"We'll help Beitris get her undressed and bathed," Jessie said. "So she can rest comfortably. 'Haps you could come back in a quarter hour."
Dirk wanted to make them promise to take good care of her and notify him immediately if anything changed, but he had to remain calm. He nodded, forcing himself to leave the room to check on Aiden.
The lad was sleeping in his room while several clansmen and servants looked on. Dirk sat on a chair by the bed and touched his brother's forehead. 'Twas feverish hot, but his breathing was strong.
"Bathe his face in cold water," he told one of the maids.
"Aye, m'laird."
"We think we found who put the deadly nightshade in the tart that Isobel and Aiden shared," Cyrus said from the doorway.
Tart? Dirk rose. "Notify me immediately if anything changes with Aiden."
Several of those in attendance nodded.
Dirk joined Cyrus in the corridor. "Who?" he spoke quietly.
"A young maid named Deidre Murtagh. She won't confess."
"Where is she? I want to question her."
"I'll take you to her."
Dirk followed Cyrus down two flights of stairs. So the poison had been in a tart? This was the first he'd heard of it. Maighread had to be behind it.
In the ground floor vaulted kitchen, Keegan and others guarded the doors so none of the twenty or so men and women who made up the kitchen staff and servants could leave.
"Is everyone here?" Dirk asked, immediately feeling too hot in the sweltering room with its ovens and massive fireplace.
The pale servants all stared at him wide-eyed, none answering. What was wrong with them? What were they hiding?
"This is the lass who is acting suspicious." Rebbie motioned to a girl of about twenty summers or less with red-rimmed swollen eyes.
"Did you poison the tart?" Dirk demanded.
She shook her head, renewed tears streaming from her eyes. "Nay, m'laird. I didn't poison it and I didn't know it was poisoned. Levina told me to take it to you and set it before you personally. No one else was to get that one because it was a special large one just for the new chief."
"Damnation," Dirk growled. Maighread was behind this, trying to poison him. "Who is Levina and where is she?"
"Levina Gordon," the male cook said.
Why did that name sound familiar? A face popped into his mind. "I remember her." She was the baker who'd come to Dunnakeil with Maighread when she and his father married. Of course, she would be loyal to Maighread. They were from the same clan.
"Where is she?" He glanced around but didn't see her.
"I didn't see her again after she sent me to deliver the tart," the young maid said.
"Has anyone seen her?"
The rest of the staff shook their heads.
"Keegan, would you take a half dozen men and search the village and elsewhere, if need be? Do you ken what she looks like?"
"Aye. We'll find her."
"Everyone else, stay here until we get to the bottom of this," Dirk told the servants.
"I'm going to question Maighread now," Dirk told Rebbie and Cyrus. "Proof or not, I ken she did this."
They, along with several other men, climbed the two sections of turnpike stairs to the bedchamber where Maighread was imprisoned.
"Has she had contact with anyone since yesterday?" Dirk asked the two guards posted outside the door.
"Nay. Not while I was here," one answered. The other shook his head. How in blazes had she arranged this, unless she'd set it up before her imprisonment?
"Unlock the door," Dirk said, more than ready to confront the hag. He hoped he could control himself and that his rage didn't overpower his common sense.
Once the guard opened the door, Dirk and the other men entered. Maighread stood before the fireplace. Her eyes widened as she surveyed him. Was she surprised to see him alive?
"What do you want, you blackguard?" she spat.
"You poisoned your own son," Dirk said, hoping to knock her off kilter. He wanted a confession from her.
"What?" Blanching, she stumbled forward as if she might collapse and clutched at the back of the chair before the hearth. "Aiden or Haldane?"
He studied her wide eyes and gaping mouth. How curious that she didn't deny being behind the poisoning.
"Which?" she demanded.
"Aiden."
"Is he dead?" she gasped.
"What do you think?" Dirk demanded. "Did you order Levina Gordon to put enough poison in my tart to kill a grown man?"
"You bastard," Maighread snarled and charged him. The glint of a dagger flashed in her hand.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As Maighread charged toward Dirk, his warrior side leapt to the forefront as if he were on the battlefield, an enemy rushing him, but there was no time to unsheathe his sword.
Seeing the dirk in her hand, he instinctively grabbed her wrist and twisted, turning the blade toward her instead. When she slammed hard into him, the dagger drove deeply into her chest. She screamed like a banshee, her dark green eyes emanating evil, staring him down as if she could kill him with her glare alone.
Warm, slippery blood covered their hands and a moment later, she sagged against him, her breathing harsh but shallow.
"I curse you," she rasped. "With my last breath, I curse you."
"You cannot curse me!" He yelled into her face, determined that she hear him. "You have no power over me, witch."
He released her and let her slide to the floor, her dagger still imbedded in her chest. Given its location, the blade had missed her heart, but it must have damaged her vitals badly for she was unconscious in mere moments… and dead within a minute.
"Good riddance," Cyrus growled.
Dirk was simply trying to catch his breath and calm himself after the surge of alarm combined with his battle instincts taking over and spurring him to quick action. He inhaled deeply. "Aye." He stared at her, hardly able to believe the person who had wanted to kill him for most of his life was dead. He was finally free of her evil influence. Forever.
"She got what she deserved," Rebbie said, laying a hand on Dirk's shoulder. "She was a murderess. The only reason she didn't kill more people was because she wasn't exceedingly good at it."
"Not for lack of trying," Dirk muttered, wishing she'd died years ago so she couldn't have poisoned Isobel and Aiden.
Now, he simply prayed they would recover.
***
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dirk observed Isobel's flushed, slumbering face in the wee hours of the morning. One candle lit her chamber to a dim glow in the darkest night. Beitris snored on her pallet before the fireplace, but Dirk couldn't sleep. His whole life hung in the balance, just as Isobel's did.
Watching her thrash about and moan during the past several hours had near ripped his heart from his chest. He wished he could take all of her pain upon himself.
I love you, Isobel.
What if he never got to say those words to her while she was fully aware and conscious? He now realized that to hear those words coming from her lips was his fondest wish. Holding her hand, he stroked his thumb across her small palm, savoring her silky warm skin.
She had to live, she simply had to. But what if she didn't?
God, he could barely breathe when he imagined it.
"Nay. You must recover, Isobel," he whispered and pressed his forehead against the back of her hand.