Chapter 21
21
“ L ilith!”
“Smith! Smith!” Damon screamed in panic. “Lilith! Och, Christ—Lilith!” he growled as she lay limp in his arms. “Smith! For Christ’s sake! Where are ye, woman?!”
The banging on one of the walls alerted him to Ryder’s presence. His man screamed through the stone, “I dinnae ken how to get in, Me Laird!”
“Stay out. Where in the devil is Smith?”
“I’ll find her!”
“And Mrs. Bryant! Hurry!”
The sound of Ryder’s heavy footsteps in the corridor was reassuring, but Damon wondered where in the world Smith was. Moments later, the hidden door flew open.
“Ryd—” he began, but his eyes didn’t meet his man’s familiar blue eyes or even Smith’s grey eyes. These eyes were brown.
Ariah stood in the doorway, breathless, her hands trembling at her sides. Her lips were parted as if she meant to speak, but no words came out. Damon’s blood ran cold, then blazed hot as rage overtook his senses. His arms instinctively tightened around Lilith’s lifeless form.
“Ye,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “What have ye done?”
Ariah took a half-step forward, raising her hands in protest. “I-I didnae mean?—”
“Didnae mean?!” His roar shook the very walls of the chamber. “She is barely clingin’ to life! Ye poisoned her!”
Terror flashed across Ariah’s face, but she quickly masked it with something else—desperation, defiance, perhaps even guilt.
“I only wanted—It was just supposed to—Christ above, is she… Is she…?” she stammered, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Supposed to what, Ariah? To make her suffer? To take her from me? Did ye wish for her to die? What did ye give her?!”
“I dinnae ken. It was yellow with purple veins and hairy leaves. I?—”
Damon surged forward, Lilith balanced in his arms. His movements were so quick that Ariah stumbled back onto the threshold.
“Ye poisoned yer best friend! Ye poisoned me wife! Ye’ve killed her!”
“It was only supposed to make her weak!” she cried out. “I swear it! I didnae mean for?—”
“Ye should have poisoned me —Ryder!” Damon bellowed.
His second-in-command materialized in the doorway, his expression grim.
“Take her to the dungeons. Now.”
Ariah’s eyes widened in horror. “No! Please, Da?—”
“I am yer Laird, Ariah Morris! I’m nae yer friend,” Damon snapped, his eyes wild with deadly rage.
“Me Laird, I-I swear, I didnae?—”
Ryder seized her by the arms. “Smith is at the healer’s chambers, Me Laird,” he said, before dragging Ariah out of the room, her pleading shrieks fading into the distance.
Damon barely noticed. His focus was on Lilith, his heart pounding with the unbearable agony of her stillness.
“Hold on, love. Just hold on. I’ve got ye,” he murmured against her hair before rising with her in his arms, his strides unrelenting as he carried her to the healer’s chambers.
Mrs. Bryant’s quarters were dimly lit by a dozen candles, their glow bathing the stone walls. The healer worked swiftly on Smith—the housekeeper’s head was split open. The instant both of them saw their Laird with Lilith limp in his arms, they jumped up to meet him at the door.
“What happened?”
“Poison,” Damon said quickly.
“Do ye ken which?”
“Only yellow with purple?—”
“Veins?” Mrs. Bryant finished expertly and started checking Lilith’s pulse, fingertips, lips, and eyes.
“Set her here,” Smith pointed to the table, and Damon set her down carefully.
The healer’s hands were sure and steady despite her advanced age. Smith, whose temple was bandaged tight, acted as Mrs. Bryant’s aide.
Damon hovered at Lilith’s side, his fingers curling into her skirts, his knuckles white.
Mrs. Bryant clicked her tongue. “She’s been given a large dose, Me Laird. I think I have enough of what I need to counteract the effects.”
She got to work making the antidote without another word.
“Apologies, Me Laird. I was?—”
“Nay, ye were caught up in this as well, Smith. Are ye well?”
“I’m fine, Me Laird…” Smith trailed off, obviously disappointed in herself.
“She was lucky,” Mrs. Bryant murmured as she came back and dabbed a cloth against Lilith’s damp forehead.
