Wordlessly, she helped Alex slide him from the saddle, trying not to cause him more pain than was necessary. Alex slung an arm over his shoulder, and Isabel supported him as best she could on the other side. Rory moved his feet, but Isabel could tell by the spasms of stiffness that racked his body that each step caused him new agony. Huddled together, they struggled along the treacherously wet path of stone and sand.
“Where are we?”
“In an old passageway built long ago by our Norse ancestors. It is rarely used, and few even know of its existence. Only Rory and I know how to find it. And now you.”
She gulped, honored to have been entrusted with such a secret but all the same wishing she didn’t know. She still felt loyalty to her family and would rather not be forced to lie.
Exhaustion threatened to crumple her legs; the large physique that she so admired was definitely a detriment at a time like this. Isabel knew by the way he tried to hold himself away from her that he was attempting not to crush her with his weight. With the amount of blood soaking her gown, she feared he would soon lose consciousness—or worse.
Don’t fall apart, Isabel. He needs you.
Just when she thought she would not be able to take one more step, Alex stopped.
“We’re here.”
She nearly wept with relief. Even in the damp tunnel, sweat beaded on her brow. Wiping it away with her sleeve, she looked around blankly at solid rock.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look up.”
In the roof, perhaps a foot above Alex’s head, she noticed a door.
Alex answered her unspoken question. “I’ll go up first. You’ll need to hold him steady while I try to lift him through the trapdoor. We’ll be at the bottom of a hidden staircase that leads to the kitchens in the old keep.”
How could that be? She’d been over every inch of that tower. Isabel held her tongue, not wanting Alex to question why she’d felt the need to inspect the castle so closely.
“What is that smell?” She sniffed. “Almost like roasted meat.”
“It is roasted meat. A particularly cruel ancestor of mine decided to vent the kitchens into the dungeon to torment the prisoners.”
“Are we near the dungeon pit?” she asked. The only entry to Dunvegan’s dungeon was located in a small room in the great hall above the kitchens. She repressed a shudder. The dungeon was nothing more than a horrific thirteen-foot-deep hole in the rock where prisoners were tossed and left to die. When she’d first arrived at Dunvegan, she’d had many nightmares about that pit.
“We are very close to the dungeon in an adjacent tunnel. The kitchens are part of the barrel vault that runs the length of the old keep.”
“What if we can’t lift him up through the door by ourselves?” she wondered aloud.
“Rory would not want me to bring anyone else down here, but if there is no other choice, I’ll find help.”
But somehow they managed. Rory stirred from semi-consciousness only once, when Alex pulled him up through the hidden door, but it provided them much needed timely assistance up the small staircase. At the top, Alex peered through a small hole in the hidden door to make sure no one was about. Carefully, he pushed open the door and pulled them to safety.
What happened next was lost in the murky haze of confusion that descended when the MacLeods learned that their chief lay dangerously injured. Once Alex checked to make sure no evidence remained of their entry, the cry for help went up and chaos reigned.
Through it all, Isabel refused to leave Rory’s side. Vaguely, she recalled holding his hand as someone—perhaps Deidre?—dug the arrow from his stomach and stitched the gaping wound closed. She must have blocked the rest from her memory, because after that she could remember nothing.
Smoky, mist-filtered moonbeams bathed the solar in ghostly semidarkness. Relishing the quiet, Isabel sat patiently at his bedside. Needing to be alone with him, she’d sent everyone else away. Nothing more could be done for him right now; they would have to wait to see whether he survived the fever that was sure to follow such a horrible injury. That he survived an arrow in his gut this long was a miracle in itself, but it had hit in the perfect spot. An inch or two in any direction, and he would already be dead.
She fidgeted restlessly, trying to find anything to occupy her hands. At a time like this, patience seemed unattainable. He looked so helpless, she thought as she bathed his head with cool water.
Long dark lashes fluttered, then opened to graze his brow.
“Where am I?” he groaned weakly, his blue eyes burning with an unnatural brightness.
The fever had arrived.
“Our chamber.” She shushed him. “Don’t try to talk. You are safe but need your energy.”
He tossed his head back and forth against his pillow as if he fought unconsciousness. “Isabel, you must get Alex. I must speak with him, he needs to know—”
