She ran to the door and threw it open, the scent of damp air and stale herbs rushing to meet her. Panic clawed at her chest as she called for her mother and brother. Eva strode to the back corner, where coughing reached her ears.
Her brother lay shivering under a blanket, his skin pale and sweat beading along his brow. Her mother lay beside him. Eva dropped to her knees between them, checking her brother’s headwith trembling fingers. She whispered soft reassurances, though fear gnawed at her.
“It’s all right. I’ve returned with the remedy. All will be well,” she said.
She turned to see Connor step inside, his large frame filling the doorway before he moved quietly into the room. He took in the scene with a sharp eye, the tension in his shoulders easing into something gentler. The seriousness of the moment seemed to settle over him, drawing out a softer expression Eva had not expected. He stopped beside her and crouched.
“How can I help, lass?”
“There’s nay need, me laird,” she said quickly, not wanting him tangled in her troubles.
“I insist, Eva.”
She looked up at him, saw no mockery nor command in his eyes, only a blunt sincerity she had never seen from a man of his rank.
“If ye can put water to boil,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “I need to prepare the yarrow. They must drink it to break the fever.”
“Of course,” he said.
Connor strode toward the water pitcher, but when he lifted it, nothing poured out. He frowned and turned to check the cauldron hanging over the cold hearth, yet that too was empty. He glanced back at her.
“There’s nay water anywhere.”
Eva rose swiftly, brushing dust off her skirt as she moved toward him. The realization hit her with a jolt; she must have used the last of it before heading to the castle. She cursed under her breath, hating her own carelessness.
Turning to Connor, she said, “I must fetch it from the well.”
“I’ll do it,” he said.
Her head snapped up, shock tightening her expression.
He reached for two empty buckets by the door and picked them up effortlessly. Without waiting for argument, he strode outside, his broad shoulders vanishing beyond the doorway. Eva stared after him, unable to form words.
For a long moment, she simply stood still, stunned by what she had witnessed. Laird McLaren, the harsh-tongued laird known for his cold demands and fearsome temper, had taken buckets to fetch water like any common man. Not for her sake, she could tell, but for her mother and brother, whom he had never met. A warmth curled in her chest, deep and startling.
He isnae as cruel as everyone whispered him to be.
She realized slowly, the stories told to frighten children, the tales of the laird who punished disobedience with iron, suddenly felt thin and exaggerated. She had seen the flicker of worry in his eyes, the quickness with which he offered help. She felt her assumptions waver like thin ice beneath her feet.
Eva forced herself to return to her work, kneeling beside her brother again and placing a cool cloth on his burning skin. She brushed his hair back gently, whispering soft encouragement he likely could not hear.
“I’m goin’ to brew a tonic for ye, lad,” she said.
She checked her mother next, relieved to see her breathing steady despite the exhaustion. The small cottage felt too still, too quiet, save for the ragged breaths of her ailing kin.
She heard footsteps outside and turned as Connor reappeared, his boots muddy and the buckets filled nearly to the brim. Water sloshed as he carried them inside, keeping his steps as quiet as possible. He set them down beside the hearth with more care than she would have guessed from a warrior of his build. Eva blinked, unsure how to react.
“Where do ye want it, lass?” he asked.
“By the cauldron is fine,” she said softly.
He nodded and lifted the cauldron onto its hook before pouring half the water into it, movements sure and steady. He knelt to put another log on the hearth for a hotter flame, building a larger fire with practiced hands. Within moments, heat began to rise beneath the cauldron, steam blooming into the air.
Eva could only watch him, her heart full of conflicting emotions. She had imagined him arrogant, uncaring, and impossible to reason with. Yet here he was, kneeling on her humble floor, dirtying his fine clothes without complaint. Everything she thought she knew about Laird McLaren was shifting.
She retrieved the yarrow, crumbling it between her fingers as she prepared it for steeping. The scent rose around her, warm and bitter. Her hands moved from years of practice, steady and efficient. Connor rose from the hearth and watched her with quiet curiosity.
“Ye ken what ye’re doin’,” he said, admiration sneaking into his tone.
