Page 13 of The Archer’s Wish

Her heart softened. “I believe helping ye is just as worthy.”

“Aye,” her father conceded, “but the sick can’t bake bread for themselves.”

After they ate, Beitris fetched her shawl, overcoat, and healing box before heading across the village to the blacksmith’s home. The morning sunlight had begun to warm the cottages, glinting off iron signs and dew-dusted fences. She knocked at Gowan’s door, waited, and when silence greeted her, pushed gently inside.

Anne stood at the table, shoulders shaking, both hands pressed to her face.

Beitris hurried over. “Has something happened?”

Anne startled so violently she nearly dropped the cloth she was holding. “Saints above, ye scared me.” Her gaze darted toward the door, half-expecting someone else to appear.

Color rose to her cheeks as she wiped her tears. “Nay… nay. I was only warming food for Gowan.” She gestured toward the bedchamber. “He may be awake. He seems better today.”

But her voice quivered, and the tightness around her eyes told another story. Beitris longed to ask what troubled her, but Anne’s forced steadiness made it clear the woman had no intention of sharing.

“I’ll look in on him,” Beitris said gently.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Gowan sat upright in bed, arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing a scowl as dark as his tousled hair. His expression twisted further when he saw her.

He was a handsome sight. His dark brown hair fell to his shoulders in unruly waves, framing a strong jaw and full mouth set in a stubborn line. His skin was olive-toned, sun-kissed, and warm. But it was his eyes that arrested her. They were a striking hazel, light and bright against the darkness of his hair, and right now fixed on her with a mixture of irritation and embarrassment.

“Morning, Gowan. How fare thee?”

“I am well enough,” he announced immediately, as if rehearsed. “That is, I mean, I no longer require lying about or being poked and prodded.”

Beitris arched a brow. “Would ye prefer I fetch Camden, so he might sear the wound shut when ye tear it open by moving too soon?”

Gowan flinched, his bravado cracking like thin ice. “Verra well,” he muttered. “Ye can look. But ’tis a waste of yer time.”

She knelt beside him and inspected the wound. The burn was healing well, the edges no longer angry and inflamed, the surface clean, and the smell far reduced. Fresh air, washing, and rest had clearly done their work overnight.

“It looks better,” she said, gently prodding the healthier tissue. “But ye will stay in bed another day. If ye push yerself, ye’ll undo the healing.”

He grumbled something under his breath but didn’t argue.

Behind them, Anne watched from the doorway, her expression unreadable.

And Beitris couldn’t help but wonder if the blacksmith’s wound was the only thing festering in that household.

His gaze followed her movement as she moved around the room, and when she placed her hand on his brow, there was a spark of something akin to interest. “Are ye Camden’s kin?” he asked.

“I am his cousin and apprentice.” Beitris took a bottled tincture from her box, placed a few drops into a wooden bowl, added ground herbs, and mixed it quickly with a small wooden spoon. She then took the bowl to the bedside.

“This will be the last treatment. I will place this poultice over the wound. Once it dries, I will instruct yer sister on how to wash it off. I will leave ingredients with Anne to make more. If ye do this a couple more days, I believe then ye should be recovered enough to return to work.”

“That is two days too long.” At her stern look, he waivered. “I will wait,” he grumbled.

Beitris gave a firm nod. “It will take much longer to heal if ye tear it open.”

Once again he seemed discomfited by the picture she painted, and Beitris had to smile. The man, no matter how strong and muscled, was squeamish.

“What is so funny?” he asked with a pinched brown as his hazel gaze pinned her.

“Nothing, just glad to see ye are recovering well.” Before he could reply, she left the room.

When she returned to the kitchen, Anne seemed in better spirits. Beitris touched her arm. “Do nae fret. He will recover.”