Page 22 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

Tasgall began mixing a remedy. He looked up at Colin with eyes that had seen too much death. "Yer wife took a heavy dose, me laird. She was helping serve the meal, and likely got more than most when she tasted it fer seasoning."

The healer's hands moved with steady precision despite his age, measuring herbs with the same calm detachment he'd shown through countless crises. "She'll live, but she will need tae be under observation fer the next few hours."

Colin clenched his fists, rage and guilt warring in his chest.

The full scope of the plan hit Colin like a physical blow.

The attack on the settlement, the refugees streaming into the castle, the poisoned food that would incapacitate the guards and inhabitants—it had all been orchestrated.

Fraser hadn't just wanted to kidnap Morag; he'd wanted to cripple the entire castle from within.

"How many others are we talking about?" Colin asked, his voice deadly quiet.

"Twenty-three souls, including Lady Armstrong. Some of the children are in a bad way, me laird."

Colin turned back to Tasgall, who was already preparing herbs and tinctures. "Can ye help them?"

"Aye, but it'll take time. The poison's in their blood now, and we'll need tae flush it out slowly. Too fast, and we could kill them."

If I hadn't taken that damned sleeping draught...

But there was no time for self-recrimination now. His wife needed him, and Fraser would pay for this treachery.

Colin looked down at his torn and bloodstained clothes, suddenly aware of the gore covering him from the fight. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, and he realized he couldn't tend to Morag properly in this state.

"I need tae clean up," he said reluctantly, his eyes never leaving Morag's face.

"Aye," Tasgall nodded, not looking up from his preparations. "But be quick about it. She'll need ye close when the fever starts in earnest."

Colin moved with swift efficiency, stripping off his ruined shirt and washing the blood from his hands and face with water from the basin.

The cut on his cheek from the Fraser's dagger stung as he cleaned it, but he barely noticed the pain.

All his attention was focused on the shallow rise and fall of Morag's chest, the only sign that she was still fighting.

Fighting hard to keep his emotions in check, he pulled on a clean shirt and returned to her side immediately, taking up his vigil in the chair Tasgall had positioned beside the bed.

The old healer moved quietly about the chamber, organizing his supplies and preparing various tinctures, but Colin barely registered his presence.

Through the long night, Colin did not leave Morag's side.

He held cool cloths to her fevered brow when the sweats began, dabbing gently at her temples and throat as her body fought to expel the poison.

As Tasgall instructed him, for he had to go check on the other victims of the poisoning, he spooned small amounts of the antidote between her pale lips, tilting her head carefully to help her swallow the bitter medicine.

"Come on, me love," he murmured during one such moment, his fingers stroking her throat to encourage swallowing. "Just a little more. It'll help ye fight this."

Her breathing remained shallow but steady, and as the hours passed, slowly the deathly pallor began to fade from her cheeks. The blue tinge left her lips, replaced by a more natural color, though she remained deeply unconscious.

"She's stronger than she looks," Tasgall observed quietly as he checked her pulse near dawn. "She had more of the poison than the others. Many wouldnae have survived what they gave her."

"She's been bred tough," Colin replied, pride and fear warring in his voice.

"Aye, and she's got something tae fight fer now," the healer said with a meaningful look at Colin. "Sometimes that makes all the difference."

As pale morning light began to filter through the chamber windows, Colin felt exhaustion weighing on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

But he didn't close his eyes, didn't allow himself even a moment's rest. Every few minutes, he checked her pulse, monitored her breathing, whispered words of encouragement that he prayed would somehow reach her.

"Dinnae ye dare leave me," he said fiercely as the sun began to rise. "Nae when we're just beginnin’ tae find our way tae each other. Fight, Morag. Fight yer way back tae me."

Near dawn, Niven appeared in the doorway, his weathered face etched with exhaustion and guilt. "Me laird? Ye called fer me?"

Colin looked up from where he sat beside the bed, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. "Aye. I want tae make sure naething like this ever happens again." His voice was hoarse but determined. "From now on, before anyone enters these walls, they'll be checked—every person, every belongin’."

