Page 45 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

"Most are recovering. A few are still poorly, but none have died, thank God."

Colin glanced toward the door where she could hear the distant sounds of castle activity. "I need tae get back tae work—there's much tae be done after this. But I wanted tae be here when ye woke."

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, the tender gesture making her heart flutter. His lips lingered there for a moment, warm and reassuring, before he pulled back.

"Rest," he murmured. "That's an order from yer husband."

Morag nodded, and after Colin had shut the door behind him, she found herself smiling at his attempt at lightness.

Three days later, Morag was finally strong enough to venture beyond their chamber. The castle felt different. It was charged with an underlying tension that hadn't been there before. As she made her way through the corridors, she noticed the changes immediately.

Guards stood at every entrance, their eyes sharp and alert. Where once there had been two men at the gates, there were four. The great hall, which had buzzed with the chatter of refugees, was quieter now, though she could still see some of the displaced families huddled together, several still pale and weak from the poisoning.

In the kitchens, she found Sheena. The older woman looked up as Morag entered, her face brightening with relief.

"Me lady! Thank the saints ye're up and about. We've all been worried sick."

"How are the others?" Morag asked, noting how even there, there were more guards than usual posted near the food stores.

"Most are on the mend. The children recovered the fastest, thank God." Sheena's expression grew grim. "The laird's nae taking any chances now. Every bit of food is tested, every person checked before they enter. Can't say I blame him after what happened."

As Morag continued her walk through the castle, she understood the transformation she was witnessing. This was Colin's response to the threat—systematic, thorough, and absolute. He was ensuring that what happened to her, to all of them, would never happen again. The price of that security was evident in every extra guard, every suspicious glance, every precaution that now governed daily life.

He's protecting us, protecting me.

The thought warmed her even as she recognized the weight of responsibility her husband now carried.

That evening, Morag made her way to Colin's study, her steps still slightly unsteady but determined. She found him hunched over his desk, papers scattered before him, but his eyes were staring blankly at the wall. Dark circles shadowed his face, and his usually pristine appearance was disheveled.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly, stepping into the room.

Colin's head snapped up, his expression immediately shifting into the familiar mask of controlled authority, but not before she caught a flash of relief at seeing her upright and moving. "Dinnae fret. Ye should be resting."

His voice gentled as he took in her pale complexion. "Ye're still recovering, lass. Ye shouldnae be wandering the halls alone."

But Morag could see through the facade. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his quill, and there was a haunted quality to his eyes that no amount of stern composure could hide. The papers on his desk were covered in his bold handwriting, but the ink had smeared in places where his hand had shaken.

"Colin—"

"I said it's naething," he cut her off, his voice sharp but tender. "I have work tae dae, lass. And ye need tae be back in bed."

Morag studied his rigid posture, the way he refused to meet her eyes. She could feel the walls he was building between them, brick by stubborn brick. His shoulders were hunched with exhaustion, and she noticed the way he gripped his quill too tightly, as if holding onto it could anchor him to something solid.

"Fine! " Her back stiff, Moran turned toward the door.

"Morag. Wait."

She wanted to keep walking, to slam the door at him, but she stopped, keeping her back to him.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so quiet she almost missed them. She turned back to find Colin staring down at his hands, his shoulders slumped in defeat. The quill had fallen from his fingers, and his hands were clenched into fists on the desk.

"Sorry fer what?" she asked gently, moving closer. She could see the tension radiating from him, the way his jaw worked, as if he were fighting some internal battle.

"I failed ye." The admission seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him. "Because of me failure, ye nearly died, and the castle was left defenseless. I'm supposed tae protect ye, protect all of them, and I—" His voice cracked slightly. "I couldnae even keep ye safe in our own bed."

"Colin, it wasn't yer fault⁠—"