Highlander in Her Dreams (25 page)

Mundy, the great black-bearded Irishman, if Kira wasn't mistaken.

But poison? She started to ask about that, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

As if sensing her discomfort, one of the knotty hands returned, this time to dab a cool wet cloth at her lips.

“Aye, 'tis the leeching that saved her,” the owner of the knotty hand insisted. “That, and the powder of newt we sprinkled on the hearth fire. Everyone knows powdered newt fumes cleanse the air o' bad vapors.”

“Hah!” Nils the Viking snorted. “Newt fumes do naught but make good men sneeze.”

Knotty Hand teetered. “Be that why
you
haven't done?”

“Cease! All of you.”
His
voice came again, sweet as a dream. “Away with you, the lot of you. I'll watch o'er her alone now. 'Tis clear she'll soon be waking.” Then, in a sterner, don't-argue-with-me tone, “I'll no' have her frightened if she opens her eyes to see so many ugly faces peering at her! And—Tavish! Take Ferlie with you. I willna have her upset by his whining.”

“And your bellowing? Ferlie's whimpers and groans are nowise as loud. She's fond of the old beast and might be pleased to know he's pined for her,” another deep male voice shot back.

Tavish's own. Her champion the day she'd found herself perched atop Aidan's gateway arch.

She smiled, remembering, but the smile made her lips crack. Even worse, she suspected they were bleeding. “Owww,” she moaned before she could stop herself.

“See?” Aidan roared, bellowing indeed. “You're upsetting her! Now begone—all of you!”

A great ruckus followed. The departure, Kira assumed, of those souls at Wrath who'd cared to look in on her. From the number of trudging feet and muttered complaints as Aidan ushered them from the room, it must've been a goodly number indeed.

But only one mattered so much to her that she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was there. How her heart had nearly burst when she'd heard his voice.

And listening to that voice now, she judged he was close.

Possibly on his knees by her bedside. Hoping it, she tried to thrust out her arm and reach for him, feeling a great need to touch him. But her arm refused to move. Her fingers still tingled a bit. In fact, she'd done a lot of tingling, if she remembered rightly.

Just not the
good
kind.

Far from it. Every inch of her throbbed and ached with mind-numbing intensity. A nightmarish stiffness worse than the time she'd tried to cram a year's worth of gym workouts into two days and ended up nearly creeping around her apartment on all fours, finding it too painful to stand and even worse to move.

She felt that bad now.

Having enough of it, she struggled to open her eyes, then tried even harder to raise herself on an elbow. Instead, all she managed was heaving a great, trembling sigh.

He
leaned close and kissed her cheek. “Hush, sweet, and lie still,” he said, smoothing the hair from her brow. “You'll feel better once we get some broth into you.”

Broth?

She tried to smile again. She knew he didn't mean chicken noodle soup, but as long as it was hot broth, she'd feel better indeed. Even lukewarm would do. Her feet felt like a block of ice and even the tips of her fingers were tingling-numb with cold.

“I-I'm f-freezing,” she rasped, her teeth chattering.

“You won't be for long.” He put a hand to her forehead and she could see his relief through her lashes. “There isn't a fever, and if you're awake now, there's no longer a need to keep you mounded with these chilled pea sacks.”

Her lips twitched. So that was why she'd felt buried under an avalanche. It was funny, really. But what she needed was water, not frozen peas.

“I'm thirsty…please.” Her voice was thick again, hoarse and unintelligible.

She tried to will him to understand, but the concentration only made her head throb harder.

“Saints, but you gave me a fright!” He shoved a hand through his hair, looking almost as haggard as she felt.

Then, leaping to his feet, he threw back the covers and began removing the ice bags, pitching them into a large wooden tub nearby, another cut-in-half wine barrel-y bathing contraption, this one apparently empty.

But what really caught her eye was the flashy sword propped against a chair near the wine barrel. Much longer and definitely more magnificent than his usual one, its blade reflected the flames of the hearth fire, the whole length of the thing shining and sparkling like a well-polished mirror. An elaborately scrolled inscription was inlaid along the blade's fuller, the blood-channel running down from the hilt, but she couldn't make out the letters. The inscription just made the sword look special.

Magical or enchanted.

Much like what she imagined King Arthur and his knights would've carried.

She squinted, trying to see it better. The cross-guard looked rather straight and plain, and the hilt was leather-wrapped and worn. As if it had been used often, and hard. Her breath caught when she focused on the sword's pommel. That was the real attention-getter.

Hers anyway.

A circular,
wheel
pommel, its centerpiece was an enormous bloodred gemstone. Polished smooth and brilliant, dazzling rays of bright, ruby-colored light streamed in every direction from its jeweled surface, the radiant bands dancing crazily on the room's whitewashed walls and ceiling.

It was definitely the sunburst blade.

The one she'd seen whipping through the blackness as she'd slept.

She moistened her lips, her heart pounding. Her eyes fluttered completely open.

“I saw that sword.” She peered at it now, looking from the blade to Aidan. “You swung it—I saw you in my dreams.”

“I raised it, aye.” He spoke after a hesitation. “Once.”

She blinked, remembering the blade's great sweeping arc through the quiet and darkness. A flashing, lightning-quick arc, the memory of it brought a horrible thought.

“You weren't trying to put me out of my misery, were you?”

