“Isabail,” Aiden called. “Move aside. I cannot open the door if you remain there.”
No sound came from the pitch-black interior of the tomb.
“Isabail?”
He leaned in as far as the slab would allow and listened carefully. Was that she sound of her breathing? He couldn’t be certain. “Isabail!” he called loudly.
Still no answer.
Striding back to the tunnel, he snatched one of the torches from a wall bracket, then returned to the tomb. He shoved the torch through the narrow gap in the door, lighting the passage beyond. And spied a hand.Herhand. The long, elegant fingers that were uniquely Isabail’s. She was on the floor directly behind the door. If he forced the door open, he would crush her.
“Isabail, you must move,” he urged. When that didn’t work, he allowed the tightness in his gut to bleed into his voice. His words came out cold and clipped. “Get up, Isabail. Now.”
Even that had no effect.
Her hand lay there, still as death.
Placing the torch in the nearest wall bracket, Aiden steadied his thoughts. To free her from the tomb, he had to move her, willing and able though she might not be. He lay facedown on the stone floor, wedged as far as he could through the opening, and took her hand.
It was cold.
Aiden’s heartbeat slowed. Once before, when he was a wee lad, a man had gotten trapped in the tomb. Not one of his kin—they knew better—a traveling minstrel who’d heard the legends of an ancient Pictish treasure and decided to try his luck. They found his body three days later and buried him in the mountains.
Pushing that thought aside, Aiden tugged gently on Isabail’s hand, pulling her to one side. His position was awkward and the gains he made were slow, but eventually he could see her blond hair through the gap. With the majority of her body clear of the stone slab, he was able to open it all the way.
He snatched her to his chest.
“Isabail,” he commanded. “Wake up.”
Her head lolled against his arm. Was she...? No, he refused to believe she was dead. He bent an ear to her mouth, hoping for evidence of the sounds he’d heard when he first found her. Surely she was still breathing.
The faintest of breaths stirred the hairs at his temple. He surged to his feet, with Isabail’s chilled body clamped to the warmth of his chest, and sprinted for the tunnel entrance.
“Beathag!” he yelled as he entered the busy close. “Fetch me Ana Bisset. Quickly!”
He advanced to the large cooking fire, hoping to warm Isabail’s ice-cold body. The heat from the stoked coals drew beads of sweat to his forehead, but he remained there until Beathag returned with the healer.
“Blankets!” Ana demanded, pointing to the ground before the fire. Women offering blankets appeared swiftly, and when a suitable bed had been laid, she waved to Aiden. “Lay her here.”
He did so, parting with her reluctantly.
Isabail’s face was as white as her hair. Not a mote of color graced her lips or her cheeks—her skin was like marble.
Ana did not ask what happened. She simply closed her eyes and placed her hands on Isabail’s cheek and chest. After a long moment, punctuated only by the heavy thuds of Aiden’s heart, she sat back.
“Well?” he demanded.
Ana lifted her gaze to Aiden and gave him a look he didn’t care for. “She is alive,” the healer said, “but something is wrong.”
“Something is wrong? What am I to make of that? Fix it, then. Heal her.”
The redhead rose to her feet. She cast a glance at Niall, who had shouldered his way through the crowd around the fire. “I’m not certain she can be healed. I saw a similar case once—a child who fell into the pond and was found sometime later.”
“I will not accept that,” Aiden said. “Heal her.”
She nodded. “I will, of course, do my best.”
Her response was too tentative for Aiden’s liking. To him it already carried the suggestion of failure. And the notion of Isabail never again opening her eyes, of never again facing him with stiff shoulders and a brave stare, pinched his chest so painfully he could barely breathe. “If you can heal her bloody dog, you can heal her, too. No excuses. You will heal her. Now tell me what you need.”
