Page 49 of Ruining a Highland Healer
The man raised his blade for the killing blow. Then, Noah barreled into him, unstoppable, vicious, knocking the Keith soldier back. The two clashed, Noah’s blade driving down with grim efficiency. Before Torrin knew it, the Keith soldier was dead, falling to the ground without so much as a sound.
"Can ye walk?" Noah asked.
"I can fight," Torrin snarled.
The camp had fallen into utter chaos. Dead men lay on the ground, though many Gunn soldiers still stood, despite their injuries. The Keiths, though outnumbering them, had lost cohesion, and were struggling to fall back into formation in the face of an enemy for whom they weren’t prepared.
Torrin looked for Valora again—only to find her kicked to the ground, a boot on her back. Her screams were muffled by the gag, but the terror in her eyes was palpable. And the moment he saw her like this was the moment he lost all control; the moment when no pain mattered as his body flooded with adrenaline and he barreled into the man, shoving him right off Valora.
Torrin didn’t hesitate; he brought his blade down, pushing it straight through the man’s ribs before he could do anything to react or stop him. It took only moments for the man to fall to the ground, dead, and it was only then that Torrin allowed himself to collapse, too, the last of his strength leaving him.
He fell to his knees beside Valora, cutting her bonds with the dirk he held with trembling, bloodied hands. The moment she was freed, Valora reached for him, trying to steady him, but Torrin could only fall forward, blood still gushing from his wound. Valora, with a firm yet still gentle hand, pressed against the wound, her entire body trembling as she leaned close.
"Torrin!"
He didn’t answer; he couldn’t. He simply collapsed forward, gripping her hand. Blood soaked her skirts. She swiftly tore a strip from her hem and pressed it to his side, her hands slick with it, her skin stained red. In the distance, Torrin could hear Noah’s voice, ringing out loudly over the valley.
"Clear the way! Gather the wounded! We’re goin’ home!"
All around him, the soldiers scrambled to follow Noah’s orders, gathering the wounded and loading up the horses. But all Torrin could do was push himself to his feet, using every last bit of strength that remained within him to pull Valora along and guide her towards his horse.
"What are ye daein’?" she demanded. "Ye’re wounded!"
"I can still ride," Torrin assured her. "Come, let us go."
Valora looked dubiously at the hand offered to her and decided to jump on the horse on her own; Torrin would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad about it. His strength was being siphoned out of him with every passing moment and he just had enough to pull himself onto the saddle, eager to get out of that place.
Now that he knew Valora was safe, he could finally rest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The rain had begun to fall in earnest by the time Valora and the men thundered through the gates of Halberry Castle. Mud coated their boots, their cloaks, and blood stained their hands. Behind her on the saddle, Torrin clung to the horse, his blood-soaked tunic sticking to the deep gash at his side. Now that they were inside castle walls, they were led by one of the guards, and the young man held the reins of the horse gently, as if afraid a sudden movement might finish what the enemy sword had started.
Instead of taking him inside the keep, Valora dismounted and had two of the guards take Torrin to the healer’s cottage. She didn’t think they had the time to get everything to Torrin’s room. He needed to be there, in that cottage, where Ina had access to everything she would need.
"Ina!" Valora’s voice rang through the courtyard as they approached the healer’s cottage, cutting through the rising chaos as more and more guards and servants realized what hadhappened and came out of their quarters to watch. "We need the healer! Now!"
Ina was already hurrying out of the cottage, her skirts gathered in one hand. Her hair was pulled up into a quick bun, just enough to keep it out of her face, and her sleeves had been pushed up to keep them clean of blood.
She didn’t hesitate for a single moment. There was a quiet strength to her, a determination that Valora couldn’t help but admire, and it didn’t matter to her if her patient was a common soldier or the laird—she was just as calm, just as in charge.
"Bring him into the cottage," she commanded. "Place him close tae the fire. Someone fetch boiled water an’ then leave me."
"I’m nae leavin’ him," Valora said, voice steady, leaving no room for arguments.
Ina glanced at Valora dubiously, but she didn’t argue. There was no time. She knew Torrin needed her help, and that was more important than any argument.
"I’ll help," Valora promised. "I ken how."
Though she still didn’t seem entirely convinced, Ina gave a firm nod. "Very well. We must be quick. He looks like he’s lost a lot o’ blood."
"He has," Valora confirmed as the soldiers brought Torrin into the room. The cottage was small, but packed to the ceiling with jars of ointments and concoctions, books, papers, and drying herbs. The smell of lavender was thick in the air, seemingly permeating every single item in its path.
Within minutes, Torrin was laid out on a bed. His wound was deep—a jagged gash torn across the left side of his abdomen, dangerously close to the ribs. Blood had soaked through the cloth on the ride back, and his skin was deathly pale, drenched in sweat.
Once they had laid him on the bed, the soldiers worked on stoking the fire and placing a pot of water on the stove to heat it up. Valora sat next to Torrin, waiting for them with bated breath, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. As she sat there, she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows, her hands slick with his blood. The moment the men brought the pot over, along with a basin, she and Ina got to work, with her holding it while Ina cleaned the wound.
On the bed, Torrin groaned, half-conscious, half-delirious, and she leaned closer to try and hear what he was saying.
