CHAPTER EIGHT
“Iken ‘tis tender, but please try tae hold still, me lady.”
The healer’s voice was calm, practical, and belonged to a woman with sun-kissed skin and ash blonde hair that was neatly braided away from a face that radiated competence. She’d introduced herself as the healer of Uist when Isolda had gone to the small stone building tucked against the castle’s eastern wall.
Isolda winced as Liv’s fingers probed the tender skin around her ankle. “How daes it look?”
“Nae as bad as it could’ve been.” Liv wrapped the joint, her touch gentle despite the firmness of her grip. “Ye’ve been lucky, or stubborn, or both. Most lasses would still be abed with a sprain like this, but here ye are, walkin’ about like naethin’ happened.”
“‘Tis nae entirely by choice.” Isolda watched the bandage take shape, impressed with Liv’s neat, efficient work.
“Aye, yer journey here was definitely nae borin’.” Liv’s hazel eyes flicked up, assessing. “Attacked on the road, dragged across rough seas, carried up a cliff on horseback… ‘Tis quite the welcome tae the Isles.”
Something in her tone made Isolda’s shoulders relax fractionally. “Is that what we’re callin’ it? A welcome?”
“What would ye call it, me lady?”
“A kidnappin’.”
The corner of Liv’s mouth twitched upward. “Fair point. Though… if ye think about it… ye were already promised tae the jarl, and ye came willingly in the end, did ye nae?”
Despite everything, Isolda felt a genuine laugh bubble upward. “Ye’ve certainly got a plain way of lookin’ at things, Liv.”
“So I’ve been told.” She tied off the bandage and sat back on her heels, studying Isolda with an intensity that felt oddly comfortable. Familiar. “There. That should hold if ye dinnae try runnin’ away again.”
Liv stood and moved to a table crowded with clay pots and various dried herbs hanging from the rafters above. “Tea?”
“Please.”
The healer’s quarters were small, but cozy—one main room with a hearth, shelves lined with mysterious bottles and medical tools. There was a narrow bed in the corner that looked like it rarely saw use. The air smelled of lavender, rosemary, and something sharper Isolda couldn’t place her finger on.
“Willow bark and chamomile,” Liv explained, following Isolda’s gaze to the pot she was preparing. “Fer aches and sleepin’. Ye look like ye could use a hearty helpin’ of both, if ye dinnae mind me sayin’ so.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Milady, ye look like a woman who’s been through hell and is tryin’ very hard tae pretend she hasnae.” Liv poured the steaming liquid into two wooden cups and handed one to Isolda. “‘Tis admirable, fer sure. But ye dinnae need tae pretend. Nae in here. I’ve nay interest in reportin’ yer state of mind tae anyone.”
Isolda wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “Why did ye send fer me? Me injuries arenae?—”
“Nae sent. Invited.” Liv settled into the chair opposite, cradling her own cup. “The jarl suggested ye might benefit from proper tendin’, and I agreed. Sprains left unattended can worsen, and ye’ll be needin’ yer strength fer what’s ahead.”
“Fer the weddin’, ye mean.”
“Amongst other things.” Liv took a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving Isolda’s face. “How d’ye like Uist so far?”
The question was so ordinary, so completely normal, that Isolda almost didn’t know how to answer it. “Well, I’ve barely seen it. The keep, the courtyard, me chambers… that’s basically the extent of me acquaintance with the island.”
“Well, that’s a cryin’ shame. Uist’s bonnie in its own, harsh way. All cliffs and grey stone and wind that’ll freeze yer bones if ye’re nae careful. But there’s warmth here too, if ye ken where tae find it.”
“And where would that be?”
“In the people, mostly.” Liv gestured vaguely toward the window, where voices could be heard. “They’re good folk, the ones who call this place home. Loyal. Hardy. Quick tae help a neighbor and slow tae forget a kindness bestowed.”
Isolda studied the woman across from her, trying to determine if this was genuine, or some sort of test. “Ye sound like ye’re tryin tae convince me this is a good place with good people.”
“I’m just tellin’ ye the god’s honest truth about where ye’ll be livin’.” Liv’s expression remained open, honest. “Whether ye think that’s good or nae, well, that’s yer own business, me lady.”
“And the jarl?” The question escaped before Isolda could stop it. “What truth would ye have me ken about him?”