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“Aye, little master, I see that,” Elspeth murmured gently.

She stepped forward, dipping a clean linen cloth into a steaming bowl of hot water steeped with willow bark and dried mint. She reached toward Sheona’s jaw, but before the cloth could touch her skin, Brodie’s broad frame stiffened, his hand hovering near Sheona’s shoulder, his dark eyes fixed on the linen with sharp, protective instinct.

“Easy, Brodie,” Sheona whispered, reaching over to lay her palm against his arm. “It is only Elspeth.”

Brodie let out a low, slow breath, forcing his shoulders to drop an inch, though he didn’t move away. He stayed glued to her side, his dark eyes never leaving her face.

Elspeth pressed the warm, damp cloth gently against the tender skin of Sheona’s throat and jaw. The soothing heat penetrated the deep, aching bruise instantly, chasing away the cold bite of the tower wind. Sheona let out a soft, shuddering sigh, resting her head back against the stone wall.

“Ye had a narrow turn, Lady MacKinley,” Elspeth said softly, setting the cloth aside and turning to her herbs. She took a small mortar and pestle, grinding a pinch of dried valerian root, wild honey, and sweet clover into a small pewter cup of warm milk. “Drink this down. It will ease the burnin’ in yer throat, steady yer blood, and grant ye a quiet sleep.”

She handed the cup to Sheona, but Angus reached out first, taking the pewter handles carefully in his two small hands to ensure it didn’t spill before lifting it gently toward her.

“Drink it, Sheona,” Angus urged softly. “It makes ye feel warm. She gave it to me when I scraped me knee on the rocks.”

Sheona took the cup from the sweet lad, smiling through the ache in her face, and took a slow, deep swallow. The warm liquid tasted of sweet herbs, honey, and soft cream, gliding smoothly over the raw, swollen lining of her throat. A gentle, heavy warmth bloomed instantly in her chest, radiating down into her cold fingers and toes, melting away the sharp, jagged edges of terror that had held her rigid for hours.

Elspeth then turned her attention to Brodie. “Now let me see that hand, me Laird.”

Brodie grunted, offering his left hand reluctantly. Elspeth carefully unwrapped the bloody strip of tartan, cleaning the deep puncture wound in his palm with a sting of salt-water and a thick smear of comfrey salve before binding it tight with clean white linen. Brodie didn’t flinch once; his dark eyes remained locked entirely on Sheona, watching the pale color slowly return to her cheeks as she finished the honeyed drink.

“There now,” Elspeth said, wiping her hands on her apron. “The two of ye belong in yer bed, away from the drafts and the storm.”

Angus squeezed Sheona’s hand one last time, looking up at her with sleepy, heavy eyes. “Ye feel better now?”

“Much better, sweet boy,” she said softly, leaning down to press her forehead against his. “Because ye took such good care of me.”

“I’ll guard the hall tomorrow too,” he murmured, a wide yawn catching him off guard.

Brodie reached over, effortlessly lifting Angus with his good right arm, holding the sleepy boy against his chest for a quiet moment before setting him gently on his feet. “Off to bed with ye, lad. Ye did yer duty tonight.”

Angus nodded sleepily, giving Sheona’s skirt one final tug before shuffling out the chamber door toward his room.

When the door clicked shut, the silence in the healer’s room grew deep, thick, and intimate. The crackle of the hearth fire was the only sound left between them.

Brodie turned slowly to Sheona. He reached out his uninjured hand, his large, calloused thumb gently tracing the line of her jaw, avoiding the dark bruise, his touch as light as a feather.

“I thought I lost ye,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a raw, broken rasp that cracked in the quiet room. “When the stone gave way… when ye slipped…”

Sheona leaned her face into his broad palm, closing her eyes, taking a deep, easy breath of the herbal air. She reached up, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his pulse under her skin.

“Ye caught me, Brodie,” she whispered back, opening her eyes to look straight into his dark, fierce gaze. “I kent ye would reach me. I was nae lost. I am right here.”

He pulled her against his chest once more, resting his chin on her head, his heavy arms wrapping around her like iron bands as the sweet, warm herbs settled over her mind, bringing a quiet, unshakable peace to the night.

The warm glow of the tallow candle cast long, gentle shadows across the quiet bedchamber, softening the heavy stone walls and the thick oak timbers above.

Sheona knelt beside the small truckle bed, her movements slow and deliberate as she drew the heavy woolen plaid up over Angus’s small shoulders. The lad’s breath was already deep and rhythmic, his tiny chest rising and falling in the heavy, undisturbed hush that only exhaustion could bring. Even in sleep, his small fingers remained locked stubbornly around the splintered hilt of his wooden sword, pressing the smooth pine against the center of his chest like a seasoned warrior guarding his post.

Sheona’s lips curved into a soft, tender smile despite the throbbing ache along her jaw. She reached out, her fingers brushing back a stray lock of dark hair clinging to his forehead, and leaned down to press a quiet, lingering kiss to his brow. He smelled of wool, sweet rushes, and the faint, bitter trace of Elspeth’s chamomile tea.

“Sleep well, brave knight,” she murmured against his hairline, her voice a low, raspy whisper.

Angus let out a soft, unconscious sigh, burrowing his face deeper into the linen pillow without opening his eyes.

Sheona remained on her knees for a moment longer, resting her palm gently on the edge of the mattress, letting the room’s quiet peace wash over her battered nerves. The terror of the watchtower, the cold bite of the wind, and the terrifying drop into the blackness felt miles away now, held at bay by the warmth of the hearth fire flickering in the corner.

Rising slowly to her feet, she smoothed down the skirts of her tartan gown. Her limbs still felt somewhat heavy from the herbal draught Elspeth had brewed, a pleasant, grounding warmth settling behind her ribs, taking the sharp edge off her pain. She took three quiet steps back toward the door, her leather slippers making no sound against the braided rushes covering the floor.