Page 79 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
As he rounded the corner, Doughall felt the air squeeze out of his lungs.
Freya lay in an awkward heap on the floor, her head turned to the side, her mouth open, her lips blue, her skin so pale it was as if someone had drained her of all the vitality, all the life. She wasn’t moving. Not a single twitch or flinch to let Doughall know that she was alive.
“Freya…” he rasped, striding past Moira and Isla, muscling Ersie aside to get to his wife. “Freya?”
Sinking to his knees, he scooped his arms beneath her and pulled her into his lap. He gazed down at her closed eyes, and when he saw no movement beneath her eyelids, he bent his head and listened, ready to snap the neck of anyone who made a single noise as he did so.
Faint, shallow breaths tickled his cheek, and as he bent his head lower, resting his ear on her chest, his eyes closed in desperate, fleeting relief—her heart was beating. She wasn’t gone.
“What happened?” Doughall snarled at those closest to them as he picked her up.
When he walked, the others—Adam, Emily, Ersie, Isla, Moira, and Flynn—followed without hesitation. This time, the guests parted for him, not wanting to feel his wrath if they got in his way.
“We dinnae ken,” Adam said, a half step behind him. “She just… fell.”
Doughall kept his gaze fixed ahead, quickening his pace. “What was she doin’ before she fell?”
“She was just sittin’,” Emily cut in, her voice wavering. “Watchin’ the celebrations. I saw her get up, and… she collapsed. It all happened so quickly.”
It took every ounce of discipline Doughall possessed not to turn utterly feral, not to roar and rage at the guests until he found out what had occurred in the few minutes that he had been absent. It would do Freya no favors if he lost all control now. He needed to keep himself calm until she was in the hands of the healer.Then,he could unleash his fury on the merrymakers, doing whatever was necessary to get answers.
“Auntie, run on to Sorcha,” he commanded. “Tell her we’re comin’ and that she’d better have a way of helpin’ me wife, or else I’ll have her head.”
Isla paled, her eyes wild as she took off at a sprint, her skirts flying behind her, running with all of her might toward Freya’s salvation.
“Ersie, go back and fetch the plate she was eatin’ from and the cup she was drinkin’ from. Everythin’ she touched that’s on the table, I want ye to bring it,” Doughall commanded next, wondering if it was something as simple as a violent aversion to something that had been served.
Ersie muttered a determined “aye” and ran back into the Great Hall.
The rest stayed a short distance behind Doughall as he pressed on, bristling with desperate urgency. At least, they tried to stay behind him, but as the hallways opened up ahead of him, he could not just walk anymore. There might not be time for care and consideration of Freya’s comfort. So, he took off running, pouring every last drop of his strength into his legs as they powered down the empty hallways to Sorcha’s chambers.
The healer looked like she had just woken up as Doughall burst through the doors and laid his wife down on the bed reserved for those in need of attention.
Isla was pacing, trying to explain what had happened.
“… and then she just crumpled to the floor…” she trailed off upon Doughall’s arrival. A look of terrible sorrow passed over her face as her hand flew to her mouth, and she turned her back on her nephew, unwilling to let him see her distress.
“What was she doin’ before she collapsed?” Sorcha asked, tying her graying hair up with a ribbon.
“Nay one can tell me,” Doughall shot back.
Sorcha narrowed her wise, sharp eyes at him. “Speakin’ to me like that willnae help her, M’Laird.”
“And testin’ me right now isnae so wise either,” Doughall replied, dropping to his knees at Freya’s bedside, taking her agonizingly cold hand in his and blowing on it as if he could somehow breathe his warmth back into her.
Sorcha pursed her lips and bent over Freya, lifting her lids to check her eyes, resting a hand on her brow to feel her temperature, touching the blood that had begun to trickle down from Freya’s nose and rubbing it between her fingers, leaning closer to… sniff.
Doughall knew better than to question Sorcha’s methods. In all the years she had been at the castle, her gift for healing and her extensive knowledge had rarely failed.
“Poison, M’Laird,” she said with a frown. “I can smell the hemlock. Like rotten parsnips. But… there’s somethin’ else too. Sweeter.”
At that moment, Ersie ran in with Freya’s cup and plate. “I brought ‘em!”
“That’s what she was drinkin’ from?” Sorcha took the cup and sniffed it more carefully, her eyes darkening with anger that Doughall had not seen from her before. “I ken what she was poisoned with. I can help her, but I need ye all to get out. Except ye, Isla. Ye can help me. Ye’ve seen this before.”
Isla whirled around, her face a ghoulish white, her eyes glistening with tears. “Nay… It’s nae…”
“Aye, the very same. Ye helped me then, I need ye to help me now,” Sorcha replied, the vague words infuriating Doughall to the point of wanting to put his fist through the door. Instead, he held on to Freya’s hand, leaning forward to kiss her knuckles.
