Page 24

Suddenly, the suffocating weight of the last weeks rushed over her all at once. The horror of the ambush, the endless walk through the storm, the bitter loss of her family, the terrifying touch of his mouth against hers, and the sheer, exhausting terror of being hunted like a beast in the dark—it all crashed down upon her shoulders.

The room began to tilt.

The flickering golden light of the hearth stretched into long, terrifying smears of yellow. The heavy scent of wet wool, wood smoke, and iron turned thick and sickening in her throat. Sheona’s head swam, a sharp, ringing noise filling her ears until Brodie’s deep voice sounded as if he were shouting from the bottom of a deep, dark well.

Her skin was suddenly burning—a searing, unnatural fever ripping through her veins despite the icy, mud-soaked clothes clinging to her limbs. Her knees felt hollow, like dry twigs waiting to snap.

“Sheona?”

His voice cut through the dark haze, laced with a sudden, sharp note of alarm. He took a rapid step toward her, his hand reaching out.

“Sheona!”

The moment his broad, warm fingers brushed against the soaked wool of her sleeve, the last strength drained clean out of her body. Her vision went completely black at the edges.

Her knees gave way beneath her, and she collapsed into the dark, heavy shadows rising from the floor.

The heavy, suffocating weight of sleep did not lift easily; it clutched Sheona like black mud, dragging her down every time her mind tried to surface.

When her eyelids finally fluttered open, the harsh brightness of morning stung her eyes. The ceiling above was high, framed by heavy dark timber beams she did not recognize. The harsh, icy storm had cleared, leaving pale sunlight filtering through a tall leaded window, casting soft grid-patterned shadows across a woven tapestry on the far stone wall.

Sheona tried to draw a breath, but her chest felt tightly bound in iron bands. A sharp, dry cough rattled in her throat, sending a spike of agony through her ribs. Her whole body burned—an intense, consuming fire that made her skin tender to the touch, even as a deep, shivering chill vibrated in the marrow of her bones.

A small, frantic pressure anchored her right hand.

She shifted her head on the soft feather pillow, every movement heavy and deliberate. Sitting on a wooden stool pulled flush against the side of the carved bed was Angus. The little boy was clutching her fingers tightly between both of his small hands, his knuckles white, his dark eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears.

“I didnae mean to, Sheona,” Angus whimpered, his tiny voice trembling violently in the quiet room. “I dragged ye into the deluge; I made ye sick.”

“It was nae yer fault, Angus.” The voice that answered him was soft, melodious, and entirely unfamiliar. It carried the smooth, gentle cadence of the eastern straths, falling like cool silk over the heated room.

Sheona’s hazy gaze drifted past the boy to the opposite side of the bed.

A young woman Sheona had never seen in her life sat in a carved high-backed chair. She was striking—possessing an effortless, breathtaking beauty that made Sheona’s breath hitch in her raw throat. Pale gold hair fell in thick, lustrous waves over a gown of deep crimson velvet, and her eyes, a warm and luminous hazel, radiated a profound, quiet kindness.

The stranger reached out across the linen sheets, her long, delicate fingers gently smoothing Angus’s damp, dark curls from his forehead. She offered the weeping boy a soft, reassuring smile that lit up her face.

“None of this is yer doin’, little one,” the young woman whispered, her hand lingering on Angus’s shoulder. “Sometimes people simply fall ill, nay matter how careful or brave they are. The rain only called forth what was already waitin’ in the blood.”

Angus sniffled hard, rubbing his nose on the sleeve of his small wool tunic, but he did not let go of Sheona’s hand.

Through the thick, disorienting haze of her fever, Sheona watched the beautiful stranger. A sudden, sharp constriction tightened around her heart—a heavy, aching knot that had nothing to do with the sickness tearing through her lungs.

Who is she? Why is she sittin’ at me bedside with such comfortable, quiet authority? How can someone look so radiant, so completely unbothered by the harsh, austere grayness of MacKinley Keep?

"I daenae think she can hear ye," Angus said, peering at Sheona with solemn, dark eyes.

"She can hear me fine." Claire smoothed the linen at Sheona's shoulder with brisk, cheerful hands. "People always hear more than ye think when they are sick. They just cannae be bothered to answer."

She tilted her head at Sheona, her voice lifting as if addressing someone perfectly alert. "I'm Claire, by the way. I was passin' through when the storm came down and the pass closed, so here I am, entirely uninvited and absolutely welcome, as I always am."

Angus considered this. "Father looked surprised when ye arrived."

"That's how ye ken he's glad to see ye." Claire said pleasantly.

Sheona heard it all through the thick, swimming heat of the fever—the voice, the name, the easy, careless warmth of it.

"She has very pretty hair," Claire remarked, almost to herself, tucking a loose strand back from Sheona's damp forehead with a careful finger. "Angus, has she been eating?"