by Allie Mackay
None of them looked like evildoers.
“Where is Nils?” he boomed, regardless.
Cook wheeled around, his stew ladle flying from his fingers. “You’ll curdle my stew with your yelling,” he scolded, casting him an indignant glare as he stooped to swipe the spoon off the floor.
Stalking forward, Aidan snatched the spoon from him and tossed it aside, letting the thing fall where it may. “’Tis more than stew that will go bad if I do not soon find Nils or learn who sent tainted wine to my bedchamber!”
“Tainted wine?” Cook hitched up his belt, his considerable girth jigging even as his eyes widened. “Ne’er would I send fouled spirits to you! To anyone.”
Aidan glowered back at him. “It would seem no one has, yet my lady lies abed near death! I’ll have the heads of any bungling fools who—”
“Heigh-ho, lad! What are you shouting about?” Nils strode out of the murk of a hidden corner, Maili the laundress trailing after him, her tumbled flaxen curls and loose bodice leaving no doubt as to what had been going on in the deep shadows of Wrath’s kitchens.
“He’d accuse us of serving bad wine.” Cook snatched up his stew ladle a second time.
“No’ bad wine, tainted wine.” Aidan ignored him, whirling to Nils. “Someone laced the wine with monkshood and my lady drank it.”
The healer’s bluster evaporated. “That’s not possible. Only I have access to my herb stores,” he said, jangling a ring of keys at his belt. “I mixed Kendrew’s sleeping draught myself. Here in the kitchens, then locked away my medicines in yon strongbox.”
“No one but Nils has touched those herbs,” Cook put in, pointing his spoon in the strongbox’s direction.
Aidan glanced at the large dome-topped coffer. Not one but two heavy locks held it secure.
As long as Nils’s keys remained safely in his possession.
The healer was fond of women. By his own accounts, he’d been fleeced more than once by light-fingered lassies, taking advantage of his need for a snooze after pleasure.
Aidan looked at Maili, not surprised that she hadn’t bothered to re-lace her gown. Of Wrath’s three laundresses, she loved her craft best, baring her flesh often and freely. Using her charms to win favors and trinkets from the most jaded, hardened men.
Nils was anything but hardened. Beneath his Nordic bluster, the healer was a lamb.
And, Aidan was sure, Maili craved her comforts too much to risk losing her position at Wrath.
Cook stepped forward, his bearded chin jutting. “I say the lady simply guzzled too much wine! Aye, I doubt the wine was bad at all!”
Aidan frowned. “I smelled the monkshood on Kira’s breath, even stronger in the wine.”
“How much did she drink?” Nils’s brow crinkled, his face as dark as Aidan’s own.
“I canna say. There was a half-full cup on the table.”
Nils drew a sharp breath. “A sip would be enough.”
“Enough for what?” Aidan didn’t really want to know.
“If she’s had more than a pinch…” Nils shook his head, not needing to say more.
Aidan grabbed his arm, propelling him out the door. “Come!” He was running now. “Her heartbeat is steady and she yet breathes. Make haste so you can help her!”
“Would that I could!” Nils threw him a grim look as they dashed for the stairs. “There isn’t a cure for monkshood.”
Words filtered through the blackness enveloping Kira. Unlikely words like monks and hoods. Then Ameri-cains and tour buses. Grumblings about lairdly duty and love. Gaelic mumblings that sounded like low, softly muttered prayers, then sharp, furious bursts of anger. Heated words she couldn’t decipher, only the outrage behind them. Clucking tongues, hurrying footsteps, the banging of doors. Sometimes, she was certain, the soothing patter of rain. It was a strange mishmash that made no sense, sounds flaring briefly in the darkness only to blur and dim as quickly.
Images came and went, too.
Frightful things, mostly. A gnarled hand plucking what looked to be fat garden slugs from an earthen jar, then dangling the icky beasties above her, only to have a larger, stronger hand sweep into view, knocking the slugs from curled, ancient fingers. Two sets of bright, beady eyes peering at her through the mist, a glimpse of grizzled gray hair, or the weaving flame of a candle held way too close to her face.
