Page 33 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Burning Through the Night

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The outbuilding Ciaran had set aside for her use stood at the outermost edge of the village, beyond Ruth’s cottage.

It was little more than another long, narrow old barn, to Claire’s eyes, though Mungan told her it had been used once to house hides and wool.

But in the span of half a day, it had been repurposed as Caeravorn’s new hospital wing, albeit separated by a quarter mile from the one inside the curtain wall.

Windows that had been shuttered for years now gaped open to the autumn air, their rusted hinges forced free with tallow.

Sunlight cut clean bars through the gloom, falling across pallets Claire had dragged into neat rows with the help of both Evir and Cory, the only others, aside from herself and Mungan, and those who were sick, that she’d allow inside.

A lingering tang of smoke and sheep’s wool had been replaced with sharp vinegar, willow bark, and crushed rosemary, scents that clung to the back of the throat but at least promoted cleanliness, and hopefully healing.

Honest to God, though, it did not look like a place of healing so much as another battlefield infirmary, but here they whispered and muttered about ill omens and divine wrath, something Claire had been adamant to nip in the bud.

This was not a curse of any sort, was only a bug innocently and unknowingly passed around at a communal event.

Yesterday, she’d insisted that medicine alone would never be enough. The sick needed strength to fight, and that meant food. She had told Mungan as much, giving him the task of seeing the kitchens turn out great vats of broth, thick with vegetables and barley if they could spare it.

Claire, with Cory and Mairi at her side, spent as many hours feeding as she did tending.

Some patients managed a bowlful on their own, but others had to be lifted, supported, coaxed.

For the weakest, she had to cradle their heads and dribble broth a mouthful at a time, wiping away what spilled down their chins.

It was slow and weary work, but she clung to the knowledge that every swallow helped them fight the fever.

Mungan ducked his head inside the new sick house about an hour after Cory and Evir had arrived.

Claire liked Mungan, appreciated that for all the ordering about she’d done yesterday after Ciaran had wisely made himself scarce, Mungan had barely batted a lash.

He’d nodded at each new request and directive, ambling off in his way, slowly, with a hitch in his step—some old hip wound, Claire surmised—getting things done.

Tall and wiry, with a foxlike sharpness in the slant of his cheekbones and the perpetual twitch of his mouth as though words were always queued up, ready to spill, Mungan had a full head of russet hair streaked with gray, and sometimes had a look about him as if he’d forgotten why he’d come into the room.

And like everyone else, he’d taken to deferring to Claire. With Diarmad and Ruth both out of commission, she supposed she was their last best chance.

“Ah, mistress,” Mungan said, with a little bow of his head. “I thought I’d find ye as ye are—up to yer elbows in other folk’s sweat and snot.”

Claire grinned despite herself, only glancing briefly over her shoulder as she tried to spoon broth between Ruth’s cracked lips. “What’s up, Mungan?”

“Aye, and so I came looking for our laird, ye ken, for he never showed hisself this morn,” Mungan went on.

“Strange, says I, for he’s up with the dawn most days.

So I kent, well, Mungan, best have a look.

First I went to the hall, aye, thinking he’d be breaking his fast, though there was naught but cold oatcake there and no laird.

Then I kent mayhap the stables—he’ll walk a horse before he walks himself some mornings—but there was only Ruadh with a look in his eye as if—”

Claire glanced up from Ruth and the broth, exasperation twitching through her. She rotated her hand in a circle, a little impatient spin of her fingers. “Mungan,” she said, already fearing what he was about to say, “get to the point, please.”

He blinked at her, then gave a sheepish grin. “Aye, well, right enough. Point is, I looked high and low and finally kent best to knock on his chamber. Nae answer, but aye, I went in.” His grin faded, his face sobering as he shook his head. “Nea yet gone from his bed. Nae sensible at all.”

Claire’s stomach dropped. She knew it! She’d seen it yesterday in the bright fevered cast of his eyes, but hearing it made her chest clench almost painfully.

She shoved to her feet and called across the old barn to Mairi, “Ruth needs more broth. I’ll leave her bowl here.

” She wiped her hands on her apron, and asked Mungan, “He’s still in his chamber? ”

“And, and nae able to be elsewhere, is my guess,” Mungan said quickly, already following her as she bolted for the door.

