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There it was. Weak, but present. A memory stirred, unbidden. A year ago, almost to the day, Wallace had been carried into this very room with blood matting his hair and a gash across his ribs. He’d been laughing even then, through clenched teeth and pain, cracking some foolish joke about how he’d only stepped in front of the intruders because he didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly. He’d taken a blade meant for a villager, standing his ground as a protector.

Camden had stitched him up that night, his hands steady, his heart pounding harder than he cared to admit. Wallace had looked at him afterward, pale but grinning, and said, “I knew ye would nae let me die, healer. Ye’re too stubborn for that.”

Now, it seemed, the stubbornness had to come from Wallace alone.

“What happened to him?” Camden asked quietly, not taking his eyes from the still form on the bed.

The apprentice turned to look at Wallace for a long moment, something like respect and fear softening his expression. “Cut clean across from his left arm to his chest. ’Tis a deep cut. His injuries should have left him dead out there in the field,” he explained.

One of the men who’d been grumbling looked over. “If he’s still breathing, ’tis because Wallace will nae die. Too stubborn to.”

Camden lowered the blanket that had been placed over Wallace. He’d been bandaged across the chest. His left arm was also wrapped in strips of cloth. He adjusted the blanket around Wallace’s shoulders, a small, careful gesture, as if the young man might feel it even in the depths where he now lingered.

“Ye will live Wallace.” Camden went to the table where herbs and bottles of tinctures were set out. He broke willow bark into a mortar, then added mug wort, grinding it with the pestle, and mixed the herbs with spiced wine. He brought the cup to Wallace and slowly dribbled the liquid between the sick man’s lips.

Chapter Fourteen

Traveling musicians had claimed the village square, their fiddles and pipes lifted into the warm afternoon like ribbons of sound, coaxing doors open and bringing laughter into the streets. Sunlight spilled over the thatched roofs and glinted off bright ribbons tied to merchant stalls, while the air itself seemed to hum with cheer.

Effie had arrived at Anne’s cottage in a flurry of excitement and all but dragging her outside with promises of music and merriment. Now they sat upon a woolen blanket, the grass cool beneath them. The lively tunes weaving through peals of children’s laughter and the low, happy murmur of conversation. Anne found herself smiling without realizing when it had happened, her heart lighter than it had been in days.

Young women strolled arm in arm around the square, pretending great fascination with bolts of cloth and trays of trinkets, though their eyes kept straying toward the young men lingering at the edges, who returned those glances with poorly hidden interest and crooked smiles.

“I’ve nae seen this many folks out since the last spring fete,” Effie said, her head bobbing in time with the music, her eyes bright as the ribbons fluttering overhead. “It’s lovely, is it nae?”

“It is,” Anne agreed softly, her gaze drifting to a nearby stall where Moyra stood selling baskets her mother was famed for weaving. Their patterns were as neat and beautiful as lace.

Effie followed her look. “I must admit, I own several of those. Her mother’s hands are touched by magic, I swear.”

Anne almost laughed. If it were not Moyra minding the stall, she might have wandered over herself, tempted by the promise of something new and finely made.

Then Effie stiffened, her voice dropping to an eager whisper. “He’s headed this way.”

Anne’s heart leapt before her mind could catch up. Her pulse fluttered wildly, her throat going dry all at once. There was only one man Effie could mean.

Camden.

She had not seen him since the kiss at the apothecary several days earlier. According to Brae, he’d gone to the keep to help with injured warriors, which had been a blessing. Truly. She’d needed the distance, the quiet, the chance to convince herself it had been nothing more than a foolish, fleeting moment between them.

It meant nothing, she reminded herself. It must mean nothing.

If only her traitorous body would listen.

Her breath caught as she saw him approaching from the apothecary, sunlight gilding off the green of his tunic, which hugged his broad chest and wide shoulders as if it had been stitched just to show them off. Red waves of hair brushed his cheeks in the breeze, and he walked with an easy confidence, taking in the color and music around him as though he belonged to the very joy of the day.

“He is handsome, is he nae?” Effie whispered, barely containing a giggle.

“Aye, one could say that,” Anne replied, schooling her voice into calm. “But I am sure he is nae coming to speak to us.”

The lie barely left her lips before Camden stopped in front of them and dropped to one knee, casual as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“How fare ye, Effie. Anne,” he said, his smile warm, his gaze finding hers and holding fast.

Her heart forgot entirely how to behave.

“May I have a word with ye?” he asked gently, his eyes flicking toward Effie. “Just a moment.”

Effie was already rising to her feet, practically glowing. “Sit here, Camden. I’ll go admire the baskets.” She gave Anne a pointed look, mischief dancing in her eyes.