Fear—unfamiliar, clawing—wracked at his chest.
“Come back to me, Innes.”
It came to her in snatches—the smell of the tea, the sound of the fire crackling away beside her, the feel of his arms around her, and the low rumble of his voice as he tried to coax her back to the land of the living.
Her body felt heavy, her mouth dry, as she slowly stirred. How long had she been unconscious? She wasn’t sure. She smelled woodsmoke, and her eyes opened long enough to realize that Lachlan was the one who was holding her.
“What are you…”
She thought to pull herself away from him, but she was too weak to move. She glanced around, trying to remind herself of just where she had been when all of this had happened, and the pieces started to fall back into place.
The tea, yes, the tea. She had been drinking it when this terrible tiredness had risen within her, and she had fallen to the ground, dropping the cup in the process.
“What happened?” she asked.
Lachlan’s gaze was unrelenting, searching her for any sign at all of hurt or discomfort.
“You tell me,” he replied grimly, cupping her face in his hand for a moment as he eyed her. “You had some of yer brother’s tea, and I came in to find you in a faint.”
She ran a hand through her hair and drew her legs to her chest, suddenly distinctly aware of just how close she was to him.
“I took you to the infirmary,” he continued. “The healer gave you an antidote, and I brought you back here to rest. She said the herbs were poisoned.”
“I… the herbs,” she muttered, reaching for the envelope that she had torn open. “These are my herbs. It cannae be.”
He took them from her, peering in with a furrow in his brow.
“Ye’re sure there’s nothing different about them?”
She peered in again, blinking.
“Not in the envelope,” she said. “But when I was drinking my tea…”
She looked down to where the liquid had pooled beneath them. Yes, there it was again, the slight golden shimmer that she had seen on top of the tea before she had taken a sip. She had thought it was nothing more than her memory lending a welcome side to a pleasant haze, but perhaps there was more to it.
“Fetch the healer,” he barked, looking over his shoulder to where Annabelle had come to check on the commotion. “Surely she is done examining the herbs by now.”
“My brother would never have done something like this to me,” she told him weakly, reaching for his hand in an attempt to draw his attention.
He did not reply.
“You dinnae truly believe that Arthur would do this, do you?” she whispered.
He remained silent, instead carefully helping her to a seat before he grasped the herbs and waited at the door for the healer to arrive.
She did, a few minutes later. The healer was draped in a heavy greyish-brown robe, her long, dark hair woven through with strands of grey. She cast a look over at Innes and made her way towards her, placing the back of her hand on her head.
“She’s still running a little warm,” she remarked. “Annabelle, fetch a cold compress fer the Lady.”
Annabelle sprung into action, and the healer moved to the door, where she entered into hushed conversation with Lachlan. Her mouth was set into a grim, hard line when she talked. Innes watched with some concern, wondering just what kind of story they were spinning about her brother.
“There’s indeed poison in the herbs. Foxglove. The pollen gives it a golden look. Fortunately the antidote I provided helped, but I’ll prepare something stronger just in case.”
“Anderson,” Lachlan muttered. “He sent this for me. To?—”
“He wouldn’t have done anything of the sort!” Innes protested desperately, but he was already pacing, his mind clearly attached to whatever fiction he had managed to invent for himself.
He shook his head. “He wanted to poison me,” he continued, his hands clasped behind his back. “And you were the one to take the drink. It could have?—”
