Page 21 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

"All of them?" Colin asked without looking up from Morag.

"Aye, me laird. None escaped tae tell Fraser what happened here."

Colin nodded, then looked up at his captain with eyes that burned like coals. "Take the bodies. Hang them from the highest trees on Fraser's border where all can see. Let Ronan Fraser ken what happens tae those who dare touch what belongs tae Clan Armstrong."

"It will be done, me laird."

Colin stood carefully, Morag's unconscious form cradled against his chest. She felt so small, so fragile in his arms, and the rage that had sustained him through the fight now transformed into something deeper and more terrifying—the knowledge of how easily he could have lost her.

"We ride home," he said quietly. "As fast as we can. She needs the healer."

The journey back to the castle felt endless, every mile stretching like an eternity.

Colin held Morag close, whispering to her, willing her to wake, to give him some sign that she was alright.

Behind them, his men rode in grim silence, their duty done but their faces reflecting their laird's anguish.

"Stay with me, lass," he murmured against her hair, his voice rough with emotion. "Just stay with me. We're almost home."

Every few minutes, he checked her pulse, his fingers finding the delicate beat at her throat. It was steady but weak, and her breathing remained worryingly shallow. When her head lolled to one side, he gently repositioned it, supporting her neck with careful hands.

"Come on, Morag," he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her skin was too cool, too pale. "I need ye tae fight whatever they gave ye. I need ye tae come back tae me."

Behind them, his men rode in grim silence, their duty done but their faces reflecting their laird's anguish. Duncan kept glancing over, his weathered features tight with concern for both his laird and lady.

As they crested the final hill before the castle, Colin felt Morag stir slightly in his arms. Her eyelids fluttered, and she made a small sound—not quite consciousness, but something close to it.

"That's it," Colin said urgently, shifting his hold to better support her. "That's me brave lass. Can ye hear me?"

But her eyes closed again, and she went limp once more. Colin's jaw tightened with frustration and fear. Whatever Fraser's men had given her was strong, designed to keep her unconscious for hours.

By the time they reached the castle gates, Colin's arms ached from holding her, but he would not entrust her to anyone else. She was his wife, his responsibility, his heart—and he would never again let her out of his sight.

The castle yard erupted in chaos as Colin thundered through the gates, Morag's unconscious form clutched against his chest. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale as parchment in the torchlight.

"Get the healer!" Colin roared, dismounting without releasing his hold on her. "NOW!"

He strode toward the keep with long, urgent steps, his men scrambling to keep up. In the courtyard, servants appeared with torches and concerned faces, but Colin barely saw them.

"Water!" he barked over his shoulder. "Clean water and cloths! And send someone tae prepare our chamber!"

Inside the great hall, Colin didn't pause. He took the stairs two at a time, Morag's limp form bouncing slightly with each step. Once in their chamber, he laid her carefully on the bed, his hands immediately going to check her pulse again.

"Come on, me love," he whispered, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Look at me. Just look at me."

Her skin was still too pale, her lips slightly blue in the candlelight. Colin grabbed the pitcher of water from the washstand and dampened a cloth, gently dabbing at her face and throat.

"Morag," he said more firmly, patting her cheek with light taps. "Morag, wake up. Ye're safe now. Ye're home."

He lifted her hand, chafing her cold fingers between his warm ones, trying to stimulate circulation. Her fingers were limp, unresponsive, but he didn't stop.

"Stay with me," he commanded, his voice taking on the steel he used with his men. "Ye willnae leave me, Morag Armstrong. Dae ye hear me? Ye willnae leave me."

A serving girl appeared in the doorway with a basin of fresh water and clean linens. "The healer is coming, me laird," she said breathlessly.

"Good. Set it here." Colin indicated the bedside table, never taking his eyes off Morag's face. He wrung out a fresh cloth and began cleaning the dirt and blood from her skin—evidence of her rough treatment that made his hands shake with renewed rage.

"What did they give ye?" he muttered, checking her pupils when he lifted her eyelids. They were dilated, unresponsive to the candlelight. "What poison did those bastards force down yer throat?"

He continued his ministrations, cleaning her face and hands, checking for hidden injuries, all the while keeping up a steady stream of words—sometimes commanding, sometimes pleading, always desperate.

