Heat and the smell of food rose to meet him as he descended, his heart pounding faster and faster. In the kitchen, he was greeted by an empty room.
Creighton stood at the bottom of the stairs, frowning. He didn’t often visit the kitchen, of course, but everything seemed to be as it was meant to be. Everything was in place. There was nothing to make him feel as unsettled as he currently felt.
He let his eye drift downward, lingering on the table. An empty plate sat there, with a crumpled cloth hanging off the edge. And below…
His heart stopped.
Below was the hem of a woman’s skirt. A rich, ruby-red hem.
He rushed forward, nausea clambering up in his gullet.
Nora lay there, sprawled on her side, her hair fanning out around her like a halo. Her skin was bone white, and her eyes fluttered nervously behind her eyelids.
“Nora, lass, can ye hear me?” he gasped, leaning over her.
She made no indication that she could hear him—no groan, no shuffle, not even a gasp. He could hear the raspiness of her breathing, but her breaths were faster and more labored than they should be. Pushing her hair back from her temples and forehead, he briefly checked for head wounds or any injuries, but found nothing. There were no visible breaks in her limbs, no tenderness when he ran his fingers down her ribs, and no blood.
Did she slip? Trip? Pushed?
One thing was certain: lying on the ice-cold kitchen floor would not help her, not one bit. Cursing himself, Creighton carefully lifted her into his arms, pulling her close to his chest. Struggling to stand upright with her in his grasp, he started at a slow, tense jog toward the dangerous stairs leading out of the kitchen. Nora was warm against him, heavy and limp. Fear prickled at the back of Creighton’s mind.
“Healers! Guards!Anybody!” he thundered, not caring who he woke or who he startled. “Somebody help her.Now!”
Donal, who had rapidly earned the nicknameDrunkDonal, was the only healer left in the Keep. Creighton had a few choice words for the others when they deigned to return. Was this really how things were done now? Did healers really come and go as they pleased, without bothering to explain themselves or their whereabouts to their laird?
I’ve let things grow sadly lax,he thought grimly.But I’ll manage that.
Donal was sweating, his orange-ish hair matted to his head. He wasn’t drunk now—Creighton had made no bones about asking about that—but he was clearly uneasy, his eyes flicking around nervously.
“Do ye nae think we ought to move her, me Laird?” he ventured at last.
Creighton fixed him with a steely, unimpressed stare. “Move her where?”
Donal gulped. “To her room, me Laird. To her own bed.”
Creighton narrowed his eyes, staring Donal down until the healer dropped his gaze. Very wise.
Frankly, Creighton hadn’t thought much about where he was taking Nora. He’d simply run, shouting for help, shouting for maids to be fetched and the healer to be got, and it wasn’t until he was in his own room, lying Nora down on his own crumpled sheets, that he thought about the propriety of it all. Glancing over at the locked door that bisected their rooms, he considered moving her. Considered lifting up her limp form, sweeping back sweaty hair from her forehead, and tucking her into his arms again.
“Nay,” he said briskly. “I daenae think that she should be moved. Well, Donal, what is it? A fall? A sudden illness? I thought perhaps it could be a fever, the kind that afflicted Laurie. A twilight fever, Nora said it was,” he added, wondering briefly if that might be helpful.
Donal did not immediately answer. He sat back, passing a hand over his forehead.
“I am familiar with thesetwilightfevers,” he confessed at last. “I grew up in a mountainous town, and I ken of what she speaks. Those fevers are sudden and violent, to be sure, and theymayafflict adults, but…” he trailed off, gulping hard and glancing down at Nora. “This is nae one of those fevers. The symptoms do nae fit.”
Creighton’s gaze sharpened. When Donal reached out, ostensibly to push back damp hair from where it tangled over Nora’s face, Creighton found that his hand shot out, fingers lacing tightly over Donal’s wrist. The man gave a panicked squeak and made a brief, vain attempt to pull his arm away.
“What are ye sayin’, Donal?” Creighton grated. “Ye have been on the brink of sayin’ somethin’ since the moment ye cast yer eyes on her. Explain it to me. Tell me.”
“Perhaps… perhaps we should wait until the other healers return, and confer with me,” Donal managed desperately. “Or the councilors—Dallas, and Marcus, maybe? We can all discuss it together.”
The Keep was in an uproar by now, of course. Most people were awake and aware that while Laurie had not fallen ill again, Nora was now sick. A variety of conflicting rumors had probably spread around the Keep. They likely thought she had the plague.
It wasn’t the plague. Creighton was no healer, but he knew exactly what the plague looked like, even at the start, and this wasn’t it.
“Tell me,” he urged, tightening his grip around the young man’s hand. “There’s somethin’ ye are keepin’ back from me. I’m nae me father, boy. Ye need nae be afraid that I will shoot the messenger. Tell me what is going on here, before the others arrive.”
Donal squeezed his eyes shut briefly.