A bold swirl of plaid and a glint of raven black hair, proud, wide-set shoulders, and the silvery flash of a flourished sword, the bright red jewel in its pommel shining like a sunburst.
And then there was the cold.
Never had she felt so frozen. Buried under an icy avalanche of snow. A heavy, weighty drift of the white stuff that seemed to come and go, chilling her to the bone, then easing slightly, only to freeze her anew before she could gather strength to crack her leaden eyelids to see where all the snow had come from.
Or if she’d been thrust forward in time again and had accidentally landed inside a giant hotel ice machine. The kind that always seemed to be right outside her hotel room door and that made weird popping and grrr’ing noises all night. Not to mention the clatter and commotion when someone just had to fetch a bucket of ice in the wee hours.
Thinking about it now, though, made her laugh.
Or rather, she’d have laughed if she could.
Too bad for her, her mouth felt drier than a dustbin and her tongue had turned to sandpaper.
Just as bad, she still couldn’t seem to open her eyes.
“Sir!” cackled a high-pitched voice just above her ear. “I do believe she’s trying to speak.”
“No, you fool,” chimed a second voice. “’Tis laughing she is!”
“Saints be praised!” A third voice filled the room, this one deep, rich, and very masculine. The joy in it made her want to weep. “Kee-rah! Sweet lass, speak to me!”
She couldn’t do that, so she blinked—or tried to. Especially when her eyes began to water and burn, hot tears damping her lashes and trickling down her cheeks.
Bedwells didn’t cry, dammit.
But apparently she was, because not one, but two pairs of knotty old hands were suddenly dabbing cloths at her cheeks. Gentle old hands, so caring, she swallowed against the emotion welling in her throat. Unfortunately, dry as her mouth was, her swallow caused an odd rasping sound, ghastly even to her own ears.
So awful it was almost a croak.
No, it was worse.
Kira grimaced. That, she could do.
“You she-biddies are hurting her!” A second male voice boomed, some distant corner of her mind recognizing it as belonging to Nils the Viking. “I told you she didn’t need bleeding!”
“Pah!” One of the old women sniffed. “You said she might survive the monkshood if she didn’t catch a fever. Her own chilled pea sacks prevented that, but who’s to say our leeches didn’t draw off whate’er other evils might’ve been in her?”
“The only evil in her was the poison she drank!” a third manly voice declared.
Mundy, the great black-bearded Irishman, if Kira wasn’t mistaken.
But poison? She started to ask about that, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
As if sensing her discomfort, one of the knotty hands returned, this time to dab a cool wet cloth at her lips.
“Aye, ’tis the leeching that saved her,” the owner of the knotty hand insisted. “That, and the powder of newt we sprinkled on the hearth fire. Everyone knows powdered newt fumes cleanse the air o’ bad vapors.”
“Hah!” Nils the Viking snorted. “Newt fumes do naught but make good men sneeze.”
Knotty Hand teetered. “Be that why you haven’t done?”
“Cease! All of you.” His voice came again, sweet as a dream. “Away with you, the lot of you. I’ll watch o’er her alone now. ’Tis clear she’ll soon be waking.” Then, in a sterner, don’t-argue-with-me tone, “I’ll no’ have her frightened if she opens her eyes to see so many ugly faces peering at her! And—Tavish! Take Ferlie with you. I wi
llna have her upset by his whining.”
“And your bellowing? Ferlie’s whimpers and groans are nowise as loud. She’s fond of the old beast and might be pleased to know he’s pined for her,” another deep male voice shot back.
Tavish’s own. Her champion the day she’d found herself perched atop Aidan’s gateway arch.
She smiled, remembering, but the smile made her lips crack. Even worse, she suspected they were bleeding. “Owww,” she moaned before she could stop herself.
“See?” Aidan roared, bellowing indeed. “You’re upsetting her! Now begone—all of you!”
A great ruckus followed. The departure, Kira assumed, of those souls at Wrath who’d cared to look in on her. From the number of trudging feet and muttered complaints as Aidan ushered them from the room, it must’ve been a goodly number indeed.
