Page 41 of Ruining a Highland Healer
"Aye," Alban agreed. "An’ the Frasers an’ any other allies we can gather. If we are tae spill first blood, then we must be prepared, an’ the only way tae prepare against the MacNeacail forces is tae have as many soldiers as we can."
As far as Alban knew, Torrin Gunn and Valora MacNeacail had not yet wedded. If he managed to attack on time, if he gathered his forces soon enough, then perhaps he could catch Laird Gunn without any reinforcements—and then the war would be brutal and swift.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the door, and lightning flashed brightly through the windows. Outside, the rain fell in continuous sheets, and thunder echoed faintly over the hills. The storm raged; it seemed like a cruel omen to Alban, but one that signified that Laird Gunn had to heed, not him.
Donnach took a deep breath, fastening his cloak. "We’ll start preparations."
"I’m comin’ with ye," said Alban, grabbing his own cloak and securing it around his neck.
"In this storm, me laird?" asked Muir. "Ye should stay here an’ depart once it’s dry."
"An’ leave ye two fools tae manage this?" Alban scoffed, shaking his head. He had made that mistake once and he was not about to repeat it. "I dinnae think so. I will come with ye an’ I will take care o’ this meself."
Silently, the two men stepped away, but Alban remained behind for a moment longer, staring into the flickering flames of the candle that stood on his table. He saw not the fire, but the map in his head—the glens and hills between his lands and Clan Gunn’s, the choke points where the battles would be fought, the shores that MacNeacail soldiers could reach on their boats.
War had always been his goal. Now he simply had to win it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the great hall, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, loud with conversation. Valora sat back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup absentmindedly. Her gaze often drifted to Torrin, seated across from her, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the room with a vigilance that seemed out of place amid the laughter and chatter.
She noticed it then—the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as if the weight of the world was resting upon him. The truth was that it probably was. He had so much on his mind, so many things to consider those days, that it seemed almost impossible for him to be relaxed. Still, concern furrowed her brow, and she leaned forward, her voice a soft whisper under the clinking of silverware.
"Is somethin’ troublin’ ye, me laird?"
Torrin met her gaze, his lips curling into a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It’s naethin’. Dinnae fash, Miss MacNeacail."
But Valora wasn't convinced. She could tell there was something bothering him; something that went past the normal tension he held, and which he didn’t want to reveal to her for some reason.
"Please," she insisted gently. "If somethin’ is the matter?—"
Torrin hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against the table as he seemed to search for the right words. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken burdens.
"It's just… me neck," he admitted reluctantly. "Bein’ tall, I spend much o’ me time looking’ down, an’ it's taken its toll. Now, sleepin’ on the ground only worsens it."
A pang of guilt speared through Valora at the thought that Torrin was in such great discomfort—enough for her to notice—all because she wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed with her. At first, she had had good reason; they hadn’t known each other back then, on that first night. But she could trust him now; she didn’t need him to sleep on the floor.
"Ye should have said somethin’ sooner," she chided softly. "Ye dinnae have tae endure this."
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It's naething, truly. I dinnae wish tae burden ye."
"Ye willnae," Valora assured him, but then fell silent after that. Then, once they were finished with dinner and headed up to his chambers, as they did every night, she searched through the few belongings she had in the room for something Ina had given her for her back pain. It was a small jar of salve, something Ina had prepared specifically for her, and when she found it in the drawer, she turned to Torrin with a triumphant smile.
“Here it is!” she said, holding up the small jar for Torrin to see. “This should help ye feel better.”
“Ach, I dinnae wish tae impose,” Torrin said, hesitant, but Valora wasn’t having any of it.
"Ye willnae," she assured him, her tone firm yet gentle. "Please. Allow me."
With a resigned sigh, Torrin began to undo his shirt and once all the laces were untied, he tossed it to the side of the bed.
"Lie down," Valora instructed, her voice soft but firm, so that there was no room for further argument.
Torrin hesitated only for a moment before settling onto the bed on his stomach. The sight of his broad shoulders and the expanse of his back stirred something within Valora, something so intense it was almost primal, but she pushed the feeling aside. This was about helping him, nothing more—or at least so she told herself.
Focusing on the task at hand, she warmed the salve between her hands and began to massage it into the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, kneading the knots and soothing the tightness. Torrin's breath hitched at the first touch, a low groan escaping his lips.
It was more intimate, more arousing than it had any right to be. Valora felt her cheeks heat uncomfortably, desire coiling deep within her; a desire that she desperately tried to ignore, hoping Torrin wouldn’t notice.
