Page 11 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

The men exchanged uncertain glances. Jamie started to protest. "But Colin, we've barely⁠—"

"The evening is finished. Ye may wish tae remain and finish yer meal." Colin's tone brooked no argument. "But Lady Morag and I will be leaving."

Before Morag could object, he was moving around the table toward her. "Come."

"I beg yer pardon?" Morag remained seated, her spine stiffening at his presumptuous tone. "

"Come with me," he repeated, extending his hand as if her compliance were inevitable.

"I most certainly willnae! I am nae a child."

"Ye will dae as I ask, and willnae ask me questions in front of me clansmen. "

It was hardly more than a whisper, but something in his tone made her pause. Around them, his men were doing their best to look in every other direction except at their laird and his bride-to-be.

"One time," Morag said finally, accepting his offered hand. "But I'll nae make a habit of following yer commands like a trained hound."

Colin's mouth twitched, whether it was with amusement or irritation, she couldn't tell.

He led her through corridors she hadn't yet explored, past tapestries that had seen better decades and up a winding stone stair that opened onto a small, well-lit chamber. The air smelled of herbs and healing oils, and shelves lined with glass bottles and dried plants marked it clearly as the healer's domain.

"Tasgall," Colin called, and an elderly man with thinning hair emerged from an inner room, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.

"Me laird? Is there—" The healer's eyes fell on Morag and his expression shifted to professional concern. "Ah, Lady Morag. Welcome tae the castle, me lady. I heard about yer ordeal. Are ye in pain?"

"She needs balm fer rope burns," Colin said before Morag could answer. "Something tae prevent infection and ease the healing."

Tasgall Sterling nodded, moving to his shelves with practiced efficiency. "Of course, me laird. Shall I examine the injuries? Sometimes rope burns can be deeper than they appear."

"Nay." Colin's response was immediate and firm. "Just the balm. Then leave us."

The healer paused, clearly surprised by the dismissal, but he was too well-trained to question his laird. He selected several small pots from his collection and placed them on the wooden table.

"The green jar is fer infection," he explained to Morag. "Apply it twice daily. The white cream will ease the pain and help the skin heal. And the⁠—"

"That will be all, Tasgall," Colin said quietly.

The healer bowed and withdrew, leaving them alone among the bottles and healing scents. Morag stared at Colin, completely baffled by his behavior. In the single day she'd known him, he'd been nothing but cold command and iron control.

He'd rescued her with deadly efficiency, issued orders about her care without consulting her wishes, and sat through dinner like a king dispensing judgment.

But this sudden turn around. Bringing her here himself, dismissing the healer, gathering medicines for her wounds. This was something else entirely.

"I dinnae understand," she said finally. "Why would ye dae this?"

He glanced up quickly. "Give me yer hand."

She hesitated, then slowly extended her injured wrist. Colin moved with surprising gentleness, pushing back her sleeve to reveal the angry red marks that circled her skin like bracelets of pain. His calloused fingers were careful as he examined the damage, and she caught the guilt that flickered across his features.

"This should never have happened," he said quietly, reaching for the green jar. His voice had lost its usual commanding edge, becoming something rougher, more human. "Ye should never have been caught up in this conflict while coming tae me."

Morag watched his face as he spoke, noting the tight set of his jaw, the way his dark eyes focused intently on her injuries as if he could will them healed.

"It wasnae yer fault," she said, surprised by her own impulse to comfort him. "Ye couldnae have kent those men would be there."

"I should have kent." The words were harsh, self-recriminating. "I should have anticipated it. Should have sent a proper escort tae meet yer party at the border instead of assuming..." He trailed off, his fingers stilling on her wrist. "I'm sorry, lass. Ye came here in good faith, and I failed tae protect ye properly."

The apology hung between them in the herb-scented air, and Morag found herself seeing him differently. This man was not just the Iron Laird who commanded through fear and respect, but a man who felt the weight of responsibility for every soul under his protection.