will consider that.”
“I hope so. Do ye think she’ll throw me out? Have I done too much? I’ve not been a good guest.”
He snorted. “Don’t worry, I’m sure that convent has seen worse than ye, lassie.”
She chuckled in response, and he thought he saw some of her tension melt away. She shot a quick, calculating look at him over the rim of her bowl, and he knew a question was coming.
“Ye talked when ye were feverish. I couldn't’ make any of it out.”
