Page 57 of A Highlander’s Heart

He glanced at Morgan and said, “Keep pressing hard on her wound.”

Morgan nodded and pressed the linen hard against her chest and brushed the hair from her forehead. He could see trickles of blood running down from the wound, his eyes never leaving her chest.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

*

“It’s been three bluidy days!”

Morgan glared at Marcus Oliphant, who regarded the laird with a sympathetic look. With his laird’s permission, the healer had agreed to not leave with his clan after meeting their healer, Margaret, and finding her unable to monitor Emma’s recovery to his liking.

“Yer healer needs a lot of training, my laird,” the young man had said. “I canno’ leave yer wife in her care.”

“Then ye will stay,” Morgan said. The man had nodded, offering no protest.

The Oliphant laird had laid down his sword after Patrick’s death. The men camped out in front of the castle left the next day after Morgan was convinced they meant no harm and had merely been relying on Patrick’s promises.

However, he had his men watch them and sent a group to follow them all the way to their land.

“That is no’ long for a fever, Laird,” Marcus had replied gently before leaving to attend to a young lad who most likely needed stitches in his arm, according to the maid who helped him into the healing hut.

Morgan ran that conversation through his mind as his fingers slid through his hair and he studied Emma. At least she had awakened before the fever had arrived, so he knew she hadn’t died from the stab wound.

Then the fever had set in and he was frantic again. Marcus was compassionate with him while they waited for Emma to wake up. He also spent time with Margaret, patiently teaching her various things about healing.

The two of them spent time in the garden, with him showing her the various plants and herbs she needed to be an effective healer. It was what Emma should have been able to do, if Morgan had just paid attention and noticed how she’d been rejected by his clan because of Patrick and Maisie’s poisonous lies. Now it was too late.

Nay. She would recover and she would teach the girl the ways of a healer and this would be behind them. It had to be so…

“Morgan.” Her voice, scratchy, hoarse, low, rose from the bed.

He hopped from the chair he’d been sitting in for days watching Emma. His heart racing, he leaned over the bed and looked into her eyes, the most beautiful, deep-hazel eyes he’d ever seen. “Ye are awake, love.” He reached for the cloth in the bowl beside the bed and swiped at her sweating face, much as she had when he’d had his fever.

“Aye. Why is it so hot in here?” She swallowed.

Morgan looked over at the young maid who had just brought up a mug of ale for him. “Find the healer.”

She nodded, placed the mug on the table next to the bed, and left the room.

“I think I’m hot because my fever is gone,” Emma said.

He ran his finger down her no-longer hot cheek. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, lass.”

“Aye. When yer body is starting a fever, ye feel cold and shiver. Once the fever breaks, ye feel like ye need to cool off.”

He studied her as she talked and just shook his head, both amazed and grateful to see her alive and giving him instructions.

“I’m verra thirsty,” she said.

He could hear the dryness in her throat and walked away from the bed to the table where the mug of ale stood.

She frowned. “Who has been taking care of me? Margaret?”

Now that she seemed to be doing better, he relaxed and actually smiled. “Nay. I’m afraid Margaret is no’ capable of handling the healing by herself just yet.”

Emma nodded. “Aye. I was starting to teach her when she decided she dinna need my help.” She shrugged, then winced.

Morgan understood her pain; how often had he moved in a normal way only to feel a stab of unexpected pain while he healed? Now he handed her the mug of ale and wondered if a tonic would help her. “Marcus said if ye woke up ye should only take sips.”