But only one mattered so much to her that she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was there. How her heart had nearly burst when she’d heard his voice.
And listening to that voice now, she judged he was close.
Possibly on his knees by her bedside. Hoping it, she tried to thrust out her arm and reach for him, feeling a great need to touch him. But her arm refused to move. Her fingers still tingled a bit. In fact, she’d done a lot of tingling, if she remembered rightly.
Just not the good kind.
Far from it. Every inch of her throbbed and ached with mind-numbing intensity. A nightmarish stiffness worse than the time she’d tried to cram a year’s worth of gym workouts into two days and ended up nearly creeping around her apartment on all fours, finding it too painful to stand and even worse to move.
She felt that bad now.
Having enough of it, she struggled to open her eyes, then tried even harder to raise herself on an elbow. Instead, all she managed was heaving a great, trembling sigh.
He leaned close and kissed her cheek. “Hush, sweet, and lie still,” he said, smoothing the hair from her brow. “You’ll feel better once we get some broth into you.”
Broth?
She tried to smile again. She knew he didn’t mean chicken noodle soup, but as long as it was hot broth, she’d feel better indeed. Even lukewarm would do. Her feet felt like a block of ice and even the tips of her fingers were tingling-numb with cold.
“I-I’m f-freezing,” she rasped, her teeth chattering.
“You won’t be for long.” He put a hand to her forehead and she could see his relief through her lashes. “There isn’t a fever, and if you’re awake now, there’s no longer a need to keep you mounded with these chilled pea sacks.”
Her lips twitched. So that was why she’d felt buried under an avalanche. It was funny, really. But what she needed was water, not frozen peas.
“I’m thirsty…please.” Her voice was thick again, hoarse and unintelligible.
She tried to will him to understand, but the concentration only made her head throb harder.
“Saints, but you gave me a fright!” He shoved a hand through his hair, looking almost as haggard as she felt.
Then, leaping to his feet, he threw back the covers and began removing the ice bags, pitching them into a large wooden tub nearby, another cut-in-half wine barrel-y bathing contraption, this one apparently empty.
But what really caught her eye was the flashy sword propped against a chair near the wine barrel. Much longer and definitely more magnificent than his usual one, its blade reflected the flames of the hearth fire, the whole length of the thing shining and sparkling like a well-polished mirror. An elaborately scrolled inscription was inlaid along the blade’s fuller, the blood-channel running down from the hilt, but she couldn’t make out the letters. The inscription just made the sword look special.
Magical or enchanted.
Much like what she imagined King Arthur and his knights would’ve carried.
She squinted, trying to see it better. The cross-guard looked rather straight and plain, and the hilt was leather-wrapped and worn. As if it had been used often, and hard. Her breath caught when she focused on the sword’s pommel. That was the real attention-getter.
Hers anyway.
A circular, wheel pommel, its centerpiece was an enormous bloodred gemstone. Polished smooth and brilliant, dazzling rays of bright, ruby-colored light streamed in every direction from its jeweled surface, the radiant bands dancing crazily on the room’s whitewashed walls and ceiling.
It was definitely the sunburst blade.
The one she’d seen whipping through the blackness as she’d slept.
She moistened her lips, her heart pounding. Her eyes fluttered completely open.
“I saw that sword.” She peered at it now, looking from the blade to Aidan. “You swung it—I saw you in my dreams.”
“I raised it, aye.” He spoke after a hesitation. “Once.”
She blinked, remembering the blade’s great sweeping arc through the quiet and darkness. A flashing, lightning-quick arc, the memory of it brought a horrible thought.
“You weren’t trying to put me out of my misery, were you?”
Aidan felt his jaw slip. “I was trying to save you.” He stared down at her, the neck opening of his tunic suddenly so tight he could scarce breathe. “That sword has been in my family for centuries. Some claim it brings us good fortune. I thought its presence might—”
“Help me?” She pushed up on her elbows, her gaze flitting to the sword again. “Like a good luck talisman or something?”
