Page 117 of A Scot on the Rocks

Jamie listened to the cart rattle down the lower road. He’d have liked a cup of whisky, but Olivia had taken possession of his good arm and was looking at him in a way that suggested she might personally prevent him from drinking for the rest of the winter.

Behind the wall, Morag emerged with her dented iron pan and surveyed the rubble scattered about the hall. “I hope somebody had the wit to put the water on for tea.”

“An inspired performance,” Jamie told her, though he was having to work rather hard to stand straight. “Ye nearly frightened me into confession.”

“Then there’s still hope for ye.”

Above them, the ghost’s bell rang once, delicate and clear. The ropes were supposed to have been stilled, and Jamie looked toward the tower in puzzlement, but no one offered an explanation. He might have asked, had Olivia not turned to Ewan for clean linen just as the floor seemed to shift beneath his boots.

Jamie reached for the bench. His fingers missed the edge the first time, and when he caught it on the second, the hall was tilting much too far to be trusted. He tried to call out to Olivia, but she was already turning, her cloak swinging around her legs as she hurried toward him.

Chapter 25

Jamie

For the better part of his life, Jamie had believed a little blood was a tolerable price for getting away with something worthwhile. He’d reconsidered the opinion when Olivia caught him beneath his sound arm and demanded that he sit before he toppled into the hearth. There was blood down the side of his coat, grit in his hair, and a pain beneath his shoulder that made every attempt at a clever remark seem an extravagant use of breath.

“Sit,” she said again, and this time he obeyed. Ewan pulled the bench nearer the hearth, while outside villagers were calling to one another as they checked the lower road for any sign of the officers returning. The castle seemed full of movement, yet Olivia remained in front of him with both hands pressed around the shawl, her eyes fixed upon the blood seeping through it.

“It’s a graze, lass,” he told her. “I’ve had worse from a stubborn nail.”

“Then I hope you had the sense to pull the nail out.” Her voice was steady, but she worked the shawl into place with more care than anger. “Ewan, hold this here. Firmly. I’m going for the healer.”

“Olivia—”

She met his eyes then, and whatever he meant to say disappeared. “I saw him fire, Jamie. I saw you fall. You can make jests when somebody tells me you’re going to be all right.”

He wanted to follow her as she hurried from the hall, though rising made the room swim. Ewan set a firm hand on his good shoulder and kept pressure on the wound with the other. The two men had weathered enough bad roads, arrests narrowly escaped, and foolish ventures to know when silence served better than conversation. But when Jamie heard Olivia’s pony being brought around in the yard, he turned toward the door. He’d frightened her badly. Worse, he’d done it while there was unfinished business between them that no amount of wit would mend.

The healer was a broad-shouldered woman with strong hands, a leather bag, and very little patience for men who claimed they felt perfectly well while turning gray around the mouth.

Olivia came in behind her with wet skirts and mud halfway up her boots, and Jamie saw the way she stopped to study his face before taking off her cloak. He gave her a smile. She didn’t return it until the healer announced that the ball had grazed the upper arm, leaving torn flesh and a formidable bruise but no obvious broken bone. She cleaned and dressed the wound, checked his ribs, and prescribed rest with a severity that suggested the king himself would struggle to disobey her.

“At least a week without lifting anything heavy,” the healer said.

“A week?” Jamie protested. “The east roof⁠—”

“Will remain exactly where it is. If it does not, I suggest sleeping somewhere else.”

After the healer had gone, the villagers followed shortly thereafter, a few looking around nervously which made Olivia smile.

Alasdair had counted the hidden casks and returned with the good news that Robertson’s men hadn’t found anything worth carrying away.

Olivia rinsed his shirt in water from the kettle, hung his wet coat away from the heat, and argued with Alasdair about where to store the lanterns in case the officers returned. She also avoided sitting close enough for Jamie to reach her hand.

Near midnight, when they were finally alone, he found her in the narrow passage outside the kitchen, holding the shawl she’d used to stop his bleeding. She’d washed it, but a faint rust-colored mark remained along one edge.

“Ye’ve cleaned that twice,” Jamie said.

“It’s still stained.” She scowled at him. “I love this shawl, and the blood had better come out, Jamie Campbell.”

“Olivia.”

She looked up and her composure lasted only until she saw the sling around his arm, and then she folded the shawl carefully and set it on the table.

“I know you’re going to be fine. But when that musket went off, I couldn’t tell where he’d hit you. There was so much blood, and for a few seconds I thought⁠—”

She stopped, looking toward the rain beyond the doorway.