led into battle. She was lauded for her nursing skills and her bedside manner, which stung even more. Of course he sent his men to her to be mended; she was the best damn healer he’d ever seen.
And that was about all the amount of niceties he’d extend. Why had he been the only unlucky fellow to have encountered her waspish side?
He would never be caught openly acknowledging the bonniness of her face. The way her chin curved into a petite point or the way her eyebrows arched delicately over her mesmerizing eyes. Eyes that were the most incredible amber color.
Bloody hell.
Every time he looked at Annie, every time she smiled, he saw that derisive sneer she’d flashed at him the night he’d tried to help her. He’d seen a side of her he was certain no one else had, and he’d run as far as he bloody could—after making sure she was safely taken care of, that was.
He wasn’t a complete monster.
But he was quite all right with her believing he was, if that meant she’d stay the hell away from him.
“Is the pottage breakfast no’ agreeing with ye?” Graham’s teasing voice cut through Craig’s thoughts.
He snorted. “I’ve an iron stomach, lad.”
“Lad? I think I’ve got a year or two on ye. And ye forget we’ve been living together on campaign for months. Bean pottage is no’ your friend, mate.”
Craig snickered. “Are ye saying that ye’re in need of a latrine?”
“Debatable.”
Craig was glad for his friend’s distraction. Though he didn’t want to talk about beans or what happened after he ate them.
“Annie’s sure to have a hearty meal for the lot of us this evening.” Graham sounded so wistful, as though he were talking about something more fantastical than food. Like the war ending with Prince Charles Stuart sitting on the throne. Now that was something to long for.
Craig’s smile faded, and he nodded, having hoped to avoid any further conversation about Graham’s chit of a sister.
“I’m honored to be your guest.” This much was true.
“Honored?” Graham let out a guffaw. “Ye’re my brother in arms, mate.”
While they’d known each other for years, they’d become closer friends after having saved each other’s arses at the battle at Falkirk the January past.
“I’m certain Logan will want to spar with ye,” Graham was saying of his younger brother, who’d been sent home from the front with a grave injury. “And Annie, she’ll be there to sew ye up.”
Craig laughed, but only half-heartedly. If he had his way, he’d keep Annie the length of a jousting stick away from him—preferably farther—at all times.
* * *
Some said that the measure of a man was the sum of his parts. His courage, his honor, his strength. But what was the measure of a woman? Her ability to be a mother? A wife? To be sweet and obedient? To run a household without faltering? If these were the elements by which Annie MacPherson were to be measured, then she would fail. She was used to that. She’d failed at many things in her life. She wasn’t as skilled with a sword as her friend Jenny. Nor was she as brave as her friend Fiona, who dared the woods at night alone to deliver important messages. Annie was also not a mother and certainly had never been a wife, though the topic had come up more than a time or two.
But if she were to be a wife, then there would be just another person to tell her she could no longer spend her time in barracks full of wounded men or attending those on campaign, sleeping in tents surrounded by soldiers. A healer’s job seemed risqué to some. Those were the ignorant folks who didn’t see her when she was up to her elbows in blood.
Running a household was easy; that was perhaps the only thing she hadn’t failed at, but she didn’t enjoy the work. And sweet and obedient? The answer to that depended on who was asked. She had been the light in her father’s eyes and could do no wrong by him, whereas her mother had always seemed to be huffing and puffing when Annie was in attendance.
Annie stood in the great hall of Cullidunloch Castle, arms crossed over her chest, surveying the work that had been done under her direction. She was surprised she’d been able to pull it off in so short a time. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d been riding hell-bent for leather from Inverness. Now, here she