Aidan nodded. “Many clans have the like,” he admitted, hoping that would suffice.
He wasn’t about to tell her how he’d dropped to his knees and raised the sword to the Old Ones, vowing on the bloodred pommel stone that he’d grant Kira any wish if only they’d intervene and spare her life.
He knew well what her greatest wish might be and even if the Ancients smote him for it, now that she was clearly back amongst the living, he’d prefer not to tempt fate any further.
It was one thing to hear about Ameri-cains and their flying machines and tour buses, and something else entirely to be surrounded by such impossibilities.
Pushing them from his mind, he poured her a small bit of water. “Drink this,” he said, slipping his hand behind her head, steadying her as he held the cup to her lips.
She took a few sips and fell back against the pillows. “I must’ve been in pretty bad shape if you thought only a magic sword could cure me.”
“It isn’t a magic sword, but a family sword. In these hills, we see strength in family. The continuity of our clans.” Aidan tossed aside the last of the pea sacks. “I wanted to share that strength with you, that was all.”
She still looked skeptical. “There isn’t any mumbo jumbo running down the sword’s blade?” she asked, slanting another glance at it. “Those cryptic letters aren’t a charm or a hex or anything?”
Aidan laughed despite himself. “The inscription reads ‘Invincible,’” he told her, speaking true. “’Tis the blade’s name. Family tradition says it came to us from one of the great Somerled’s sons, though we cannot say which. The red of the gemstone is supposed to be his blood, frozen forever inside the pommel stone. That, however, is questionable.”
“Who knows…” She trailed off, her attention on the sword.
“It doesn’t matter.” He reached for her hand, not liking the shadows beneath her eyes. “Only that you are well now.”
Her gaze returned to his. “How long did I sleep? One night? Two?”
“Four.” Letting go of her hand, he took a large plaid from the end of the bed and swirled it over her, taking care to smooth it into place. “Tonight would have been the fifth.” He touched her cheek, not wanting to frighten her. “You will be fine, Kee-rah. Dinna you worry.”
But she did.
Especially since learning he’d tried some quirky medieval voodoo to save her. No matter what he cared to call it, that’s what it had been.
Frozen ancestral blood indeed.
Not that such a notion wa
s any wackier than time travel. Or ghosts. She certainly knew both existed. She also knew someone must’ve tried to poison her.
Or him.
She glanced at the water cup, grateful when he picked it up immediately, once more helping her to drink. Before he could take it away, she lifted a shaky hand and grasped his wrist. “The wine I drank,” she began, then needed another sip to finish. “It was laced with something, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “It was a careless mistake, Kee-rah,” he lied, the twitch in his jaw giving him away before he even finished the sentence. “Nils mixed a sleeping draught for Kendrew and someone mistook it for simple wine.”
“You aren’t fooling me.” She struggled to a sitting position, every inch of her screaming protest, but determination made her strong. “Someone here tried to kill me. Or you.”
“It willna happen again.” He folded his arms, no longer denying it. “I’ll no’ have you worrying.”
She blew out a breath, puffing her bangs off her forehead. “I’ve been worrying ever since I remembered reading about your cousin locking you in your own dungeon to die.”
Aidan frowned.
Her worries couldn’t compare to the concerns splitting him. No matter how he turned it, he’d failed her. Conan Dearg wallowed in Wrath’s deepest, darkest pit. Every man within Aidan’s own walls feared, respected, and, he hoped, loved him. Yet someone he knew, someone close to him, had tried to take Kira’s life.
And he’d been unable to prevent it.
Indeed, while she’d sipped the tainted wine, he’d stood laughing in his hall, looking on as his men gallivanted about, making merry with her pea sacks!
Thinking all was well with his world.
It was inexcusable. A mistake he couldn’t allow to happen again.
He drew a deep breath, hoping to convince her it wouldn’t. “I’ve ordered my cousin placed in a different part of the dungeon. He’s in a larger, more comfortable cell, but there’s an oubliette running through its middle. He—”
“A what?”
