Page 4 of Married to the Scarred Highlander (Unwanted Highland Wives #4)

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I t had been years since the last time anyone looked Ciaran in the eye or dared to even speak to him, so he didn’t really know how to deal with this woman.

Maybe it was her scar that emboldened her—that deep, thick, jagged reminder that stretched from her chin, across her cheek, and up to her ear. It had been a wound meant to mar, to punish.

His stomach tightened as he took in its brutal path, his mind working through the possibilities.

Laura.

Her name tasted dangerous on the tip of his tongue. He saw it in the way she bit her lip when he said it. When his request came out as a command. He saw it in the way her chest rose and fell laboriously. The way she hesitated but leaned into the space between them almost imperceptibly, the marks on her face glowing even brighter than before.

It had to have been made by a blade.

Too deliberate to have been an accident ? —

A baby’s cry tore through the cottage, assaulting his senses.

“What th—” he started to ask when Laura bolted to her feet.

The water bowl toppled over, its contents spilling across the floor and at Ciaran’s feet, and her chair scraped across the floor loudly.

“I cannae go with ye,” she said, the words rushed and desperate. The shape of her scar told him that it had been an agonizing experience.

That wasnae earned by accident.

Ciaran’s hand tightened around the arm of the chair so as not to let his instinct to reach out to her cloud his judgment, and yet he still found himself standing not even a full second later.

She was out of the room in a flash of skirts, muttering, “Finish cleanin’ his wounds, please,” to Mrs. Morrigan before disappearing.

His eyes landed on the older healer then, his eyebrows drawn together. The memory of Laura’s touch on his torso sent waves of confusion and irritation through his veins, and something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

She acts bold around me, but the way she moves is so timid.

The older woman sighed, calmly moving toward the table where bandages lay and Ciaran sat back in the chair.

“And I’m too old to move, Ciaran,” she said, picking up a small pot of salve and stirring it absently with a wooden spoon. “But maybe ye can visit us every day? Or maybe I could send her to the Keep every day…”

Could it have been domestic?

The thought drowned out whatever else the healer had said. It made his fingers turn white, his jaw tightening as he tried to shake it loose.

His gaze landed on the doorway Laura had run through. He ground his teeth, thoughts boiling in his mind as the older woman continued talking.

Suddenly, his voice came out sharp. “Is she married?”

The question came unbidden, and the moment it left his mouth, something hot curled in his chest.

Why did I ask that? Why does it matter?

Mrs. Morrigan’s hands never stopped moving, her fingers methodical as she applied the cooling salve on every single one of his wounds as if he hadn’t said a word.

“It’s nae me story to tell, Ciaran,” she said smoothly. Then, raising her eyes, she gave him a pointed look that felt like a slap across the face. It carried weight and sorrow and expectation.

“But I can tell ye this—I’ve been waitin’ for ye to come.”

His fingers flexed and then relaxed around the arm of the chair once more, his eyes flickering to the chair Laura had been sitting in. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve written to ye several times over this past year and a half, Me Laird ,” Mrs. Morrigan said.

She only used his title when she was exasperated with him.

“How have ye been payin’ her all this time? With the stipend I send ye?” he asked, recalling the sound of coins clinking in Laura’s skirts at Ana Kilmartin’s stall.

A man did that to her face, and if I’m correct, I’ll wipe the ground with his innards.

“She works for board and meals, as any apprentice would.”

“Ye never said anythin’ about an apprentice. Ye’ve kept this from me. I had to find this out from Jenny Kerr after fightin’ that fire.” He pointed out of the window in the direction of the cottage.

“What set it ablaze, then?” Mrs. Morrigan expertly changed the subject, but Ciaran made a mental note to work his way back to it before obliging her.

“Aye, young Fergus set the curtains on fire tryin’ to light the hearth.”

“A foolish boy. Where was Angus?”

Heat buried itself in Ciaran’s stomach. “In Caerbraoch.”

Her hand shook, but her fingers were still nimble as she walked around him and applied the fresh bandages to the wounds on his torso before leaning over to assess the wound on his leg.

“The pants cannae be saved. Ye’ll need to leave them here. I’ll send for another pair.”

Ciaran clicked his tongue impatiently but stood up, undid his belt, and took off his pants. “Ye have a naked man in yer house—it’s scandalous, Mrs. Morrigan.”

“Perhaps, if I was younger and more impressionable,” she said over her shoulder before throwing a kilt at him.

He huffed a laugh, folding the fabric over and under itself before sitting into it and securing the belt around himself. The bite of the leather into his bandaged side was uncomfortable, but not as terrible as the wound on his neck and face.

Sensing his pain, she called out from the back room, “Now, sit back down. Yer neck and reopened wounds need checkin’.”

