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СКАЧАТЬ his worth to his father and to his clan. He’d been there all the years, had seen his disappointment and regrets.

      He’d been by his side today and didn’t flinch when Rory entered the courtyard. Paiden knew why Rory did it. The question would come later if his father and clan would approve the match. And Paiden, with a smirk just under the surface as he gave his congratulations, appeared to already relish the upcoming battles.

      The rest of the men he’d brought today were divided in loyalty to him and his father, but Paiden would watch his back in the days and weeks to come.

      So when Paiden finished his speech and gulped deep from his goblet, Rory raised his cup as well. But this moment wasn’t only about Paiden or his clan, it was about the two people still standing by his side and Rory turned to his soon-to-be wife and her father. Frederick was still gazing at the crowd. Ailsa’s gaze, however, was on him.

      Steady. Sure. There was hesitancy, but no fear there. In private, she’d given an impassioned speech as to why they should marry and now, after the announcement, it seemed she had not changed her mind.

      At that moment, he should have turned again to the crowd, to his clansmen, who were watching, but Ailsa’s gaze did not turn away from him and he was loath to look away.

      She seemed to be assessing him, watching him as steadily as he wanted to watch her. He could feel the pull of her in that moment, like a man aware that the sun rose and set, but unable to perceive moment by moment how the day changed from day to night.

      Her hair might have been what caught his eye, but it was the emotion in her eyes that snared him. His eyes kept to hers and he didn’t know when the assessment of each other turned from political to personal, but his body felt it. His soul felt it and he could do nothing to stop it.

      And he felt himself being lost as he lifted his cup to his lips to acknowledge Paiden’s words when her expression changed. Suddenly. Violently.

      Still trapped in the flood of heat in his body, and the tenacious fixation of his thoughts, it took him far too long to register the moment a cry rang out in the Hall and there was a heavy thud. When he swung his gaze to the tables, his own goblet was knocked from his hands.

      But the lost goblet didn’t matter because the sound and cry wasn’t of an oak bench tumbling over by the weight of people. It was Paiden, whose body was crumpled to the ground, and the wild circle of both his clansmen and McCrieffs already forming.

      On instinct, Rory pounded to the nearest McCrieff, stealing his weapon. Then, with sword drawn, he stood at his friend’s side.

      * * *

      It wasn’t happening. Any of this. All of this. Ailsa couldn’t comprehend what had happened before the Lochmore clansman collapsed to the ground, but the instant his goblet slipped from his grip and his pallor drew white, she did. Utterly and absolutely.

      A Lochmore, the one with an easy smile, had swiped a flagon of wine and poured it before the servants finished their service. He’d been first to swallow and first to collapse.

      Then chaos. Shouts. Violence erupted in that already strained room. She shoved Rory’s goblet to the ground, her father’s next as she yelled out to the crowd to not drink any. She didn’t know if she was heard, but she’d done all she could for others, it was the man who fell who was her only concern now.

      Rory was there standing over him. The sword he’d seized cut a wide vengeful swathe around him. The closest to him were the rest of the Lochmore clan. Her own clansmen were standing back, a few with weapons and more reaching for theirs.

      McCrieffs and Lochmores in battle in her very home at her very hearth with children around them. She had to reason with them and quick. The collapsed man was prone, panting, his skin beginning to glisten.

      Rotten food did not cause this. Poison did. Whatever was given to him was fast, and dangerous, and the small pouch around her waist held no roots to induce vomiting. There was only one way to help him now, but that meant she needed access to him. That meant she needed to argue with a madman.

      Rory wasn’t the reasoning giant she’d verbally sparred with just moments before. He was a man, a beast. Thick of bone and looking not quite human. Not the man who had been watching her while her father proposed marriage. Nor the man who courteously escorted her to stand before their clans.

      This man was feral and full of rage. She snapped her eyes away from him and surveyed the room. Her father was already issuing orders, demanding for his men to stand down. Half of the McCrieffs lowered their swords, but there were a few who kept theirs out and pointed. Those men did not follow her father’s orders, something that alarmed her, but she had no time for that now.

      The man dying on the ground had no time for swords or politics. She had no more moments to waste, but grabbed a servant and demanded boiling water and salt to be brought immediately. By the time it reached her it would have cooled enough to pour down the man’s throat.

      A few Lochmores had swords. She ignored them all and put herself between two Lochmores who stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘Let me through!’

      No one was listening to her. She shoved the nearest one, but he stayed firm. That man would die without her. ‘Lochmore!’

      Eyes flashed to hers. She’d seen animals caught in faulty traps that didn’t kill. Everything about this man reminded her of a tortured animal.

      ‘Never,’ he vowed.

      ‘He’ll die.’

      ‘You intended that, McCrieff. You invited us here. Lowered our guard with fake promises of peace. Fed us poison to destroy us.’

      ‘Nothing is false here,’ Frederick said. ‘Our truce is true.’

      ‘My friend at my feet proves your lies.’

      The man groaned, clutching his stomach. She only had moments to spare him. She shoved herself forward and made it through the Lochmores, who were taken by surprise.

      Rory lifted his sword and stared her straight in the eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

      ‘You point a sword at a woman?’ Frederick roared.

      ‘I point at an enemy.’

      Ailsa had enough. ‘While you point that sword, he’s dying. I’m not a woman or an enemy right now, Lochmore.’ She indicated the pouch around her waist and spied the water bearer enter the room. ‘I am a healer and his only chance.’

      This was ridiculous. She’d been ordered around enough tonight. Keeping her eyes on him, she moved around the sword, knelt and froze again as she felt the prick of a sword at her neck. She ignored it. She didn’t care, it wasn’t what concerned her. Whether she lived or died was a matter of fear, whether this man lived or died was up to her.

      Shoving with all her weight to move his body on to his side, she retorted, ‘You can stab me all you want, but I will save this man.’

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