“I’ll leave the poultice and tea makin’s with ye. Ye can rest in tha shade behind the house. There’s a well there, an’ there’s a pen for the horses. I’ll send the boy with a message, if ye’ll tell me where it should go.”
“Castle MacArthur,” Skye said. “I thank ye kindly for yer help.”
Arran felt as if he were on fire. Someone kept pouring a bitter liquid down his throat. The taste was repulsive, but it seemed to quench his thirst and keep the fire at bay.
Once he thought he heard Devil’s distinctive neigh. He felt Skye’s gentle touch on his arm, over and over again. Once, he felt something wet splash on his face. Then he started up, or tried to, for he heard men’s voices. No men should be anywhere near his Skye. Not without him, anyway.
Strong arms lifted him, and Magnus said, “Easy there, easy now, Arran. Ye’ve been sair wounded. Nae one is goin’ ta harm yer Skye. She’s safe, yer safe.”
Skye rode into Castle MacArthur in a farm cart with Arran on a pallet of straw in its bed. The two saddle horses were tied on behind, while an elderly farm hand drove the team of mules that pulled the cart steadily up the long road to the drawbridge. The gates had barely closed behind them when Magnus and Ramsey, their faces etched with concern, rushed to meet them.
“Skye, what happened?” Magnus demanded, his eyes wide, looking at Arran’s gray face and limp form.
“It was an ambush,” Skye explained breathlessly. “Two of Blackwell’s men attacked us just outside Aberray. Arran fought them off, but he was injured. The blade was poisoned.”
Ramsey wasted no time. He reachedown and scooped Arran up as if he weighed no more than a stripling lad.
Arran mumbled incoherently.
Ramsey replied, “Ye are home, me Laird. We’ll get ye fixed up in nae time.”
The commotion drew everyone’s attention. Helena rushed forward, her expression a mix of fear and determination. “What’s happened?” she asked, her gaze darting from Arran to Skye. “Skye, are ye all right? Tell me, Daughter, are ye hurt?”
Skye reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand. “I am fine, Maither, but there’s nay time to explain,” she replied quickly.“We need to get Arran to bed, and his wound will need to be cleaned and rewrapped soon.”
“Magnus, I’ll need hot water and clean cloths,” she barked.
“Already collectin’ them, me Lady,” Nellie yelled from the kitchen.
“Maither, I’ll need yer help. Ramsey, take him up to our chamber.”
It was a feat, but Ramsey somehow managed to carry Arran slowly up the stairs. He carefully laid him on the bed. Nellie followed with a stack of cloths, and two servants carried a bucket of steaming water.
Arran looked terrible. His skin was clamme, and his breathing was shallow. Skye set to work immediately. She removed Nelda’s last poultice and blanched when she saw the dark veins still spreading from the wound.
She cleaned the wound again, this time with the cloths soaked in hot water, hoping this would draw out more of the poison. When she was satisfied, she made another poultice, applied it to his wound, and then wrapped it tightly.
“Maither, help me get his clothes off,” she instructed.
Helena nodded, her hands steady as they removed Arran’s kilt and torn shirt. Skye used the remaining hot water to wash thedirt and sweat from his body. Once clean, she pulled a warm blanket over him.
Astrid suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Here is fresh water, me Lady. And some broth.”
Skye thanked her and then asked, “Can ye send up Magnus or Douglas, or even Callum? I need an errand run.”
Magnus came, nearly running. “What do ye need, Skye? How can I help?”
“I need someone to go to Braewell. It’s been near six hours since Arran was hurt. I’m doing all I know how to do for him, but I need Ava. If anyone can help him, she’ll know how to do it.”
“I’ll go at once,” Magnus said.
Meanwhile, Skye went to war against the poison that tried to claim her husband.
She sponged Arran’s fevered body with cloths soaked in cold water, coaxed him to sip broth, and reapplied the poultice religiously. The poison coursed through him, causing his fever to spike and then subside, only to rise again.
Arran thrashed in the bed and often called out for her and his kin. Her heart broke when he called for his father, then for his mother.
“Let me sit with him, Skye,” her mother urged.