“I left him as he was. kent it best to fetch ye. And God help us if the laird’s to fall—” His words tumbled faster as they strode across the bailey, his long legs matching her desperate pace, despite the hitch in his stride.

“We’ve nae heir put in place. Nae son, nae brother close enough to lay a claim.

Caeravorn with nae laird would be ripe for the picking—every greedy Highlander with a sword would smell weakness.

The MacNabs, the Camerons, even the cursed Comyns if word traveled far enough—”

“Oh, please, Mungan, don’t be fatalistic,” Claire begged. “We can’t think like that now.”

Her boots skidded against the wet cobbles as she crossed through the gates. Her heart thudded wildly, already seeing in her mind what she expected to find, Ciaran Kerr, the man too stubborn to admit weakness, burning alive in his own skin.

Ignoring her plea, Mungan kept muttering, “If he dies, mistress... we’ll all feel it. The Kerrs’ll crumble like old mortar.”

Claire shoved open the heavy door of the keep, breathless but resolute. “I will not let him die.”

At the top of the stairs, she was forced to await the captain and his direction, having no idea where Ciaran’s chamber was.

“This way. Laird’s chamber is at the other end,” he said, his usual chatter subdued now.

Mungan pushed open the chamber door and stepped aside.

Claire paid no attention to the large chamber but went directly to the bed where Ciaran lay, sprawled half on his side.

She grimaced at the sight. His skin glistened with sweat, pale and flushed all at once, and his lips moved faintly as though muttering something in his delirium.

His eyes were half-open but unfocused, a low sound escaping him that was not the laird’s sharp bark of command but the helpless moan of one burning with fever.

Ciaran hadn’t even undressed. His tunic still clung to him, the fabric plastered damp to his chest, and his breacan was draped haphazardly across one shoulder as if he had only collapsed here last night, too weary to strip, or else had risen in the morning, tried to dress, and been struck down by weakness before he could manage to leave his chamber.

Claire gripped the bedpost, steadying herself against the tremor that ran through her. He was too strong, too alive to look like this—sapped of all vitality, undone by something as ordinary as a fever.

“Jesus,” Claire whispered. She dropped to the bedside, pressed the back of her hand to his temple, then his chest. Scalding.

She turned sharply to Mungan, who lingered anxiously in the doorway, having moved only a few feet inside the door.

“I need water. Buckets of it. Cool cloths, fresh linens—all the same things we put in the other building. And someone to bring willow bark—now.”

Mungan nodded, seemingly grateful for orders, and bolted.

Claire leaned close, brushing damp strands of hair back from Ciaran’s brow. He didn’t stir, only shifted faintly against the sheets, a low groan rumbling from his chest. She pressed a steadying hand to his shoulder, her voice low, firm.

“Ciaran?” she murmured, wanting to know how coherent or not he actually was.

She knew too much to trust a fever. Back home, she’d seen patients arrive with nothing more than a cough and a low-grade temperature, only to crash within hours when infection spread to their lungs or blood.

In a hospital, there were cultures, antibiotics, oxygen tanks, all the tools of modern medicine to haul them back from the brink.

Here, there was none of it. Fever in this century was not just uncomfortable, it was a predator, one that struck without warning and often without mercy.

That knowledge should have made her equally afraid for every soul under her care—and she was—but the whole truth was, the sharper terror coiled inside her was for this man alone.

She felt an instant stab of guilt for so selfish and brutal a thought.

She was meant to care for them all without distinction, yet here she was, more desperate over the fate of Ciaran Kerr than of any crofter’s son or serving girl.

He was infuriating, stubborn, often cold—but the thought of losing him tore at her in a way she had no business feeling.

She told herself it was only because he held the keep together, all of Caeravorn as Mungan had just stated so plainly, because his loss would leave them all in chaos.

But even as she whispered it, she knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

Claire spun away from the bed, wringing out the tepid cloth in the basin on a cupboard across the room and laying it across his brow.

She pressed her palm gently to his chest again, hoping he wasn’t burning up as much as she imagined at first touch.

But no, his skin was far too hot, his flesh damp and slick.

Her training warred with the awkward thrum in her chest. Fever management first: get the heat down. That meant stripping away anything trapping it in.