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H er arms felt leaden. They sagged to her sides no matter how hard she tried to grip the cloth and bathe the faces of the sick.

With effort born of desperation, Aileana pulled the basin and dipped the piece of rag again.

She let the cool, minted water drizzle over Nora’s neck and chest, praying in the never-ending litany of the past four days for God to spare the people of Eilean Donan from further ravages of the plague.

Eighteen had died thus far. Old Jehana had succumbed, as had Floraidh and Fergus and several of the other men who’d stayed behind when Duncan left more than a fortnight ago to raid the MacLennans.

But little William had lived. And if means existed, she’d make sure that Nora and the rest survived as well.

“Missy, why don’t you take a rest now? There’s some cold mutton waiting in the kitchens,” Bridgid cajoled, her eyes looking as weary as Aileana felt. “You need to keep up your strength. You cannot keep working without respite.”

“I’ll not be leaving you alone to do all the tending.” But even as she spoke, Aileana couldn’t prevent her traitorous mind from leaping at the prospect of sleep. She shook her head, trying to clear away the fuzzy feeling, and the bailie clucked her tongue and muttered.

As Bridgid went on her way to another patient, she stumbled, and Aileana frowned. Bridgid was exhausted, too. Neither of them had taken much rest in the days since the plague struck the clan. There’d been too much work to do, and after the first twelve hours, too many sick to tend.

Pushing back the sleeves of her tunic, Aileana moved on to young Kenneth; he’d fallen sick just yesterday.

After a quick examination for swellings, she repeating the cooling process she’d administered to Nora.

They’d converted the great hall to a kind of infirmary, since there wasn’t already a chamber for that purpose on the castle compound.

Aileana made a mental note to insist that Duncan order some new construction for such a room come spring.

Duncan . She missed him, there was no doubt. She knew that now. She missed his warmth and his compelling presence…missed his arms around her when he’d carry her to his bed each night. But she would find strength to care for his people in his absence, that she promised herself.

A wave of dizziness washed over her as she leaned down to pick up the basin.

Forcing her feet to move, she trudged across the hall, planning to go to the well and draw some fresh water.

She picked her way over rows of people in varying stages of disease.

Some stared straight ahead, eyes glassy with fever.

At the far end were those near death. Those unfortunates Aileana had taken on as her own crusade; she vowed to save as many as she could, even if she needed to go two more days without sleep to do it.

Stopping to pull a blanket over a shivering child near the door, she steeled herself against the helplessness that was beginning to consume her.

She knew better than most that it did no good to become emotional.

But she couldn’t stop the horrible thought that the sounds and smells surrounding her were shadows, surely, of what hell must be like.

Groans and coughs battled with wails of pain and grinding of teeth; magnified in the close quarters, the noises exceeded even the hideous echoes of the battlefield on that day Father had been killed.

Worse than the sound, though, was the stench; the foul odors of sickness made the air unfit to breathe.

Yesterday, she’d insisted that the hall’s shutters be left open.

Such ideas were considered dangerous; drafts often led to chills and death.

But the need for clean air had overpowered any possible argument, and so the shutters were opened.

A reason to thank Duncan .

Warmth spread through her, her mind latching on to the thought as surely as it had registered complaint about the castle’s lack of an infirmary.

It was Duncan, after all, who’d insisted that every room be equipped with plenty of windows after his return from the Tower.

He’d had them hewn into the stone walls, even, where openings didn’t exist already, and it appeared now that his insatiable need for fresh air might be the winning factor in the struggle many of his people waged for their lives.

Aileana brushed a lank wisp of hair from her eyes and continued to the well.

The cool outdoors beckoned her, and she tried to concentrate on something positive as she stepped into the chill.

At least she needn’t fear Duncan falling under the disease’s ravages.

Bridgid had ordered that a sign be posted on the castle’s main gate, telling all who came, to remain outside the wall for fear of contagion; unless he and his men had contracted the plague during their travels, they’d be safe.

