Page 42 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

The journey back to the castle felt endless, every mile stretching like an eternity. Colin held Morag close, whispering to her, willing her to wake, to give him some sign that she was alright. Behind them, his men rode in grim silence, their duty done but their faces reflecting their laird's anguish.

"Stay with me, lass," he murmured against her hair, his voice rough with emotion. "Just stay with me. We're almost home."

Every few minutes, he checked her pulse, his fingers finding the delicate beat at her throat. It was steady but weak, and her breathing remained worryingly shallow. When her head lolled to one side, he gently repositioned it, supporting her neck with careful hands.

"Come on, Morag," he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her skin was too cool, too pale. "I need ye tae fight whatever they gave ye. I need ye tae come back tae me."

Behind them, his men rode in grim silence, their duty done but their faces reflecting their laird's anguish. Duncan kept glancing over, his weathered features tight with concern for both his laird and lady.

As they crested the final hill before the castle, Colin felt Morag stir slightly in his arms. Her eyelids fluttered, and she made a small sound—not quite consciousness, but something close to it.

"That's it," Colin said urgently, shifting his hold to better support her. "That's me brave lass. Can ye hear me?"

But her eyes closed again, and she went limp once more. Colin's jaw tightened with frustration and fear. Whatever Fraser's men had given her was strong, designed to keep her unconscious for hours.

By the time they reached the castle gates, Colin's arms ached from holding her, but he would not entrust her to anyone else. She was his wife, his responsibility, his heart—and he would never again let her out of his sight.

The castle yard erupted in chaos as Colin thundered through the gates, Morag's unconscious form clutched against his chest. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale as parchment in the torchlight.

"Get the healer!" Colin roared, dismounting without releasing his hold on her. "NOW!"

He strode toward the keep with long, urgent steps, his men scrambling to keep up. In the courtyard, servants appeared with torches and concerned faces, but Colin barely saw them.

"Water!" he barked over his shoulder. "Clean water and cloths! And send someone tae prepare our chamber!"

Inside the great hall, Colin didn't pause. He took the stairs two at a time, Morag's limp form bouncing slightly with each step. Once in their chamber, he laid her carefully on the bed, his hands immediately going to check her pulse again.

"Come on, me love," he whispered, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Look at me. Just look at me."

Her skin was still too pale, her lips slightly blue in the candlelight. Colin grabbed the pitcher of water from the washstand and dampened a cloth, gently dabbing at her face and throat.

"Morag," he said more firmly, patting her cheek with light taps. "Morag, wake up. Ye're safe now. Ye're home."

He lifted her hand, chafing her cold fingers between his warm ones, trying to stimulate circulation. Her fingers were limp, unresponsive, but he didn't stop.

"Stay with me," he commanded, his voice taking on the steel he used with his men. "Ye willnae leave me, Morag Armstrong. Dae ye hear me? Ye willnae leave me."

A serving girl appeared in the doorway with a basin of fresh water and clean linens. "The healer is coming, me laird," she said breathlessly.

"Good. Set it here." Colin indicated the bedside table, never taking his eyes off Morag's face. He wrung out a fresh cloth and began cleaning the dirt and blood from her skin—evidence of her rough treatment that made his hands shake with renewed rage.

"What did they give ye?" he muttered, checking her pupils when he lifted her eyelids. They were dilated, unresponsive to the candlelight. "What poison did those bastards force down yer throat?"

He continued his ministrations, cleaning her face and hands, checking for hidden injuries, all the while keeping up a steady stream of words—sometimes commanding, sometimes pleading, always desperate.

"I should have protected ye better," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Should have kent Fraser would try something like this. But ye're strong, Morag. Stronger than any drug they could give ye. Fight it, lass. Fight yer way back tae me."

Within moments, old Tasgall was bustling into their chamber, his long gray beard swaying as he moved with surprising speed despite his bent frame. The familiar scent of herbs clung to his robes as he approached, his weathered face grave.

Colin stayed out of his way, but only far enough to give the old man room to work. His hand remained on Morag's shoulder, a steady presence, a promise that he wouldn't leave her side until she opened her eyes and spoke his name.

His weathered hands immediately checked Morag's pulse. Tasgall lifted one of Morag's eyelids, peering closely at her pupils before smelling her breath.

Colin paced like a caged wolf, still wearing his bloodstained clothes from the fight. "What's wrong with her?" he demanded. "The bastards didnae have time tae hurt her⁠—"

"She's been poisoned," Tasgall said grimly, lifting one of Morag's eyelids to peer at her dilated pupils.

"Poison?" Colin's blood ran cold. "How?"