Page 43 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

Tasgall's weathered hands moved with practiced efficiency as he examined Morag. Colin remained at her side, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder, the other smoothing damp tendrils of hair back from her fevered brow.

In the candlelight, she looked fragile as spun glass. Her skin had taken on a waxy pallor that made the dark circles under her eyes appear bruised and deep. Her lips, normally a soft pink, had turned an alarming shade of blue-tinged gray. Even unconscious, her breathing was labored, each exhale a soft wheeze that made Colin's chest tighten with fear.

"Look at her skin," Tasgall murmured, gently lifting Morag's hand to examine her fingernails. They too had a bluish cast, and when he pressed them, the color was slow to return. "See how clammy she is, how her body trembles even in sleep? This is the work of nightshade, mixed with something else—poppy milk, perhaps, tae ensure deep unconsciousness."

Colin's grip tightened unconsciously on Morag's shoulder as he took in the healer's assessment. Her face, which had been flushed with life and laughter just hours before, now looked like carved marble—beautiful but terrifyingly still. Her hair, once neatly braided, now spread across the pillow in damp, tangled waves that spoke of her ordeal.

"Her breathing," Colin said, his voice rough with barely controlled panic. "It's too shallow. Too slow."

"Aye," Tasgall confirmed grimly, placing his ear close to her chest to listen. "The poison is suppressing everythin’—her breathin’, her heart rate, her body's natural responses. See how her fingers twitch occasionally? That's her body fightin’ against what is inside her."

Just then, Morag's hand gave a small spasm, her fingers curling briefly before relaxing again. Colin immediately caught her hand in both of his, his thumb stroking over her knuckles.

"She's fightin’," he said fiercely. "She's still fightin’."

"Aye, she is," Tasgall agreed, pulling various vials from his leather satchel. "But we must help her fight. The longer the poison stays in her system, the more damage it can dae."

Colin studied Morag's face desperately, searching for any sign of improvement. Her eyelids fluttered occasionally, as if she were trying to wake, but they never quite opened. When he spoke her name, there was no response, no indication that she could hear him at all.

"What can I dae?" Colin asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "There must be somethin’."

"Keep talking tae her," Tasgall instructed as he began mixing a counter-agent. "Touch her, let her ken ye're there. Sometimes the soul can hear what the body cannot."

Colin needed no further encouragement. He lifted Morag's limp hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to her palm. "I'm here, me love," he murmured against her skin. "I'm right here, and I'm nae leaving. Ye just need tae come back tae me."

About twenty minutes later, Niven appeared in the doorway, his face grim. "Me laird, thanks the gods ye brought back me lady. We have a problem. Near twenty of the castle folk are showing the same symptoms—sweating, delirium, weakness. All of them ate from the evening meal prepared fer the refugees."

Colin's blood ran cold. "The food?"

"Aye," Niven replied. Both men watched the healer pull small vials from his herb pouch.

Colin's mind raced. He hadn't eaten the communal meal, having taken his food separately with his war council. Most of his soldiers had done the same, eating their rations in the barracks rather than mixing with the refugees.

"The refugees," Colin said grimly. "Fraser men must have been among them."

Niven nodded curtly. "Aye. They poisoned the food, weakened everyone, then struck. Clever, if nae ruthless."

Tasgall began mixing a remedy. He looked up at Colin with eyes that had seen too much death. "Yer wife took a heavy dose, me laird. She was helping serve the meal, and likely got more than most when she tasted it fer seasoning."

The healer's hands moved with steady precision despite his age, measuring herbs with the same calm detachment he'd shown through countless crises. "She'll live, but she will need tae be under observation fer the next few hours."

Colin clenched his fists, rage and guilt warring in his chest.

The full scope of the plan hit Colin like a physical blow. The attack on the settlement, the refugees streaming into the castle, the poisoned food that would incapacitate the guards and inhabitants—it had all been orchestrated. Fraser hadn't just wanted to kidnap Morag; he'd wanted to cripple the entire castle from within.

"How many others are we talking about?" Colin asked, his voice deadly quiet.

"Twenty-three souls, including Lady Armstrong. Some of the children are in a bad way, me laird."

Colin turned back to Tasgall, who was already preparing herbs and tinctures. "Can ye help them?"

"Aye, but it'll take time. The poison's in their blood now, and we'll need tae flush it out slowly. Too fast, and we could kill them."

If I hadn't taken that damned sleeping draught...

But there was no time for self-recrimination now. His wife needed him, and Fraser would pay for this treachery.

Colin looked down at his torn and bloodstained clothes, suddenly aware of the gore covering him from the fight. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, and he realized he couldn't tend to Morag properly in this state.