For one fragile moment, with John’s small fist curled in her bodice and Connor standing guard beside the chair, Violet let herself believe that her love was enough to keep him safe. Only her love. Not any special kind of tea or some herb she would have to make because nothing worked.
Connor stood beside the chair and watched his wife become something else entirely.
John lay against her chest, his fever-red cheek pressed to her gown, his small fist caught in the fabric as if he knew exactly who had made the world steady for him. Violet kept one hand moving over his back in a slow rhythm. Her face was too pale, and theshadows beneath her eyes had deepened since the ride from the tavern. Still, her voice stayed low whenever John stirred.
She noticed every small change before anyone else did.
A hitch in the baby’s breath made her adjust him, and a fretful whimper made her bend her head and murmur into his ear. When Moira reached for another cloth with hands that would not quite stop shaking, Violet asked for it gently and used it without making Moira feel useless.
Connor had married her because John needed a mother. But now, standing there, with the smell of warm water and fever in the air, he understood that John had already chosen one.
Violet had fought him from the first day because she had seen what he had missed. The baby did not need a woman assigned to him by law. He needed the woman whose voice quelled his cries.
Connor stepped closer, his boots quiet on the floorboards. The maids had begun whispering near the washstand, their frightened eyes darting from John to Violet and back again.
“Tell me what to do,” Connor said quietly.
Violet looked up briefly. Her eyes were tired, too dark in her pale face. “Keep the room calm.”
“That isnae a task.”
“Well, everyone looks frightened, and ye are the Laird. Find a way.” She lowered her gaze to John again.
Connor felt the rebuke in her voice. A sickroom had rules he did not know, and it was clear that steel would do nothing here and that threats would not cool a fever.
He turned at once, because standing idle irritated him more than taking orders from her.
“Ye two,” he said to the maids, keeping his voice low. “Out, unless Lady Moore calls for ye. Move softly, and daenae run in the passage. We daenae want everyone worried.”
The maids curtsied and slipped out.
Moira stayed. Connor watched her fold one damp cloth, then unfold it, then fold it again without looking at her hands. Her lips had thinned.
“Moira,” he said.
She started.
“Stand by the fire. Lady Moore will need ye close.”
Moira swallowed, then obeyed. The task steadied her shoulders a little.
Violet did not look up, yet her hand slowed on John’s back for half a beat. Connor saw it. She knew what he had done and approved.
Footsteps came fast in the passage before he could say anything, though. Lachlan entered first, his breathing ragged, his hair wind-tossed from haste. A woman followed with a leather bag gripped in one hand and a wool shawl slipping from her shoulder.
The healer took in the room with one hard glance, then went straight to Violet.
“I found her near the lower yard,” Lachlan explained. “She came as fast as she could.”
Connor did not answer. His gaze stayed on the healer.
“Let me see the baby,” she demanded.
Violet’s arms tightened once. Connor saw how hard it was for her to loosen them. She did set John down on the folded blanket across her lap, though her fingers remained at his side while the healer bent over him.
John whimpered when the healer touched his brow and belly. Violet murmured at once, soft nonsense that made him turn his face toward her. The healer checked his mouth and his breathing by using a small mirror.
The examination took only minutes, but Connor disliked every one of them.
