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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T he rain had begun to fall in earnest by the time Valora and the men thundered through the gates of Halberry Castle.

Mud coated their boots, their cloaks, and blood stained their hands.

Behind her on the saddle, Torrin clung to the horse, his blood-soaked tunic sticking to the deep gash at his side.

Now that they were inside castle walls, they were led by one of the guards, and the young man held the reins of the horse gently, as if afraid a sudden movement might finish what the enemy sword had started.

Instead of taking him inside the keep, Valora dismounted and had two of the guards take Torrin to the healer’s cottage. She didn’t think they had the time to get everything to Torrin’s room. He needed to be there, in that cottage, where Ina had access to everything she would need.

"Ina!" Valora’s voice rang through the courtyard as they approached the healer’s cottage, cutting through the rising chaos as more and more guards and servants realized what had happened and came out of their quarters to watch. "We need the healer! Now!"

Ina was already hurrying out of the cottage, her skirts gathered in one hand. Her hair was pulled up into a quick bun, just enough to keep it out of her face, and her sleeves had been pushed up to keep them clean of blood.

She didn’t hesitate for a single moment. There was a quiet strength to her, a determination that Valora couldn’t help but admire, and it didn’t matter to her if her patient was a common soldier or the laird—she was just as calm, just as in charge.

"Bring him into the cottage," she commanded. "Place him close tae the fire. Someone fetch boiled water an’ then leave me."

"I’m nae leavin’ him," Valora said, voice steady, leaving no room for arguments.

Ina glanced at Valora dubiously, but she didn’t argue. There was no time. She knew Torrin needed her help, and that was more important than any argument.

"I’ll help," Valora promised. "I ken how."

Though she still didn’t seem entirely convinced, Ina gave a firm nod. "Very well. We must be quick. He looks like he’s lost a lot o’ blood."

"He has," Valora confirmed as the soldiers brought Torrin into the room. The cottage was small, but packed to the ceiling with jars of ointments and concoctions, books, papers, and drying herbs. The smell of lavender was thick in the air, seemingly permeating every single item in its path.

Within minutes, Torrin was laid out on a bed. His wound was deep—a jagged gash torn across the left side of his abdomen, dangerously close to the ribs. Blood had soaked through the cloth on the ride back, and his skin was deathly pale, drenched in sweat.

Once they had laid him on the bed, the soldiers worked on stoking the fire and placing a pot of water on the stove to heat it up.

Valora sat next to Torrin, waiting for them with bated breath, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

As she sat there, she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows, her hands slick with his blood.

The moment the men brought the pot over, along with a basin, she and Ina got to work, with her holding it while Ina cleaned the wound.

On the bed, Torrin groaned, half-conscious, half-delirious, and she leaned closer to try and hear what he was saying.

"I’m here," she whispered. "Ye’re safe now, Torrin."

At the other side of the bed, Ina threaded a needle with care. "This might hurt, me laird," she said, and though Torrin probably couldn’t hear her in his state, Valora still appreciated that she warned him.

Then the stitching began. Inch by inch, Ina sewed the wound, her work slow, steady, and meticulous.

Torrin never fully woke, still in the throes of pain and delirium, but he flinched under every tug of the needle, his breath hitching with pain.

Behind them, the fire burned bright now, its flames casting long shadows across the walls and the stone floor.

Valora held Torrin’s hand, her own trembling.

With her free one, she wiped away the blood that continued to seep out of the wound, so that Ina could see better, making sure she was as gentle as possible.

By the time Ina was done, though, and the wound was stitched, Torrin was burning with fever.

His face shone with sweat, his breathing slow and shallow.

"He’s burnin’," Valora said, letting go of her task to press her hand over his forehead. He was warm, his skin clammy. Exchanging a concerned glance with Ina, Valora wiped some of the sweat off his forehead, but what they needed was cool water.

"I’ll bring some water an’ some cloth," said Ina, thinking the same thing. As she stood, Valora sat there by his side, whispering reassurances in Torrin’s ear—that he would be alright, that he would recover, that nothing bad would happen to him.

It was more for her to hear. It was more for her own sake, her own sanity, but she hoped he, too, could hear her and take some comfort in her words.

When Ina brought the cool water, Valora wetted a piece of cloth and laid it over Torrin’s forehead.

There wasn’t much else that they could do, other than apply some salve to the wound and prepare a potion for him that would hopefully lower the fever.

Once again, as Ina prepared it, Valora stayed by Torrin’s side, trying to keep the creeping panic at bay.

But there was no calming her racing heart.

There was no telling herself that everything would be alright.

One it was decided that there was nothing else for Ina to do and that Valora would watch over him throughout the night, two men came back into the room to take Torrin to his chambers, where he would be more comfortable.

Valora and Ina went with him, making sure the stitches weren’t disrupted and that he was safe and comfortable, and in the end, it was only Valora who was left with him, sitting by his side on the bed to watch over him as he slept.

The castle slept, too, but Valora did not.

She moved between the water basin and the bed with the swift, regular motions of a ritual. A cold cloth to his brow, her eyes checking the wound. Her hands replacing the bandage if blood soaked through. Her lips whispering reassurances. Her mind praying, again and again, for him to open his eyes.

For the whole night, his fever raged. He muttered names—some she recognized and others she didn’t. Noah. Col. Daisy. Then finally, late in the night, when she, too, was almost delirious and half-asleep, one word stopped her dead in her tracks as she brought another wet cloth to the bed.

"Wife."

It was hoarse, ragged, barely a whisper.

Valora froze, the cloth still held tightly in her hands, dripping water on the floor.

Torrin didn’t open his eyes. The word had slipped out of him like a dream without his knowledge, without his permission, as though it simply had to be spoken out loud.

But it hit her in her chest like an arrow, cutting her breath short.

She looked down at him—his face pale, his jaw unshaven, the sweat-dampened strands of his hair curling at the temples.

Never before had he seemed so vulnerable to her.

Valora had always imagined him impervious to harm, indestructible, and yet there he was, burning with fever and battling blood loss.

And yet, the word he spoke, that single word whispered in the night, held the weight of a vow.

Wife.

There was nothing but truth in that word.

Valora’s heart stilled, then thudded painfully in her chest, every beat a sweet agony.

She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and for the first time, she let go of her careful distance.

Every wall she had built, brick by slow brick since the first time her heart was broken, now shattered like glass, rendered fragile and breakable by that one simple word.

And Valora couldn’t help but like the sound it, the way it was spoken by Torrin’s lips.

Please God, keep him alive.