Page 50 of The Guardian

He wanted to protest, to reclaim his pride, but his limbs trembled from the effort of sitting. Still, he managed a faint smile. “I’m no invalid, lass. I can feed myself.”

She gave him a dry look and dipped the spoon into the broth. “Aye, I can see that, ye’re shaking like a leaf. I cannae imagine how much pain ye are in.” Her expression wasn’t one of pity, instead the pinched brow radiated annoyance.

With all the grace of a battlefield surrender, he opened his mouth allowing her to spoon the soup into his mouth.

The broth touched his tongue, warm and savory. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, not just from the pleasure of the food, but from an unidentifiable sensation at how close she was at the moment. Albeit a moment when he wasn’t his best, not exactly the picture of masculinity. Yet, Liam had to admit, he enjoyed admiring the beauty.

“What is yer name?” he asked after another sip.

“I’m called Beitris,” she said, offering him more soup. “I live in Tokavaig.”

Of course he was aware already that she lived somewhere near the village, but her name, he’d not known it. It suited her perfectly.

He studied her as she fed him. Watching the way loose strands of hair framed her delicate features. The way weariness sat at the corners of her mouth and between her brows.

“It’s kind of ye, helping the healers,” he murmured.

“I came to check on one of the warriors,” she said, dipping a piece of bread into the broth. “But once I saw how much work there was to be done, I stayed to help. It felt wrong to do naught.”

Of course. A warrior. Probably the same man from the village.

“What’s his name?” Liam asked, doing his best to sound casual.

“Keir,” she replied, her face brightening. “Ye must ken him. He has served the laird for years.”

Keir. Red-haired, muscular build. Liam remembered him now, not one of his own, but known to him. A good enough man.

“Is he still abed?”

“Aye,” she said. “Recovering from sword wounds. But healing well.”

“He is lucky, then. To have ye looking after him.”

Beitris grinned, mischief softening her fatigue. “My brother finds my hovering a curse. Which means, of course, I do it all the more.”

He blinked. “Brother?”

She nodded. “Aye. I am younger by a year, but he swears I was born to make his life miserable.”

Relief rolled through Liam like a wave lapping the shore’s edge. His lips twitched into something close to a smile. “I’ve a sister myself. Thank the saints she lives far off, or I’d never ken peace.”

Too soon, Beitris handed him a cloth to wipe his mouth and gently helped him recline again. He gritted his teeth against the pain but couldn’t keep the low groan from escaping.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said softly, brushing an unruly curl behind her ear before slipping from the room.

Once she’d gone, Liam called for help to relieve himself, a humbling task. Then he had help shifting positions to avoid sores. Every movement sent fire through his body, and by the time he was settled, he lay panting, damp with sweat. Thankfully, cook brought a hot cider with herbs helped to ease the pain somewhat.

He stared at the rafters above, heart pounding for reasons beyond injury. There was a time not long ago when he would’ve pursued a lass like Beitris without hesitation. A flirtation. A kiss. Perhaps more.

But now?

He flexed his toes, left foot, then right foot. It hurt, but they moved. That small victory burned with hope and dread. Would he walk unassisted again? Ride? Draw a bow?

Would he ever be a warrior again… or had the battlefield claimed more than just his strength?

Liam closed his eyes and pushed the questions aside, choosing instead to focus on the ache in his muscles as he willed them to move.

For now, pain was better than despair. Pain meant he still lived. And tomorrow, she’d return.