Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

Three days later

Emma huddled in the corner of the cell and pulled the worn blanket around her tighter. Her aching head rested against the wall, her burning eyes half-focused on the single shaft of sunlight falling to the floor. Dust motes swirled in the air, and she wondered idly if she’d ever feel the sun and wind on her face again.

Somewhere, mice were scrabbling through the hay.

That should have disturbed her. Indeed, the first night, she had screamed. Now, she did not care. She was too cold, too filthy.

But the guards who brought her food did not answer her questions and pleas—they barely looked at her. And after the first day, she had stopped trying, knowing that Reuben must have told them not to speak to her.

Red-hot hatred and rage had flared in her chest the first day, after she’d slept and some of the shock had worn off. She’d shouted and screamed, banging on the bars, but no one had come. She had also not been fed dinner that night.

Now, all of that had faded into a dull ache. She’d been hopeful that Grant would recover the first day. After all, Reuben had not said he was dead, only implied that it did not look good. But Grant was so strong, so capable. Even as he’d succumbed to the poison, he kept fighting it.

“Emma.”

Emma stirred at the soft voice, then started as she spotted the figure standing on the other side of the bars.

Lady Ronson drew back her hood and stared with endless compassion at the girl on the floor.

“Oh dear, ye poor thing.” She hastily took the basket off her arm and slipped it between the bars. “There is a hot drink in there for ye. Cider with a bit of tea. Drink it and warm yerself.”

Emma shook her head. “Why?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Have ye come to tell me that Grant—Laird Ronson is dead? Is this my final meal?”

“Grant survived.”

Emma scrambled up and flew toward the woman, who reached up and caught her hands. For a moment, neither of them was able to form words.

“He’s—he’s all right?” she whispered. “Are you sure?”

“Aye, he pulled through and is restin’ now. He should wake up soon, Kyla said.” Lady Ronson’s deep green eyes shone with tears. “All of this will be over soon.” Her throat worked. “I am so, so sorry for Reuben’s actions. I didnae realize that he’d gone to these lengths—I was too distraught to check on ye.”

“I—he was trying to protect his brother,” Emma said in a stiff tone.

“This isnae the right way to go about it,” Lady Ronson sighed. “Sometimes?—”

“It’s all right,” Emma said. “All that matters is finding who did this.” Her thoughts drifted to the bandits who tried to kidnap her. “Perhaps it is my fault—some men were after me. Grant risked his life to save me.”

Lady Ronson gave her a soft smile. “That wasnae yer fault,” she insisted. “And I think I spoke too hastily when we first met. I am glad to hear ye call him Grant.” She squeezed Emma’s hands. “I wish I could stay, but I cannae. Someone will come soon to let ye out.”

“Thank you,” Emma croaked.

The older woman nodded, before letting her go and hurrying away.

Pulling in a deep breath, Emma sank to the floor and clasped her hands to her chest.

Grant is alive.

A happy, gasping laugh escaped her lips, and for the first time in three days, she found that she could indeed eat.

Finding the cider, she toasted both Grant and his mother. However, she hoped she’d never have to see Reuben again.

Rope creaked, and a cold wind blew. Grant’s feet were kicking in the air, his fingers clawing at his neck, and a terrible pressure was ripping him apart from the inside out.

He was dying.

He tumbled to the earth, hitting it hard, and looked up through the haze of pain. His father stood over him and kicked him hard in the stomach.

Grant wheezed in pain, even though this was wrong—that had been the first time he’d attempted to spy on someone for Laird MacCabe.

His father blurred and shifted, turning into Reuben. Reuben, who was glaring down at him with such hate and holding a bloodied blue ribbon in his hands.

“If ye come back, I will kill ye meself,” he said.

Grant shuddered. Reuben’s voice was his father’s voice, and his father was Reuben.

“Worthless, foolish rot of me blood. I curse ye. I curse the day ye were born. ”

“No,” Grant tried to say, but he couldn’t speak.