Aidan felt his jaw slip. “I was trying to
save
you.” He stared down at her, the neck opening of his tunic suddenly so tight he could scarce breathe. “That sword has been in my family for centuries. Some claim it brings us good fortune. I thought its presence might—”

“Help me?” She pushed up on her elbows, her gaze flitting to the sword again. “Like a good luck talisman or something?”

Aidan nodded. “Many clans have the like,” he admitted, hoping that would suffice.

He wasn't about to tell her how he'd dropped to his knees and raised the sword to the Old Ones, vowing on the bloodred pommel stone that he'd grant Kira any wish if only they'd intervene and spare her life.

He knew well what her greatest wish might be and even if the Ancients smote him for it, now that she was clearly back amongst the living, he'd prefer not to tempt fate any further.

It was one thing to hear about Ameri-
cains
and their flying machines and tour buses, and something else entirely to be surrounded by such impossibilities.

Pushing them from his mind, he poured her a small bit of water. “Drink this,” he said, slipping his hand behind her head, steadying her as he held the cup to her lips.

She took a few sips and fell back against the pillows. “I must've been in pretty bad shape if you thought only a magic sword could cure me.”

“It isn't a magic sword, but a
family
sword. In these hills, we see strength in family. The continuity of our clans.” Aidan tossed aside the last of the pea sacks. “I wanted to share that strength with you, that was all.”

She still looked skeptical. “There isn't any mumbo jumbo running down the sword's blade?” she asked, slanting another glance at it. “Those cryptic letters aren't a charm or a hex or anything?”

Aidan laughed despite himself. “The inscription reads ‘Invincible,'” he told her, speaking true. “'Tis the blade's name. Family tradition says it came to us from one of the great Somerled's sons, though we cannot say which. The red of the gemstone is supposed to be his blood, frozen forever inside the pommel stone. That, however, is questionable.”

“Who knows…” She trailed off, her attention on the sword.

“It doesn't matter.” He reached for her hand, not liking the shadows beneath her eyes. “Only that you are well now.”

Her gaze returned to his. “How long did I sleep? One night? Two?”

“Four.” Letting go of her hand, he took a large plaid from the end of the bed and swirled it over her, taking care to smooth it into place. “Tonight would have been the fifth.” He touched her cheek, not wanting to frighten her. “You will be fine, Kee-
rah
. Dinna you worry.”

But she did.

Especially since learning he'd tried some quirky medieval voodoo to save her. No matter what he cared to call it, that's what it had been.

Frozen ancestral blood indeed.

Not that such a notion was any wackier than time travel. Or ghosts. She certainly knew both existed. She also knew someone must've tried to poison her.

Or him.

She glanced at the water cup, grateful when he picked it up immediately, once more helping her to drink. Before he could take it away, she lifted a shaky hand and grasped his wrist. “The wine I drank,” she began, then needed another sip to finish. “It was laced with something, wasn't it?”

He nodded. “It was a careless mistake, Kee-
rah
,” he lied, the twitch in his jaw giving him away before he even finished the sentence. “Nils mixed a sleeping draught for Kendrew and someone mistook it for simple wine.”

“You aren't fooling me.” She struggled to a sitting position, every inch of her screaming protest, but determination made her strong. “Someone here tried to kill me. Or you.”

“It willna happen again.” He folded his arms, no longer denying it. “I'll no' have you worrying.”

She blew out a breath, puffing her bangs off her forehead. “I've been worrying ever since I remembered reading about your cousin locking you in your own dungeon to die.”

Aidan frowned.

Her worries couldn't compare to the concerns splitting him. No matter how he turned it, he'd failed her. Conan Dearg wallowed in Wrath's deepest, darkest pit. Every man within Aidan's own walls feared, respected, and, he hoped, loved him. Yet someone he knew, someone close to him, had tried to take Kira's life.

And he'd been unable to prevent it.

Indeed, while she'd sipped the tainted wine, he'd stood laughing in his hall, looking on as his men gallivanted about, making merry with her pea sacks!

Thinking all was well with his world.

It was inexcusable. A mistake he couldn't allow to happen again.

He drew a deep breath, hoping to convince her it wouldn't. “I've ordered my cousin placed in a different part of the dungeon. He's in a larger, more comfortable cell, but there's an oubliette running through its middle. He—”

“A what?”

Aidan sighed and began to pace. “An oubliette is a bottle dungeon,” he told her. “A narrow crack in the floor just wide enough for a man to fall through. When he does, the chutelike opening widens into a small round space only large enough to crouch in. There's no escape unless someone is hauled out by a rope.”

“That doesn't change the history books.”

He glanced at her, annoyed that she kept harping on that string, but pleased to hear her voice sounding stronger. He paused at the table to pour himself a measure of ale, downing it in one quick swallow.

“What it changes is that my cousin may well be tempted to use the oubliette to end his misery. He's a vain man, fond of his appearance and comforts. He'll weary of confinement. The lack of baths and a comb for his hair. If he managed to sweet-talk his way out of the dungeon to climb up onto the gateway arch the night Kendrew claims to have seen him, or if he persuaded someone to taint your wine, he'll have no further chances to do so. He—”

“How do you know?”

Aidan closed his eyes. “Because I will do all in my power to keep you safe.”

But as soon as the words left his tongue, his stomach clenched and he fisted his hands.

Truth was, he didn't know.

Not when someone at Wrath conspired with his cousin.

He could only hope.

He started pacing again, well aware that Conan Dearg had been known to wriggle through crevices too tight for a mouse. The bastard had more charm than a whore had favors. But no matter what Kira's history books might say, Aidan didn't want her to become one of Conan's victims.