"I should have protected ye better," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Should have kent Fraser would try something like this. But ye're strong, Morag. Stronger than any drug they could give ye. Fight it, lass. Fight yer way back tae me."

Within moments, old Tasgall was bustling into their chamber, his long gray beard swaying as he moved with surprising speed despite his bent frame. The familiar scent of herbs clung to his robes as he approached, his weathered face grave.

Colin stayed out of his way, but only far enough to give the old man room to work. His hand remained on Morag's shoulder, a steady presence, a promise that he wouldn't leave her side until she opened her eyes and spoke his name.

His weathered hands immediately checked Morag's pulse. Tasgall lifted one of Morag's eyelids, peering closely at her pupils before smelling her breath.

Colin paced like a caged wolf, still wearing his bloodstained clothes from the fight. "What's wrong with her?" he demanded. "The bastards didnae have time tae hurt her?—"

"She's been poisoned," Tasgall said grimly, lifting one of Morag's eyelids to peer at her dilated pupils.

"Poison?" Colin's blood ran cold. "How?"

Tasgall's weathered hands moved with practiced efficiency as he examined Morag. Colin remained at her side, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder, the other smoothing damp tendrils of hair back from her fevered brow.

In the candlelight, she looked fragile as spun glass.

Her skin had taken on a waxy pallor that made the dark circles under her eyes appear bruised and deep.

Her lips, normally a soft pink, had turned an alarming shade of blue-tinged gray.

Even unconscious, her breathing was labored, each exhale a soft wheeze that made Colin's chest tighten with fear.

"Look at her skin," Tasgall murmured, gently lifting Morag's hand to examine her fingernails.

They too had a bluish cast, and when he pressed them, the color was slow to return.

"See how clammy she is, how her body trembles even in sleep?

This is the work of nightshade, mixed with something else—poppy milk, perhaps, tae ensure deep unconsciousness. "

Colin's grip tightened unconsciously on Morag's shoulder as he took in the healer's assessment.

Her face, which had been flushed with life and laughter just hours before, now looked like carved marble—beautiful but terrifyingly still.

Her hair, once neatly braided, now spread across the pillow in damp, tangled waves that spoke of her ordeal.

"Her breathing," Colin said, his voice rough with barely controlled panic. "It's too shallow. Too slow."

"Aye," Tasgall confirmed grimly, placing his ear close to her chest to listen. "The poison is suppressing everythin’—her breathin’, her heart rate, her body's natural responses. See how her fingers twitch occasionally? That's her body fightin’ against what is inside her."

Just then, Morag's hand gave a small spasm, her fingers curling briefly before relaxing again. Colin immediately caught her hand in both of his, his thumb stroking over her knuckles.

"She's fightin’," he said fiercely. "She's still fightin’."

"Aye, she is," Tasgall agreed, pulling various vials from his leather satchel. "But we must help her fight. The longer the poison stays in her system, the more damage it can dae."

Colin studied Morag's face desperately, searching for any sign of improvement. Her eyelids fluttered occasionally, as if she were trying to wake, but they never quite opened. When he spoke her name, there was no response, no indication that she could hear him at all.

"What can I dae?" Colin asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "There must be somethin’."

"Keep talking tae her," Tasgall instructed as he began mixing a counter-agent. "Touch her, let her ken ye're there. Sometimes the soul can hear what the body cannot."

Colin needed no further encouragement. He lifted Morag's limp hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to her palm. "I'm here, me love," he murmured against her skin. "I'm right here, and I'm nae leaving. Ye just need tae come back tae me."

About twenty minutes later, Niven appeared in the doorway, his face grim.

"Me laird, thanks the gods ye brought back me lady.

We have a problem. Near twenty of the castle folk are showing the same symptoms—sweating, delirium, weakness.

All of them ate from the evening meal prepared fer the refugees. "

Colin's blood ran cold. "The food?"

"Aye," Niven replied. Both men watched the healer pull small vials from his herb pouch.

Colin's mind raced. He hadn't eaten the communal meal, having taken his food separately with his war council. Most of his soldiers had done the same, eating their rations in the barracks rather than mixing with the refugees.

"The refugees," Colin said grimly. "Fraser men must have been among them."

Niven nodded curtly. "Aye. They poisoned the food, weakened everyone, then struck. Clever, if nae ruthless."