Something dug into his back, right between his shoulder blades, vibrating as if trying to shove him away.He found the strength to shift, reach underneath him, and free the gently glowing sword.He laid it at his side, keeping his fingers on its haft in case the dark one returned.
“Jessa,” he whispered, his raspy voice breaking.Ignoring the pain, he turned his head and kissed her forehead.Lore a’mighty, his dear one was icy as death.
And she didn’t answer.Nor did she move.She lay in the curve of his arm, her head on his shoulder.Her stillness was not that of sleep or a lady caught in a swoon.His precious one’s soul hovered at death’s threshold.Struggling, he forced himself to his knees, gathered her up, then staggered to his feet.He had to get her to the keep.To a fire.To a dry bed and shelter.
“Let me carry her, brother,” said a strangely muffled voice to his left.
Grant slowly turned, fighting to remain upright.Henry looked at him with pity and resignation, filling him with raging determination.“Fetch the witch,” he croaked to the man.“My Jessa must be saved.”
“I shall fetch Mairwen,” Lachie said from his other side, his voice just as muffled.
Grant swallowed hard and shook his head, trying to clear his ears without dropping his precious wife.“Nay.Walk with me,” he told them, reluctantly acknowledging he might not make it to the keep.“Help me save her.”
Flanking him, they stayed close, joining him in one painful step at a time.The skirting wall seemed so very far away.
His feet caught in the long, matted grass, making him stumble and fall to his knees more than once.Each time, with Henry and Lachie steadying him, he rose and whispered to Jessa, “Nearly there, my own.Hold on.”
By the time they reached the split in the skirting wall, swirling spots of blackness filled his vision, making him stumble to lean against the ancient barrier built by his ancestors.His shoulders throbbed with a pain so powerful he couldn’t draw a full breath.
Henry caught hold of him.“Ye brought her home.Now let us serve ye as we are meant to.Give her over, man.I’ll carry her to yer chambers, and Lachie will lend ye his strength and get ye there as well.”He squeezed Grant’s arm and leaned in, forcing Grant to look him in the eyes.“Dinna let yer stubbornness and pride kill the both of ye, aye?”
As much as Grant hated giving in to the weariness and pain, Henry was right—although Grant would never admit it out loud.Grudgingly, he dipped a weak nod.“Take her—but mind her head.She is weak as a blade of brittle grass in a windstorm.”As Henry gently took her, Grant sagged back against the wall and almost went to the ground.
Lachie caught him, pulled his arm across his shoulders, and helped Grant stand.“Lean against me, brother.I’ll nay let ye fall.”
Grant locked his gaze ahead on Henry’s back, watching the man as if doing so was the same as carrying Jessa in his own arms.
“Make way for our laird!Make way for our lady!”The cry went up again and again as they crossed the courtyard and entered the keep.
Grant was barely aware of his people.He had to focus on Jessa.If he kept his eyes locked on her head resting on Henry’s shoulder, her soul wouldn’t slip away and leave him all alone.
“Mrs.Robeson!”Mairwen shouted from somewhere nearby as they crossed the length of the main hall.“Every tonic and herb ye have.Boiling water.Plenty of linens.To the master’s chambers.Now.”
At least, that was what he thought the old witch said.Every sound was still so feckin’ muffled.He stumbled and went down to one knee again, nearly pulling Lachie down with him.
“Ye will never make it up the stairs,” his friend told him while helping me rise.“And we’re too broad to climb them side by side.Give me yer arms.”
“Why?”Grant squinted at the man, fighting to clear his failing vision.
“Because I mean to drag ye up the stairs while ye lean on my back because yer arse is too big to carry.Now give me yer arms.Put them over my shoulders so’s I can hold them to keep ye from sliding back down.”
“This is feckin’ humiliating.”
“Do it, man.It’s either this, a battlefield litter, or I leave yer stubborn arse at the bottom of these steps.Now what shall it be?”
Lachie always did have a way with words and no patience whatsoever when times demanded action.Deciding not to spend what little strength he had on arguing, Grant wrapped his arms around Lachie’s neck as if about to choke him from behind.And then they entered the stairwell and climbed, one slow step at a time.Grant helped as much as he could.With his forehead shoved against Lachie’s shoulders, he concentrated on lifting his feet and supporting his own weight at least a little.Feckin’ hell.Climbing the stairway was like plowing a hard-packed field, and he was the ox lashed to the plow.
“Nearly there,” Lachie told him, grunting as he tugged him up another series of steps.“What is that unholy humming?”
“The sword shoved through my belt.”Grant dragged his foot up to the next step, then fought to find the strength to lift the other.“It is Caladbolg.”
When Lachie didn’t answer, Grant knew his kinsman thought he had gone mad from all that had happened.He would’ve thought the same if he’d not seen the blade’s power.“If aught happens to me, guard it well.Only yerself or Henry should carry it, ye ken?”
“Aughtis not going to happen to ye.Get that through yer thick skull, aye?”
Head swimming, Grant closed his eyes and swallowed hard.He had to make it to his chambers.“Can ye see Henry?Has he got her to our rooms yet?”
“He is out of the stairwell.I am sure Lady Jessa be in the hands of the women by now.Take heart, man.The Weavers and Defenders plan to surround the keep.Probably already have.”
