Page 63 of Wicked Kilted Highlander

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

Abrutal jerk jolted Darragh from sleep.

"Get up!" a harsh voice barked, ripping him from the past's grasp.

"Where? What?" Darragh stammered. Confusion swirled with fear and anger, threatening to consume him.

"Enough!" The voice snapped like a whip. "Stand!"

Forcing himself to focus, Darragh’s legs wobbled beneath him. His vision was blurred but clear enough to reveal two burly figures looming over him. Clenching his fists, he fought against the waves of panic that threatened to pull him under.

"Cannae breathe," he panted, struggling to quell the tremors that racked his massive frame. "Need… time…"

"Time's run out," one of the figures growled, grabbing Darragh by the arm and yanking him upright.

Focus,he told himself, gritting his teeth against the disorientation that swirled within him. Think. Move. Breathe.

His mind raced, fragmented thoughts colliding with raw emotion. Memories of previous wars and the devastation left in his wake haunted him, adding fuel to the fire of his rage.

"Who are ye?" he demanded, his voice thick with fury. "What do ye want?"

The reply was curt, cold as steel. "We are just obeying the orders, we dinnae have the answers."

The guards, like two towering shadows, seized Darragh's arms with iron grips. He could feel the cruel intent behind their touch, as if their very hands sought to crush his spirit.

"Come on, ye great oaf," one of them grunted, yanking Darragh forward. His immense frame resisted at first, but they dragged him with brute force through the dim corridors of the castle.

"Where are ye takin' me?" Darragh growled, each word a struggle as he tried to maintain control over his emotions.

"Ye'll see soon enough," the other guard sneered, tightening his grip.

As they entered Laird Harris MacLean's study, Darragh's nostrils flared with the scent of stale cigar smoke and leather-bound books. The room was dimly lit, with flickering candles casting elongated shadows upon the walls. The heavy wooden furniture loomed like ancient beasts, adding to the suffocating atmosphere of tension and intimidation.

"Sit him down," one guard ordered, shoving Darragh into an unforgiving chair.

"Get yer hands off me!" Darragh snapped, glaring daggers at the two men. But his anger was met only with dismissive smirks.

"Easy there, big man," the first guard taunted, leaning in close. "Ye dinnae want tae make this harder than it needs tae be, dae ye?"

"Leave me be," Darragh muttered, attempting to regain control over his racing thoughts. A thousand questions whirled through his mind as he struggled to focus on the present moment.

"Why am I here?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of suppressing his rising panic.

"Yer here tae answer fer what ye've done," the second guard replied, his voice a menacing growl.

"Ye've got the wrong man," Darragh retorted, his dark eyes narrowing. "I've done nothin'."

"Enough!" A voice boomed from the shadows, silencing the guards and causing Darragh's heart to sink. Laird MacLean emerged into the flickering candlelight, his face a mask of rage.

Harris' eyes blazed, his voice a knife's edge as he spat, "Ye dared poison me own daughter, ye ungrateful cur!"

Darragh's gut twisted like a serpent, his disbelief raw and seething. "Why dae ye accuse me of such betrayal? I told ye before I havenae done it, and ye believed me. I'd sooner die than harm her!"

"Yet she lies sick, the healer's words damning ye," Harris countered, his tone icy. "How can I trust ye after all that has happened since ye have arrived? Ye’re a MacDonald. With yer history of feuding, who else could it be?"

"And what would I gain from her ruin?" Darragh shot back, his black eyes narrowing in defiance. " I'd lay down me life fer the lass."

"Life?" Harris sneered, a bitter laugh escaping him. "As if ye ken what that means, ye brute."