Upon reaching the well, Aileana paused, filling her lungs with the clean, crisp air. It was so pleasant that she found herself lingering longer than she’d intended. But soon duty reared its head again, and she walked back to the sick room where Bridgid awaited her.

The bailie looked stern as she took the basin of water.

Setting it on the table, she turned without hesitation and pushed Aileana toward the kitchen.

“Now you’ll go, missy. I’ll not be telling you again.

I’m still bailie of this castle, and I need your healing skills for these people.

You cannot be doing me or them any good if you’re senseless from lack of food and sleep. ”

Aileana tried to muster the will to fight her order, but she was too tired to resist. Her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes and nodded.

But as she started to make her way toward the kitchen, a sudden banging and scramble of activity stilled her.

She sensed more than saw the figure move behind her, near the door.

When the familiar, deep voice echoed through the hall, it sent a tingle down her spine.

“Christ’s Holy Blood—what is all this?”

She looked behind her, shivering in response to the ice reflected in Duncan’s silver eyes. He pinned her with his gaze, his legs spread in a wide stance, and his hands fisted at his sides.

“Aileana MacDonell, I want to know just what in hell you have done to my clan.”

Duncan was losing the struggle, and he knew it. The hellish sights. The sounds. The smell…God help him, the smell. It spiraled him into the world of the Tower all over again. Except that these prisoners were all familiar to him. These people were his clan.

His kin.

He took another step forward, clenching his gloved fists as tightly as he could, trying to regain control.

His gaze darted from Aileana to Bridgid and back again, and for the first time he observed the strange flush on his leman’s face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes—the defeated stance of her body.

“It appears that you cannot read, Duncan MacRae.”

Aileana’s restrained comment struck him like a slap in the face, blinding him to the weariness in her posture. But it gave him something to cling to, and he grasped it as if for dear life.

“I can read enough to know what is written on the gate, woman. I will not be barred from my own castle.”

“Then you are a fool, risking your life for no good reason.”

“It is no foolishness to ensure that my people are safe.”

“And of course with me ministering to them, you’re filled with doubt about that possibility.”

Duncan glowered, matching Aileana’s irritation with his own.

In truth, once he and Kinnon had deciphered the sign, he’d feared for everyone inside Eilean Donan, to his surprise, Aileana most of all.

In fact he’d been worried almost senseless about her—so much so that when he’d first come in and seen her standing in the hall, thankfully still walking and breathing, he’d snapped out the first cutting words that rose to his lips to mask his overwhelming relief.

But he couldn’t admit that weakness to her.

“I needed to see the condition of my people with my own eyes,” he settled on muttering, sweeping his gaze around the great hall.

“And this does not exactly reassure me.”

Her gaze pierced him, making him notice again her eyes’ heightened brilliance and her tired expression.

“If the arrangement isn’t to your liking, Duncan, it is because we had little to work with.

You’ve no infirmary and many that need tending.

What would you have had me do—lay the sick on the ground in the yard? ”

The question seemed to drain Duncan’s energy, depleting him of any remaining heated emotion. Running his gloved hand through the tangles of his hair, he shook his head and sighed. “Nay, lass. I’d not have that.”

Bridgid stepped forward. “I was just telling the missy to rest a spell and get some nourishment. There is plenty of cold mutton and bread in the kitchen for you and your men as well.” She looked behind Duncan, seeing no one but Kinnon, who stood quiet in the shadows of the doorway. “Where are the other lads?”

“I made them stay outside.” He looked straight at Aileana. “If I am foolish, it is not with others’ lives.”

She didn’t respond to his goad, though, only leveling a strange look at him. “I will go ahead to prepare food for the three of us, then. It is not safe to meet with your men again, Duncan, until the contagion is passed. You will have to send a message to them another way.”

“Aye. I will see to it,” he said, earning a nod from her before she turned to go. But as she walked to the kitchen, Duncan noted the effort it took her; he saw the shuffling stumble in her gait, and it filled him with alarm. She looked ready to topple from exhaustion.

“How long has she been like that?” he demanded of Bridgid once she’d gone. “How long since she ate or slept?”