Page 75 of Sweet Home Highlander
It must have felt like clawing his way to freedom, too.
Aisla forced her eyes open and pushed up onto her elbows with a strained groan. She was already sweating from the effort, her heart racing, when she heard Niall’s voice again, calling her name.
“I’m here, my love,” she whispered, scratching the words out of her throat. She couldn’t let it end this way.
She waited for her pulse to slow before trying to sit up fully. It hurt, but at least the pain was real. Swinging her arm out to feel for purchase, she felt it connect with the nearest wall. Aisla groped around, and realized the wall curved down to her right and left, straight to what looked like another gaping hole. Her mind etched a mental picture of where she sat, on a narrow ledge in some kind of narrow well, and her panic soared.
Was there even a way out, except for up? She would have to climb, but she doubted she had the strength. Already her breathing was labored, her lungs constricting painfully with every shallow breath. White spots converged on her vision again, making her eyelids feel heavy.
Sleep would bring ease. Maybe if she just closed her eyes again…
But then she heard Niall’s voice calling her name once again. Only this time it didn’t sound as close. It sounded distant, behind the rush of blood in her ears. Like it wasn’t coming from her own head at all. Her drooping eyes snapped open.
“Aisla, can ye hear me, lass? I’m here.”
No, that wasn’t just her imagination. It was herhusband.
She drew in a strangled breath of relief, and immediately choked on a few particles of dust and dirt clogged in her throat, straining to see upward. Shadows moved through the thin beam of light. Her palms dug into the hard earth where she sat, her eyes watering at last. Niall. He’d come for her.
“Niall!” she tried to shout back, but her voice was still scratchy and dry and all that came out was a pathetic croak.
He was here, or was her brain playing tricks on her? The light seemed strange. There one minute, and gone the next. Her brain felt fuzzy, uncooperative.
“Niall!” she cried, but again, her throat felt like a dried husk.
Just as her elbow collapsed out from underneath her, Aisla thought she saw a flicker of light. It brightened the rough, pitted wall beside her for an instant, and then started dimming. Retreating. Aisla tried to call out once more, but it was nothing but air.
All fight gone, her heavy eyelids crashed down, and the darkness pulled her under.
…
Niall paced the length of the bedchamber at Maclaren, fury filling him. The thought of Dougal Buchanan was like a hot beacon. He took pleasure in itemizing the ways he would make the bastard bleed for what he’d done—for the woman he’d killed, and the one he’d left to die.
His gaze returned to his unconscious wife lying in the middle of the bed. Aisla had not yet awakened, even though the family doctor had come and gone, every inch of her wounds checked and scrupulously cleaned. The blood on her person had been mostly superficial, from the deep scratches on her palms and elbows. Miraculously, she had not sustained any broken bones, though she’d scraped her chin and cheeks raw, and the flesh of her shoulders, back, and behind was one large angry-looking bruise.
“When will she awaken?” he’d asked Doctor Stewart.
“’Tis hard to say, m’laird. There’s a sizeable welt on the back of her head, and head injuries are notoriously difficult to predict. I’m afraid we will just have to wait and see.” He’d patted Niall’s shoulder, having known him since he was a boy. “She’s young and healthy, lad. Have faith.”
But faith was in meager supply.
Every time he looked over to her narrow frame, his gut folded in on itself. She’d come so close to dying. His men had lowered him down into the shaft, whereupon he’d retrieved her. It was by some miracle that she’d tumbled onto a protruding guide beam made of timber that had been built to stabilize the tunnel. If it hadn’t been there, she would have fallen to her death. Perhaps not even found.
Niall could not categorize the rush of emotion that had filled him when he’d clasped her limp but alive body to his, and by the time they’d arrived back at Maclaren, his mother and Hamish had had to pry her out of his arms. He had not left her side in the past hour.
The chamber door creaked open, and Ronan strode in, not stopping until he’d enfolded his brother into a bear hug. “How is the lass?”
Niall choked back sudden tears. “Alive.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s no’ as easy as that,” he ground out. “She hasnae awakened. Nae broken bones, but she hit her head hard. She might no’ awaken. Ever.” His voice broke on the last word.
“She will,” Ronan said, and took a deep breath as if he had more to say. Niall motioned for him to continue. “The Campbell laird is here, and ’tis best if ye heard what he has to say for yerself.”
Niall’s jaw tightened. “Did they take Makenna?”
“Nae.” He shook his head. “But I will find her, dunnae fash. I have trackers on her trail. Will ye come?”