Smith stepped in seamlessly as the healer turned away again and brought the antidote.
“They poisoned her with the aim to weaken her, nae to kill her outright.” Damon repeated Ariah’s pleading words, even though he didn’t believe them.
“If ye hadnae gotten her here when ye did, Me Laird…” Mrs. Bryant trailed off, but the words hung heavy in the air.
Damon swallowed hard. The weight of what he had nearly lost bore down on him. His hand found Lilith’s, pressing her cold fingers between his palms.
“She will recover?”
Mrs. Bryant nodded. “With rest and care, aye. But she’ll be weak for some time. Nay sudden movements, nay stress.”
Damon barely heard her. His thumb traced slow circles along Lilith’s knuckles, his chest tightening at the unnatural pallor of her skin.
Hours passed before Ryder finally entered the chambers, his expression dark. Damon hadn’t moved from his spot at Lilith’s bedside. He barely acknowledged Ryder until the man spoke.
“We questioned Ariah,” he began, after Mrs. Bryant and Smith left the surgery.
Damon’s head snapped up, his jaw tight. “And?”
Ryder exhaled, crossing his arms over his chest. “She gave nothin’ of use. She swears she didnae mean to do it.”
Damon snorted, his grip on Lilith’s hand tightening. “She is a fool.”
“Aye,” Ryder agreed. “But we both ken that she couldnae have gotten her hands on such a poison without help.”
Dread coiled in Damon’s gut. “Ye think she had an accomplice.”
“Aye. And I think ye ken who it is, Me Laird.”
Damon stiffened.
Tristan .
The thought of the man he had trusted, had allowed to remain his inner circle, sent a fresh wave of fury through him.
“Send for him,” he ordered, his voice like steel.
Ryder hesitated. “That may be a problem, Me Laird. He left for Glasgow directly after the council meeting. Clan business, supposedly.”
Damon’s eyes narrowed. “Clan business?”
Ryder nodded grimly. “But ye didnae send him, did ye?”
A slow, seething rage overtook Damon. “Nay, I didnae.”
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then, Damon exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Send Finley. Find him. Bring him back in chains if ye must.”
Ryder nodded and left without another word.
Damon turned back to Lilith, his heart clenching at the sight of her still form. He brushed his fingers along her cheek, his mind replaying their last moments together—the warmth in her eyes, the way her lips had parted, as if she had been about to say something.
She was about to tell me she loved me.
The realization hit him like a blow. His breath caught, his shoulders shaking under the weight of it. A single, silent tear traced a path down his cheek as he bowed his head over her hand.
“Ye almost left me, lass,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “And I cannae bear it.”
For the first time in years, Damon Aragain cried.
And no one was there to witness it but the woman who had stolen his heart.
A knock sounded at the door of the surgery, sharp and sure. Damon looked up from Lilith’s still form, the shadows beneath his eyes a stark contrast against the flickering candlelight.
“Me Laird?” Mrs. Bryant’s voice carried through the thick wood. “May I enter?”
Damon inhaled deeply, forcing himself to school his features, to bury the storm raging within him. He cast one last glance at Lilith’s pale face before rising to his feet and marching to the door. His fingers curled around the iron handle, and he hesitated, inhaling sharply before pulling it open.
Mrs. Bryant stepped inside, her hands clasped in front of her, her face drawn in concern. “Lady McCallum is stable,” she said, cutting straight to the point. “But she’ll need time, and care.”
Damon nodded stiffly, but his jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his fury barely contained.
“Time and care,” he repeated, his voice low. “And yet she wouldnae have needed either if it werenae for that traitorous wench.”
Mrs. Bryant sighed. “Anger will do neither her nor ye any good, Me Laird.”
“It will do me nay good, perhaps,” Damon said coldly. “But it will do plenty for that Judas who did this. She will tell me why she did this, one way or another.”
Ryder wasn’t here to hold him back this time. The rational part of him, the one that knew patience was the wiser course, was being drowned out by something deeper, darker.
Lilith had almost been taken from him. Someone had tried to weaken her, to harm her, to make her vulnerable. And for what?
