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Tamhas stepped towards Konnor and stabbed his index finger at him. “Ye wilna touch her again.”

“Trust me, buddy,” Konnor said, picking up the stick. “I have no intention to.”

He turned to Tamhas and nodded at Marjorie’s stick on the ground. “Are we doing this thing or what?”

Scowling at Konnor, Tamhas picked up the stick. “I wilna go easy on ye.”

“I don’t want you to.” Konnor stood in a fighting stance, actually looking forward to blowing off some steam and trying to beat the shit out of this guy. Finally, sparring man-to-man.

As Tamhas came at him, thrusting the stick vigorously, Konnor thought she deserved to be loved and cherished. Someone needed to help her heal. That man wasn’t him. He wasn’t going to be here long and would head back to his real life as soon as he knew she was safe.

And until then, he’d make sure he kept his distance.

Chapter 16

Marjorie panted, leaning on the hard, cold rock of the wall.

Air. She needed air. There wasn’t enough of it, even up on the castle wall with the whole sky above her like an endless ceiling and the ground far below.

What had just happened? A man had gotten excited because of her. That was something natural for a normal woman. But she wasn’t normal. She was damaged. She was hurt. She was still broken.

She—the warrior who’d trained for years—had gotten scared.

It had been wonderful to spar with Konnor. He was a good partner, though obviously inexperienced in swordsmanship. But laughing with him, smiling with him, and just breathing the same air with him had made her feel alive. When the unmistakable, hard bulge between Konnor’s legs pressed into her lower belly, it had taken her breath away.

Not because she was disgusted or afraid.

Because she’d gotten excited. Something warm and pleasant had flashed in her core, a place she’d only known as a source of pain and torture before.

And that was terrifying. It was new and wonderful and completely unexpected. Was that the feeling all regular women had with a man? Was that a glimpse of healing for her?

And if so, why was it so frightening? Why did the hope mix with dread in her soul and tighten her lungs as though they’d shrunk to the size of a ball of yarn?

She knew why. She couldn’t trust another man after what Alasdair had done to her. She was dirty. Stained. Used like a worthless piece of cloth.

Tears welled and fell down her cheeks, leaving burning traces. She leaned with her back against the wall and slid down until she sat on the cold, dirty floor. She hid her face in her palms.

She wanted to be normal. She wanted to be a regular woman who could fall in love and be mindlessly happy. But how could she if deep inside she was still that tormented, abused lass, helpless and desperate.

Konnor was right. In a way, she was in a crystal coffin after being poisoned by evil, trapped somewhere between death and sleep. Could a prince really wake her up? Could Konnor?

“Lass?” Isbeil’s voice said, and Marjorie raised her head. The woman stood at the entrance to the tower, leaning against the hard stone with one hand. Her dark eyes pierced Marjorie—the perceptive eyes of a healer, and the caring eyes of a friend. She was the closest thing Marjorie had to a mother, even though her stepmother, Domhnall, Owen, and Lena’s mother, who had died a few years ago, had been nothing but supportive and loving.

Isbeil and Owen were the two people who’d helped her heal after she’d gotten back from Dunollie Castle.

“Isbeil…” she whispered and felt her face grimace as a another wave of wailing hit.

“All right, all right. Ye calm down,” Isbeil soothed. “I am coming. Ye ken how I dinna like the height.” She began to slowly make her way towards Marjorie without lifting her feet from the floor, instead shuffling them against it. She still held on to the wall. “A man isna meant to be so high above the ground,” she mumbled. “Why couldna ye have chosen to cry somewhere in yer room, lass? I’m coming. I’m coming. Dinna ye fash.”

Marjorie watched the short woman approach, her wrinkled face stony in concentration. The simple, brown dress swiped the floor as she wobbled towards Marjorie on her short legs.

Ah! How could Marjorie sit and cry and feel sorry for herself when the old woman was going above and beyond for her? Hastily wiping her tears away, she stood and hurried to Isbeil. She supported the old woman under her elbow. Isbeil was holding her fist to her chest.

“Are ye all right, Isbeil?” Marjorie said.

The old crone looked up at her, her weathered, wrinkled face suddenly lit up in a wide grin of empty spaces and remaining yellow teeth.

“Aye, lassie,” she said and clapped Marjorie’s hand that supported her. “I am. And so are ye. See, when ye’re too busy caring for others, somehow ye forget to indulge in yer own sorrow.”