Niven's shoulders sagged slightly. "Aye, me laird." He paused, then added quietly, "I'm sorry, Colin. This is on me. I let me heart rule me head when I saw those families, and it nearly cost ye yer wife and many others."

"We both did what we thought was right," Colin replied, though his tone made it clear the conversation was over. "Just make sure it daesnae happen again."

As Niven nodded and withdrew, Colin turned back to Morag, gently brushing a strand of golden hair from her face. She was his responsibility now, his to protect, and he'd failed her once. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

Consciousness came to Morag in fragments, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting glimpses of reality. Colin's voice, rough with exhaustion, calling her name from somewhere far away. The taste of bitter herbs on her tongue. Cool cloth against her burning forehead.

She tried to open her eyes, to tell him she was all right, but the effort felt enormous.

Her eyelids fluttered, and for a moment she glimpsed his face—haggard, unshaven, his eyes dark with worry.

She wanted to reach for him, to smooth away the lines of torment etched around his mouth, but her hand wouldn't obey.

I'm here, she tried to say, but no sound emerged. The darkness pulled her back under.

Time became meaningless. Sometimes she surfaced to find Tasgall's gnarled hands checking her pulse, his herb-scented presence a comfort in the haze. Other times it was Colin speaking to her in low, urgent tones, his words too muffled to understand but the desperation in his voice clear enough.

There was something important she needed to remember, something that pulled at the edges of her consciousness like a lifeline. She had to wake up. She had to tell Colin... what? The memory danced just beyond her reach, but the urgency of it kept drawing her back toward the surface.

Finally, mercifully, her eyes opened and stayed open. The world came into focus slowly—familiar stone walls, afternoon light streaming through their chamber window, and Colin's beloved face hovering anxiously above hers.

"How long have I been out?" she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

Relief flooded his features so completely that she wondered if he'd been holding his breath for days. "A couple of days. Ye gave me quite a scare, lass."

"I could hear ye," she said softly, remembering those tortured fragments. "I wanted tae tell ye I was all right, but I couldnae..."

Colin's hand found hers, his fingers trembling slightly as they intertwined with hers. "Ye're here now. That's all that matters.

Fragments of memory returned—the strange weakness in her limbs, the men in their chamber, the crash of the vase. "What happened? I remember... men in our room, but everything was so hazy."

Colin's jaw tightened as he explained. "Fraser men. They'd poisoned the evening meal when we fed the refugees, then struck when everyone was weakened. They took ye, but we got ye back." His hand found hers, squeezing gently. "Tasgall says ye'll be fine, but ye need rest."

"The others? The people who ate the meal?"

"Most are recovering. A few are still poorly, but none have died, thank God."

Colin glanced toward the door where she could hear the distant sounds of castle activity. "I need tae get back tae work—there's much tae be done after this. But I wanted tae be here when ye woke."

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, the tender gesture making her heart flutter. His lips lingered there for a moment, warm and reassuring, before he pulled back.

"Rest," he murmured. "That's an order from yer husband."

Morag nodded, and after Colin had shut the door behind him, she found herself smiling at his attempt at lightness.

Three days later, Morag was finally strong enough to venture beyond their chamber. The castle felt different. It was charged with an underlying tension that hadn't been there before. As she made her way through the corridors, she noticed the changes immediately.

Guards stood at every entrance, their eyes sharp and alert.

Where once there had been two men at the gates, there were four.

The great hall, which had buzzed with the chatter of refugees, was quieter now, though she could still see some of the displaced families huddled together, several still pale and weak from the poisoning.

In the kitchens, she found Sheena. The older woman looked up as Morag entered, her face brightening with relief.

"Me lady! Thank the saints ye're up and about. We've all been worried sick."

"How are the others?" Morag asked, noting how even there, there were more guards than usual posted near the food stores.

"Most are on the mend. The children recovered the fastest, thank God." Sheena's expression grew grim. "The laird's nae taking any chances now. Every bit of food is tested, every person checked before they enter. Can't say I blame him after what happened."