Page 59 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
He did not laugh. In fact, there was a sort of stillness radiating from him now, something that Ava did not like. She shifted in her seat, the ropes biting into her sore wrists.
“I’m afraid nae,” he said, at last. “Now. Smell.”
He pressed the rim of the earthenware cup against her lower lip again, and she breathed in.
No scent of almonds, no acrid, paint-like smell going straight to the back of her throat. Of course, all the best poisons had no smell.
She sighed. “I’ll take a sip.”
He tipped the cup, just enough to let her take a small sip.
She rolled the water over her tongue. It was delicious, sweet and cold, and her throat spasmed, eager to take it all in. There was no saltiness, no lingering flavor as if something had been soaked in the water. Plenty of poisons had no taste, though, but this seemed like a great deal of trouble to go to simply to poison her with something that could have been slipped into a cup of water at the Keep.
She swallowed.
“Satisfied?” the man asked, sounding amused.
She nodded, and he tilted the cup again. She drank deeply this time, draining the cup in no time, pausing only when she needed to gasp for breath.
He took the cup away, and a drop of water spilled down her chin. To her shock, a soft cloth was placed on her mouth, wiping away the stray water with a jarringly tender touch.
Who is he?Why is he doing all this?
“I’m just a healer,” Ava gasped when the cloth was removed. She could feel the water sloshing around in her stomach, making her feel sick, but at least the burning thirst was gone. “Why have ye taken me?”
The man sighed again, and she heard the slosh of the water jug being carried away. She tried to count his steps, to map out the length of the cottage, but it was pointless. She was assuming that she was in a single-room building, but there could be a sprawling place around her with her in the scullery or some such room.
No, not the scullery, not with the fire. A kitchen or the main room of a house. She could hear the wind rustle over the roof. Thatch, she guessed.
None of the Keep’s buildings, then.
“Ye have nobody but yerself to blame for this,” the man said, his voice tremulous and hoarse now.
For some reason, it made Ava shrink back into her seat, longing to drop her head and cower. There was madness in the man’s voice, she was sure of it.
“What have I done?” she whispered.
He sighed, and she heard him pacing to and fro.
“If ye had just left well enough alone, none of this would have happened,” he muttered, and she wasn’t sure whether it was aimed at himself or her. “Oh, lassie, ye shouldnae have meddled. Now, I have to do something, I have nay choice. Nay choice, do ye hear? There’s nothing I can do about it.”
She stayed quiet, her heart hammering.
“Are ye going to kill me?” she asked, her voice quiet.
A silly question. Of course, he was going to kill her. It was Patrick McCarthy, she was sure, or at least a man working for him. They would never let her go, no matter how much she begged.
There was a long silence.
“I’ll be back soon,” the man said, his voice just as quiet as hers.
She heard his footsteps cross the room, heard a lock click and a door swing open and shut. A lock clicked behind him. She was locked in, then.
18
The ride back to Keep McAdair was, without a doubt, the longest ride of Callum’s life. He arrived a few hours before dawn, sweating and shivering, his poor horse on the brink of collapse.
The Keep was still awake, with servants buzzing around, lights in the windows, and Moira in the middle of it all, doing her best to console Niamh and Elsie.
