Chapter Fourteen
“Poison?” The word shot through Keir like a battle cry. “How? What poison?”
Grace sniffed Lachlan’s breath again and took his pulse. “I saw it once at Aros. A woman came from Oban to see Joan Maclean, because she was weak and had spots. Her breath smelled of garlic even though she said she hadn’t eaten any. She was weak but without fever, was losing some of her hair, and sweated terribly. And the white ridges on her fingernails looked the same as Lachlan’s. The woman’s brother had experienced the same symptoms and had died. Joan said it was from arsenic poisoning, probably in their well.”
“But no one else here has these symptoms,” Keir said, already knowing the answer to his unasked question.
Grace met his gaze firmly. “Someone must be adding it to his food or drink. Has been for a while if he’s had slowly worsening symptoms.”
“The lad would have said something,” he argued, feeling the fury within him gather like an advancing storm. He grabbed onto one of the four posters, squeezing the hard wood.
Grace shook her head. “It is odorless and tasteless. Joan told me it was the weapon of kings. They used it to kill off anyone threatening their reign.”
“Gòrach pìos de cac.” He swore, the words coming from the tight, nauseous boulder sitting in his gut. “The only people near the lad’s food are kin and the cook. Rab, Dara, Seanmhair.”
Grace walked closer. “You don’t know that for certain, since you haven’t been home, and when you were, you didn’t know to be guarding him.” She laid her hand on his arm, her touch suddenly an anchor in the churning of his fury. “Why would someone want to kill your nephew?”
Fiona walked back in with Dara on her heels. “I thought the spots were nothing. They were faint this morning.” Dara stopped, her worried expression hardening as she spotted Grace. “Ye must be the coward hiding behind Keir’s door.”
“Not now, Dara,” Keir said, barely holding on to the violence within him.
Grace squeezed his arm, and he glanced down at her. She gave a small shake of her head and looked to the two women inspecting Lachlan’s limp hands. “I’m fairly sure I know the sickness.”
“Can we help him?” Fiona asked, her eyes alert, determined, like Keir had seen in the faces of warriors on a battlefield. If steel could fight Lachlan’s illness, his seanmhair would surely take up her dusty sword.
“I believe so,” Grace said. “But we will have to watch him closely. I will supervise all he has to drink and eat. He will need more chicken broth, fresh ale or water—”
“Which I will get from the falls inland,” Keir said. Grace nodded.
“Once Lachlan is conscious, he needs to eat mashed apples, fresh fish, eggs, and oats. If you have any fresh lemons, that would be of help. And garlic should be infused in the broth.”
Dara frowned but didn’t say anything. Fiona nodded after each item.
“What is it called? This sickness,” Dara asked, her arms crossed before her.
“Spotting sickness,” Grace said confidently. She met Dara’s stare without wavering.
“I haven’t heard of it,” Dara said.
Keir studied his sister. Was she suspicious of the name because she knew it was poison and not a disease? Dara had always been obstinate, wishing to be a warrior like their seanmhair rather than a lady. But what motive would she have for poisoning Rab’s son? Her own nephew?
Grace shrugged. “Have you read many physician texts or helped to heal more than a hundred people during the last year and a half?” She didn’t wait for Dara’s answer, but went instead to the pitcher of water on the table next to Lachlan’s bed. She carried it behind the privacy screen, the sound of her pouring it in the jakes obvious. She walked back around, handing it to Keir. “Let’s start with fresh water in a new pitcher. And I need a pallet brought in, so I can sleep next to the boy.”
“I will stay by him,” Keir said. No one would get near his small nephew without him there to watch.
Grace smiled, but it wasn’t her genuine smile. “Let me. Women heal while men kill.” She rolled her eyes. “Men and Dara, I suppose.”
Dara cursed in Gaelic. Grace ignored her. “I would also like to give him a sponge bath, wipe his skin with warm, clean water.”
“I will get that as well,” Keir said. Before going to the door, he walked up to Dara. Leaning in, he spoke in Gaelic, his words succinct. “Do not threaten the healer in any way, or expect the wrath of the Devil.” His sister was brave, obstinate, and easily annoyed, but she wasn’t a fool.
“Then hurry back, brother.” She turned toward the lifeless form of their nephew.
