he simply stared at Alan as his three children bustled about, heating water and gathering cloths to clean Alan’s wound while Mary MacNab snapped instructions at them.
“Lie down now.” Stewart’s voice was firmer this time, and Alan obeyed. He was in no mood to argue with his father-in-law, and his back burned like fire.
“This’ll hurt like you’ve fallen into the rivers of hell,” Mary MacNab pronounced gleefully.
“It already does,” Alan grumbled.
If he managed to survive her brutal ministrations, at least it was likely the wound wouldn’t fester. Despite her cruelty, the villagers believed Mary MacNab’s magic could ward off all manner of infection. For that reason only, he’d suffer through whatever torture Mary MacNab had planned for him. He needed his health in order to rescue his wife.
Mary snorted. “Like all the sniveling members of yer sex, ye have no understanding of true pain.”
He turned his head to the side to see her sneering at him.
“Is that so?” he mused aloud, wondering if the agony of watching your wife being dragged away by your closest friend qualified as true pain. He’d never experienced anything so brutal. The thought of a witch like Mary MacNab stabbing a needle into his flesh suddenly didn’t seem so daunting.
“Indeed. You men weep like babes at the merest twitch.”
He sighed. “Just get it over with.”
Mary glanced across the room at Sorcha’s sister, who was busy near the fire. “Moira, lass. Ye wanted to learn more about stitching deep wounds. So watch. And you, boy”—she pointed a crooked finger at Charles, the youngest of the Stewarts—“get to boiling that butter as I directed ye.”
Charles retrieved a pot and hurried to the hearth, and Moira, Stewart’s second-eldest child after Sorcha, nodded and came to stand beside Mary. Moira was a cheerful, freckled splash of sunlight with long, dark auburn hair. She watched in fascination as Mary began to scrub away the blood with a coarse cloth. Alan gritted his teeth against the pain.
At the first jab of the needle into his skin, Alan stiffened and closed his eyes. He would not think on the agony of it. Instead he’d think about Sorcha dancing at their wedding earlier tonight, her green eyes sparkling, her skirts lifted up past her ankles. Just looking at her had made his heart soar to new heights.
When Alan was eight years old, his father had died. By the time he was nine, his mother had decided to return to her childhood home in England. Alan had grown up there, raised by his mother and his English grandfather, but he had always known one day he’d return to the Highlands, where he’d acknowledge his birthright as laird of the MacDonalds of the Glen.
He’d gone to school, suffered the taunts of the English boys, and then he’d met Cam. . . .
“That’s it, lass.”
Moira’s needle gently burrowed into his flesh. Somehow the idea of her wielding the nasty-looking implement was more comforting than the thought of Mary MacNab with it.
Cam and he had made quite a pair of dissolute bachelors in Oxford. They’d indulged in all manner of debauchery and enjoyed every second of it. They had drunkenly dragged each other out of brothels more times than either of them could count. They’d shared women, passed women back and forth, fucked one woman together. . . .
And then Cam’s father had died in January, and Cam returned here to assume his duties as the new earl. After Cam left London, Alan heard from his uncle, who’d taken on the duties of laird while Alan remained in England. While his uncle hadn’t said anything outright, Alan had read between the lines. His uncle was aging, and his duties growing too heavy to bear. The quickly escalating political tension was simply too much for him to manage.
Alan’s return was long overdue. He was no longer a dissolute young buck of London; he was a man with a legacy and the responsibility that came with it. That meant going home, leading his clan,
“Lie down now.” Stewart’s voice was firmer this time, and Alan obeyed. He was in no mood to argue with his father-in-law, and his back burned like fire.
“This’ll hurt like you’ve fallen into the rivers of hell,” Mary MacNab pronounced gleefully.
“It already does,” Alan grumbled.
If he managed to survive her brutal ministrations, at least it was likely the wound wouldn’t fester. Despite her cruelty, the villagers believed Mary MacNab’s magic could ward off all manner of infection. For that reason only, he’d suffer through whatever torture Mary MacNab had planned for him. He needed his health in order to rescue his wife.
Mary snorted. “Like all the sniveling members of yer sex, ye have no understanding of true pain.”
He turned his head to the side to see her sneering at him.
“Is that so?” he mused aloud, wondering if the agony of watching your wife being dragged away by your closest friend qualified as true pain. He’d never experienced anything so brutal. The thought of a witch like Mary MacNab stabbing a needle into his flesh suddenly didn’t seem so daunting.
“Indeed. You men weep like babes at the merest twitch.”
He sighed. “Just get it over with.”
Mary glanced across the room at Sorcha’s sister, who was busy near the fire. “Moira, lass. Ye wanted to learn more about stitching deep wounds. So watch. And you, boy”—she pointed a crooked finger at Charles, the youngest of the Stewarts—“get to boiling that butter as I directed ye.”
Charles retrieved a pot and hurried to the hearth, and Moira, Stewart’s second-eldest child after Sorcha, nodded and came to stand beside Mary. Moira was a cheerful, freckled splash of sunlight with long, dark auburn hair. She watched in fascination as Mary began to scrub away the blood with a coarse cloth. Alan gritted his teeth against the pain.
At the first jab of the needle into his skin, Alan stiffened and closed his eyes. He would not think on the agony of it. Instead he’d think about Sorcha dancing at their wedding earlier tonight, her green eyes sparkling, her skirts lifted up past her ankles. Just looking at her had made his heart soar to new heights.
When Alan was eight years old, his father had died. By the time he was nine, his mother had decided to return to her childhood home in England. Alan had grown up there, raised by his mother and his English grandfather, but he had always known one day he’d return to the Highlands, where he’d acknowledge his birthright as laird of the MacDonalds of the Glen.
He’d gone to school, suffered the taunts of the English boys, and then he’d met Cam. . . .
“That’s it, lass.”
Moira’s needle gently burrowed into his flesh. Somehow the idea of her wielding the nasty-looking implement was more comforting than the thought of Mary MacNab with it.
Cam and he had made quite a pair of dissolute bachelors in Oxford. They’d indulged in all manner of debauchery and enjoyed every second of it. They had drunkenly dragged each other out of brothels more times than either of them could count. They’d shared women, passed women back and forth, fucked one woman together. . . .
And then Cam’s father had died in January, and Cam returned here to assume his duties as the new earl. After Cam left London, Alan heard from his uncle, who’d taken on the duties of laird while Alan remained in England. While his uncle hadn’t said anything outright, Alan had read between the lines. His uncle was aging, and his duties growing too heavy to bear. The quickly escalating political tension was simply too much for him to manage.
Alan’s return was long overdue. He was no longer a dissolute young buck of London; he was a man with a legacy and the responsibility that came with it. That meant going home, leading his clan,
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