Tristan.
The name burned like a brand in his mind.
Had Ariah acted alone?
He doubted it. Tristan had left for Glasgow on ‘clan business’ that he himself had never approved. And then there was Ariah’s father, Sebastian Morris. A man Damon had always thought shrewd, calculating.
Could he be involved as well?
His body moved on instinct, the need for action consuming him. Without another word, he stormed out of the room, his boots heavy against the stone floor as he descended into the depths of the keep.
The dungeons were dark and damp, the air thick with the scent of mildew and unwashed stone. The guards snapped to attention at his arrival, and with a single nod, one unlatched the iron door that led to the holding cells.
Ariah sat on a low wooden bench, her hands bound in front of her, her expression carefully blank. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on her face, but Damon could still see the tracks of dried tears staining her cheeks.
Good. She should be afraid.
He stepped into the cell, the door clanging shut behind him. For a long moment, he simply stared at her, letting the silence stretch on, letting the weight of his fury settle over the space like a suffocating fog.
She did not look away.
“Why?” he finally asked, his voice quiet but no less dangerous.
She did not answer.
He took a step closer. “Was it Tristan? Did he put ye up to this?”
Silence.
His jaw ticked, his fists clenching. “Was it yer faither?”
Nothing.
His patience snapped. He lunged forward, grabbed her by the collar of her dress, and yanked her to her feet. “Speak!”
Ariah flinched, but still, she said nothing. Her lips pressed into a firm line, her brown eyes unwavering.
Damon exhaled sharply through his nose, releasing her with a shove. “Ye poisoned her. Ye almost killed her! And for what?” His voice was raw now, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “Jealousy?”
At that, her facade cracked. She looked up at him, her gaze hollow, resigned. And then, in the quietest whisper, she said, “Nay.”
Damon froze.
A chill ran down his spine. That one word—it wasn’t a denial of guilt. It was a denial of reason .
He staggered backward, his breath out coming harsh and ragged. He had expected a confession, a reason, a cause. But this? This was worse.
Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the cell, slamming the iron door behind him.
Smith was waiting at the entrance of the Great Hall as he reached the top of the step from the dungeons, her temple still bandaged, a look of concern etched deep into her features. Damon barely glanced at her as he strode forward.
“Me Laird,” she called after him, falling into step beside him. “The villagers are gathered inside. The plans for the Market Day Festival need approval.”
Damon exhaled through his nose. The last thing he wanted was to sit through discussions of trade and celebrations, not when his blood still boiled with unspent rage. But he had a duty to his people, and ignoring them would only lead to unrest.
Smith, perceptive as ever, continued, “I moved the meeting here, so ye wouldnae have to leave the keep. I ken ye wouldnae want to be far from Lady McCallum.”
Damon finally glanced at her, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. It was a small kindness, but one he appreciated. He gave a tight nod before stepping into the hall.
The moment he entered, the chatter ceased. All eyes turned to him, waiting. Expecting.
A villager he recognized stepped forward.
“Cameron,” Damon greeted, before sitting down.
The villagers sat down with him at the table.
“Me Laird, we have requests for additional stalls this year. More merchants are comin’ in from the south. We need more space near the square.”
“Approved,” Damon said without hesitation.
Another man spoke up. “The bakers are askin’ for more grain rations. With the festival, they expect a higher demand.”
“Approved.”
“We’d also like to host a tournament for the lads, with a small purse for the winner?—”
“Approved.”
More and more requests came, and each time, Damon simply nodded, barely registering the details. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in an endless loop of his failures.
Lilith was in danger because of him. Because he had chosen her. Because he had thrust her into this situation without fully grasping the threat it posed to her. He had failed to see the vipers in his den—had allowed betrayal to fester beneath his nose.
The only way to protect her now is to distance meself from her.
The thought was a dagger to his chest, but he knew it to be true. Being near her made her a target. And no matter how much it pained him, no matter how much he wanted to be by her side, to hold her, to hear her voice, he had a duty.
To his clan.
To his wife.
And if that meant pushing her away, then so be it.