Page 95 of Sins of the Highlander

“Aye, that’s love,” she said, still naming his feelings for him. “That willna end, though all else does. Dinna feel sad, Rob. ’Tis the way of things.”

She began to float away, and he strained against his bonds to reach for her.

“Even if ye were unbound, ye canna hold me here longer,” Fiona said. “Ye must wake, Rob. Ye must hie yourself to Drummond’s stronghold before it’s too late.”

“Too late? Elspeth isna there. She left with her father. What’s happened?”

“Wake, Rob.” Fiona hovered near the ceiling then began to pass through the thatch as if it weren’t there. She faded completely from his sight, but her voice whispered into his ear as if she rested her head on the pillow beside him. “Open your eyes, love, but this time, truly see.”

He came to full wakefulness, but he didn’t open his eyes immediately. Instead, he slitted his eyelids and checked his surroundings. He was in his own bed. Margot Beaton was sitting in the chair exactly as he’d dreamed her, complete with the foul cup in her lap.

His tongue felt too large and thick for his mouth. He tried to move his arms and legs and found that he was bound as tightly as in his dream. His stomach was queasy, and his bladder ached to be relieved.

He opened his eyes completely, wincing at the light even though the room was shuttered.

“Ha…Hamish,” he said, shocked at the disembodied sound of his own voice.

Margot snorted and woke. She skittered to his side. “My lord, be at peace.”

She tried to spoon some of the tea into his mouth, but he spat it back out.

“Hamish,” he repeated.

“Now, my lord, ye mustn’t excite yourself.” The spoon wavered before him again, beckoning him to oblivion.

“Pish,” he said.

She flinched.

“I haf to pish.” He formed the words carefully, but they still came out slurred. “Call Hamish.”

“My lord, I was ordered to—”

“I gif oders here,” he roared, and her eyes rounded. “Unbine me, or when I free mysel’, I’ll eat yer liffer for supper.”

Sometimes being thought mad was a good thing. Margot leaped to do his bidding. She unstrapped him and then scuttled away to find Hamish. Rob rose from the bed shakily and stalked to the chamber pot, hoping to piss the rest of drug-laden tea out of his body.

He threw open the shutters and inhaled the snow-fresh air. Then he began pacing the room, trying his body for signs of weakness. He seemed to be in possession of all his limbs. His head felt clearer, but there was an aching knot on the back of his skull. His tongue still felt oversized.

Hamish rapped once and then came in. He folded his arms over his barrel chest and curled his lip. “Ye’re no’ any the prettier for three days’ rest.”

A yellowish bruise purpled his friend’s jaw. “Look who’z talkin’.”

Three days. Rob pulled a shirt out of his trunk and drew it on over his nakedness. He put a hand to the back of his head. “Pounds like a…hammer.”

“Good. Is it knocking any sense into ye?”

“Aye, but I havena changed…toward Elspeth.” His tongue was settling. The slur faded. “She had a notion that there’d be a battle if she stayed. Ye canna deny she broke the siege. And now she needs me.”

“Ye’ll be wanting me to come with ye,” Hamish said matter-of-factly.

“Aye, I’ll need your help.”

“And ye’ll have it, so long as ye dinna plan on getting yourself killed.”

“I try to avoid that whenever I can,” Rob said as he wrapped a kilt around his loins. He chose a length of fabric that had belonged to his mother’s clan, a soft brown and tan weave. It would probably be wise not to announce his presence with a MacLaren plaid, since he intended to beard Lachlan Drummond in his own den. “But I’ll have your promise that ye’ll no’ clout me on the head again.”

Hamish grinned at him. “If ye promise ye’ll no’ deserve it.”