With a quick glance at Grace, who shooed him with her hand, he strode out the door into the dim corridor. Would Dara poison Rab’s son? Keir wouldn’t become chief if something were to happen to Rab. The position of the Devil of Dunakin wasn’t something he could give up. He had been raised to be the executioner, the brutal leader of the warriors and vicious protector of the clan. Did Dara believe she could fill the seat of chief if Lachlan and Rab died? It would be an impossible feat for any woman except one who had the support of the Devil of Dunakin. But she was a fool to think he would back her if she killed Lachlan, unless she sought to make it look like the boy had succumbed to a disease. Would she then kill off Rab?
Keir traipsed down the hall toward the steps and looked to his brother’s door. He hated that room, the chief’s room, and rarely went inside. After the death of his parents ten years ago, it would always smell of fresh blood to him.
He paused before it. Had Rab already given up on his son? He should be in Lachlan’s room to see what the healer might think. About to turn away, a noise inside made him lean toward it. Retching?
“Rabbie?” Keir called and knocked. More retching.
Bam! Bam! “Rabbie, let me in.”
Keir had been concerned with Grace’s swoon earlier, but now that he thought about it, his brother had seemed pale and blotchy merely an hour ago, leaving the hall in his haste to return to bed.
Rab’s voice was terse, as if annoyed by his own sickness. “Best not to come in, Keir. Seems I’ve caught what Lachlan has.”
“If ye don’t open this door, I will kick it in,” Keir warned, feeling his muscles tense. Maybe his brother was too weak to lift the bar. “Stand away.”
“Shite, Keir, I’m coming,” Rab said. Seconds later, the bar scraped along the inside of the door.
As soon as it hit the floor, Keir pushed inside. Rab stood there, his shoulders bent as he leaned his hands on his knees. Keir grabbed him under the arms, catching him before he fell.
“Mo chreach. I said I’ve got what Lachlan has, Keir.”
Keir ignored his weak outburst and set him on the bed, grabbing his hands. “Spots. Sard it,” he murmured. “When did the spots start?”
“This morning.” Rab coughed. “Get me some ale.” He gestured to the pitcher near the window.
“Rabbie,” Keir said and waited until his brother looked at him. “Don’t drink or eat anything in here. Grace looked at Lachlan. He’s got spots all over him now. Rab, she says it’s poison, arsenic poison.”
“Bloody hell,” Rab whispered, his face pinching. “Why hasn’t anyone recognized it?”
“Lachlan started with the spots today, ye too.” Keir’s hands fisted at his sides. “Are ye two the only ones sick?”
Rab nodded, opening his mouth to draw in a labored breath. “As far as I’ve heard.”
“Then someone is poisoning Lachlan and now ye, too.”
Rab grabbed his stomach, hurrying behind the privacy screen to retch. His voice came weak but with determination. “I want their heads, Keir. And their bowels. The Devil will find them and slaughter them.”
…
Grace dozed on the hay-filled pallet that Keir had dragged to lay beside Lachlan’s bed. When he’d come back with freshly boiled water and weak ale from a newly tapped barrel, he’d sent both his sister and grandmother to their beds. He’d helped Grace wash his nephew down and drizzle untainted ale into his mouth. He barely stirred but managed to swallow. Now Keir sat near the fire, staring into the flames.
“You should sleep, too,” Grace said, her words thick with exhaustion.
“I will sleep when I’m dead,” he said.
Grace rolled her eyes, although she knew he couldn’t see her. “That is such a foolish male thing to say.”
“I am male,” he answered. “And the fact that someone has been poisoning my nephew and brother, right before me without notice, certainly paints me the fool.”
She pushed up on an elbow, watching him poke the fire. “Small amounts of arsenic imitate a long, drawn-out illness. It’s very difficult to detect until the later stages when the spots appear.” She sighed when he didn’t respond. “You won’t be good to anyone if you’re falling asleep in your pottage tomorrow. If there’s an assassin about, I need you alert.”
His face turned, his dark eyes meeting her. “We should keep the treason a secret. I’ve warned Rab not to say anything. I’m to spread about that he has a mild illness. The assassin will know what it truly is and will try to complete his evil deed.”
“Come sit with me,” Grace said and sat with her back against the rock wall. He set another square of peat into the flames and walked over, lowering his large frame slowly as if he might ache. He leaned next to her, his shoulder brushing her arm.
She kept her voice low. “That is why I told Dara and Fiona that it was called Spotting Sickness. We must watch anyone who comes close to either Lachlan’s or Rab’s food or drink.” Grace could see Keir’s jaw clenching. “You are worried it is Dara?” she asked in a whisper.
“She’s had access to both, especially Lachlan. Or perhaps Seanmhair.”