He obliged the woman, who moved around the cottage slowly but with practiced efficiency.

Silence fell over them again, before he resumed their conversation. “Ye never wrote to me about her. Why?”

The woman smiled, the corners of her mouth curling as if she were amused by something only she could understand.

“I waited,” she said, her voice softer this time. “Because things must happen when they are meant to happen.”

Ciaran exhaled through his nose, tilting his head so that she had more access as she tended to the newest wound first. He had been reckless with his safety.

But what other choice did I have? Let young Fergus die? Nay. Never.

He learned long ago that pain was unavoidable and that fate was a twisted thing. “How does it look?”

Mrs. Morrigan shook her head. “Nae better than before.”

“That’s nae sayin’ much,” he said through gritted teeth as she started to probe the area.

“There’s nae very much to say, lad. Ye kenned ye should have come to me right after this happened, and now it’s gotten worse.”

“There’s nay amount of healin’ that could take these scars away—ye kenned that then, as I did,” he returned, exhaling through the stinging pain.

“This will require a lot more salve than I have prepared, Ciaran,” the old woman said, and his frustration simmered.

That was a baby…

“Was that a child? She said ye were makin’ a tonic. Is it for the bairns?” he asked, their conversation fraught with the same curiosity about the healer’s trade he once had in his youth.

“Aye, a sickness befallin’ nae just Kilbray, but also Inverwick. I havenae received word from any of the other villages yet, but I’ve sent word out for help. I believe we’ll need it soon.”

“What kind of sickness?”

“Seems to be only affectin’ the bairns… their lungs too weak to fight off any infection.”

His hair stood on end. “Ye never mentioned it! Are the children dyin’?”

Mrs. Morrigan stopped then, her eyebrows knitting together at the concern on his face. “Nay, all is well. It just takes them longer to recover.”

Ciaran exhaled sharply, pushing the rest of his intrusive thoughts aside. The silence stretched, his eyes occasionally drifting to the door.

Where has she gone to?

The crackling of the fire punctuated the silence. His hands itched. Ciaran never took well to being idle, and he most certainly never enjoyed waiting.

His irritation took hold, burning away the momentary silence. Mrs. Morrigan sighed again, this time louder, as if she could feel the shift in his mood. Then, she frowned and glanced toward the fire. Her lips twitched.

“Ciaran Barcley,” she said slowly, humor creeping into her voice. “Is that yer bloody tunic floatin’ in me pot?”

His head snapped up, and a sheepish blush heated the tips of his ears. It was a reaction that only Mrs. Morrigan could elicit. He followed her gaze, and sure enough, there, bobbing lazily in the boiling pot, was his tunic.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The tension that had built in his shoulders, the frustration that had coiled in his chest—it all cracked just slightly.

Mrs. Morrigan let out a laugh—a genuine, warm sound that filled the space between them.

“Well,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I guess that’s one way to do it.”

Ciaran rolled back his shoulders and then let out a slow breath. He had half a mind to be furious. Instead, he shook his head.

Where did she go? What could possibly be takin’ her that long?

“And I bet ye kenned that it wasnae food or a tonic! How?”

The tension built, a storm at sea about to make landfall.

“Unless ye forgot, ye taught me as well, woman.”

She’s stallin’. Why?

She fished the tunic out and tossed it over the drying wheel. “Aye, I remember—me legs worked better back then, and me back was straighter.”

Ciaran couldn’t let himself relax through his irritation as he watched her pass the tunic through the wheel several times. Each time, the sound stretched his patience.

Where is she?

He stood up suddenly, no longer in control of his irritation, and held his hand out for his tunic. Mrs. Morrigan slowly pulled it from the drying wheel before walking over to him with painfully unhurried movements.

“Me tunic, woman!” he barked.

But she kept the same pace until she finally stood in front of him.

“I have a tonic for that frustration of yers, ye ken,” she said, letting him snatch the garment from her outstretched hand.

“Will it put me out of me damned misery?” Ciaran said.

His dark response did not provoke her in the slightest as he pulled the damp tunic over his wide body. The fabric clung to every inch of his torso.

“I’ll send for a maid to take whatever ye need to send me with for me injuries,” he added, pulling several large gold coins from the pouch on his belt and slamming them on the table between them.

“Ye dinnae need to pay me. I’ll send them with a new pair of pants as well,” she said sharply.

“Apparently, I do ,” he said, his eyes flickering to the doorway Laura had disappeared through. “A year and a half’s worth.”

He pulled out another handful of gold coins and dropped them on the first pile.

“Tell yer apprentice that I’ll be back. I dinnae like to be denied,” he said, before striding past her and out of the cottage.

The heavy door slammed shut behind him, punctuating his frustration with finality.

She’ll come to the Keep.

She’ll come to the Keep if I have to drag her there meself.