“And I shall kill that Sassenach of yers, too. Disgustin’.”

Light broke over Grant as he bolted upright, throwing back the blankets and breathing hard. Next to him, Kyla started and dropped the knitting in her hands. She pressed a hand to her heart, then rushed to him.

“Me Laird,” she said, bowing her head. “Ye are awake. Good. Please, drink.”

“What—what happened, Kyla?” Grant asked and winced at the roughness of his voice, the burn in his throat. His body felt loose and weak, as though he had a fever. “And none of this Laird nonsense. We are old friends, how many times do I have to tell ye that?”

“What happened is that ye are lucky I ken me herbs,” Kyla drawled as she passed him a mug of tea. He drank from it gratefully, eyeing her when she didn’t continue.

She motioned for him to finish. Rolling his eyes, he obliged her and then gave her an expectant look.

“Ye were poisoned. Probably a Skulleye mushroom.”

Grant stared down at the mug in his hand and shook his head. He pictured the small, round white mushrooms with the two diamond dots on either side, like the holes of a skull. They were not common. He was fairly certain the last time he’d come across them was when he was a boy.

“Mac told me about them when I was a boy,” he said slowly and raised his gaze to the window. “Sometimes during huntin’ trips, he’d come along to gather herbs farther afield.”

“Reuben was with ye?”

“I…” Grant shook his head. “Mayhap? But probably nae—he was too young. How could I have been so foolish?” He leaned back and gazed at her. “How am I alive?”

Kyla shook her head. “Ye came verra close to death, Me Laird. Too close. I’m nae sure if it’s because ye didnae eat enough or because I quickly gave ye the antidote.” She pressed a hand to her face. “It’s strange… If I hadnae gone to Mac’s Garden with Emma that mornin’, I’m nae sure I would have had the necessary ingredients that night.” She huffed out a breath. “I swear, sometimes, me braither’s ghost keeps watch over this castle.”

A chill ran down Grant’s spine. It was not the first time Kyla had said such a thing, but he usually dismissed it. He’d hope that Mac would find peace elsewhere. But perhaps the kindly, older healer was still around.

“A lucky thing.” He sat up straight. “Wait, where is Emma? She’s nae here?”

Kyla paused in measuring a tincture. “Should she be?”

“Aye,” he said. His heart leaped with sudden fear. “Nay—tell me she wasnae hurt. Is she well? Ye would have told me if she werenae well.”

“Drink this,” Kyla instructed.

“Dammit, Kyla, tell me,” Grant snapped as he reached for the glass and downed it.

“She wasnae poisoned, me Laird. Dinnae fash. She’s well, but?—”

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door, and Grant growled, which caused the door to fly open. McWirthe, several healers, and his mother entered. All of them let out cries of relief, but he held up a hand and glared at Kyla.

“Tell me where Emma is.” He balled his fists. “Did she run?”

Kyla let out a short, harsh laugh that was so unlike her. “Nay, she couldnae even if she wanted to.”

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” Grant snarled. “Explain, now.”

“She is suspected of poisonin’ ye.”

Grant heard the words, but they made no sense to him until he met his mother’s gaze.

There were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was hastily swept up, and she was wearing a somber gray gown. He noted the dirt on her hands and dust on her boots.

“Ye put her in the dungeons?” Grant boomed, and everyone flinched. “I shall have yer head, McWirthe.”

“It wasnae me, Me Laird,” McWirthe spoke steadily. “I was against it.”

“’Twas Reuben,” Brenda interjected.

Grant’s entire body went cold, then hot. He swung his legs over the bed and stood up, not caring that he was in nothing but his drawers.

Protests erupted around the healing chambers. Kyla shouted at him to get his arse back in bed, but he ignored all of them. He grabbed a pair of trews, shoved his legs into them, and then grabbed his sword.

He rounded on the folk in the room, and they all fell back, all silent as they beheld the Devil of Banrose.

“Where is me braither?”