“Your grandmother?” Grace tried to keep the disbelief from her hushed tone. “I don’t see it in her, Keir.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and raised one hand to rake through his hair. “She’s Aonghus Mackinnon’s mother. Madness runs in the family.” He stared out at the side of Lachlan’s bed.
“Aonghus was mad?” she asked, feeling the brittleness of Keir’s underlying pain in the way he held himself.
“Aye, he was mad when…he died. Seanmhair raised him.”
“He died ten years ago?”
“Aye,” he answered.
Grace thought back to the concerned elderly woman and shook her head. “She is too worried about Lachlan. My instincts tell me her fear for him is genuine, Keir.” She patted his leg under the blanket. “I have very good instincts when it comes to people.”
He looked down at his lap where her hand rested beneath. Grace yanked it back to her side. Blasted. With the treason and worry, and for her, the horror of a ring of heads around the bloody castle, she was having a difficult time remembering her anger. Sitting so close, the threads of their passion drew her. Maybe it was her fear that eroded her fury at Keir. He was the only one at Dunakin whom she somewhat trusted.
She looked toward the bed, her pulse picking up when she felt his leg shift against hers. “What do your instincts say about me?” he asked, his voice a soft burble of Scots accent, pulling her gaze back. Question and doubt filled the deep shadows and lines of his face. “Am I mad, too? Brutal and cruel as the Devil of Dunakin?”
“Mad, brutal, and cruel? No,” she answered without hesitation.
A wry smile touched his lips, lips she knew tasted like wild passion and heat. “Then I’m sorry to say, Grace Ellington, I don’t believe your instincts.”
He didn’t move, yet his rigid posture softened, the firelight behind him making the details of his expression difficult to read in the shadow. “Ye must sleep,” he said.
Grace’s skin tingled at his nearness. She wet her lips and watched as his gaze dropped to them.
“I…” she started and swallowed. “Yes, we must sleep, in order to work together to find this fiend.”
He looked away. “Lie back. I will watch the night.”
“God’s teeth, Keir. The night will watch itself.” She pinched her lips tight to give him a glare. “The door is barred, and if anyone tries to enter, you will no doubt jump directly out of sleep to slice them to bits and claim their heads to decorate your hall for next Christmastide.”
His rigid jaw relaxed enough to allow a thin smile. “Ye have a way with words, lass.”
He’d said the same thing over her passion-evoked rambling in the cabin. Grace felt her cheeks warm but kept his gaze. “Words are powerful,” she said. “Spoken with passion and truth, they can bend hearts and persuade others to act.”
Keir pulled the covers up slightly and pressed against her shoulder until she tumbled over, her head meeting the pillow. “I’m speaking with truth when I say ye must sleep,” he said.
She snorted and pulled his arm until he followed her to lie between her back and the wall. She yawned. “If I wake to find you up and black-eyed from exhaustion, you’ll hear some powerful, loud words from me.”
“I am warned,” he said.
Her back facing him, she could still feel his heat. It seemed to radiate out from him, warming her, inviting the heaviness of peace that was necessary for sleep. She tried not to move, knowing that if she shifted her backside she’d likely brush against him. The thought made her restless, but exhaustion won out over smothered, ignored lust, and Grace fell asleep. The lust, however, followed her into her dreams.
Keir’s hands stroked down over her breasts, making Grace’s gown fade away like magic, exposing her to his sight. He smiled, holding her close but not kissing her. Waiting. The magic word that would spur him into action, gloriously erotic and tantalizing action, sat on her tongue. Grace opened her lips to say “more” but nothing came out. She breathed out a huff, pinching her lips together to make the M sound, but only a whisper released, too quiet to hear despite her screaming the full word in her head. She tried again, and a whimper escaped.
Keir’s mouth hardened as he stared at her, his brows coming down until he glared. His mouth opened in a grimace, showing his teeth. “Nay,” he yelled.
Keir’s voice jerked Grace out of her dream, and she bolted upright, the word finally breaking free. “More,” she said on an exhale and looked around. Where am I? Blinking in the darkness, the gray tones of dawn filtering through the window’s glass panes, the details of her circumstances rushed back to her. Wolves, snowstorm, Keir, a kiss, the cabin, Keir in the cabin, Brodie, the journey to Skye, heads on spikes…poison.
“Nay,” Keir rasped behind her, making her twist to see him. He lay on his back, his fists held tight on the pallet. He mumbled words in Gaelic, his head turning side to side.
“Keir,” Grace whispered. Was he ill? She reached to touch his forehead and gasped as his hand shot up, encircling her throat.