The Great Hall hadgrown thick with pipe smoke and the low rumble of men's voices as the evening wore on.Connor sat slouched in his chair, a half-empty tankard of mead before him, listening with half an ear to the conversations swirling around him.The alcohol had loosened the tight knot of anger in his chest, but it had done nothing to ease the guilt that gnawed at him like a persistent wound.
He shouldn't have stormed out.Shouldn't have left things so raw and ugly between them.
"Ye're brooding like a maiden, Connor," laughed Duncan Gunn, one of his old friends."What's got ye staring into yer drink like it holds the secrets of the realm?"
Connor forced a smile and took another sip of mead."Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime for a married man," chuckled another clansman."Better to save yer energy for coupling."
The ribald laughter that followed made Connor's jaw tighten.The thought of Fiona alone in their chamber, probably hurt and confused by his behavior, made his stomach churn with self-loathing.He'd been a fool, a jealous, possessive fool who'd taken his frustrations out on the one person who deserved it least.
The truth was, he missed her.Even after the growing distance between them, he felt her absence like a physical ache.He did not want to sleep without her.He would miss the way she curled against him in sleep, the soft sound of her breathing, the way she'd trace patterns on his chest while they talked in the dark.He would miss her quick wit, her stubborn chin when she was being particularly argumentative, the way her eyes lit up when she smiled at him.
When had she become so essential to his happiness?When had her presence become as necessary as air?
"If I had a wife as bonnie as yers," said young Jamie MacNeil, barely old enough to grow a proper beard, "I'd not be wasting time down here with us ugly bastards."
The comment hit closer to home than Connor cared to admit.Truth was, he'd much rather be upstairs with Fiona than drinking with the men.But pride and stubbornness had kept him here, nursing his wounded ego with ale instead of doing what he should have done hours ago and that was apologise to his wife.
His wife.When had that stopped being just a legal arrangement and become something that made his chest tight with possessive tenderness?
The realization hit him like a physical blow, so sudden and obvious he wondered how he'd missed it.He loved her.He was desperately, completely, irrevocably in love with Fiona MacNeil.The woman who'd been forced to marry him, who'd had every reason to hate him, had somehow become the center of his world without him even noticing.
And that's why the thought of another man looking at her, wanting her, touching her, made his blood boil with murderous rage.It wasn't just jealousy, it was the primal need to protect what was his, what was precious beyond measure.
God's blood, he was a fool.He should be upstairs right now, telling her how he felt, making sure she knew that no other woman could ever—
"Another drink, my lord?"
Connor glanced up to see a serving woman standing beside his chair, a fresh tankard in her hands.She wore a rough wool head scarf that shadowed her face, and something about her seemed familiar, though he couldn't place what.
"Aye, why not," he said, pushing his empty tankard aside and accepting the new one.
The woman poured his drink then melted back into the crowd and disappeared before he could get a proper look at her face.But Connor's attention was already turning inward again.He needed to end this foolishness.He'd send Horas back to Finnigan lands tomorrow—with a generous purse to ease any wounded feelings—and then he'd grovel properly to Fiona.He'd explain that his jealousy came from a place of growing...no, not growing.The feeling was already full-grown, overwhelming in its intensity.
He loved his wife, and it was time he told her so.
Connor lifted the new tankard and took a gulp, then paused.There was something off about the taste.It was bitter in a way that had nothing to do with hops or honey.He frowned, setting the mug down and sniffing it suspiciously.
Listen to yer instincts, lad.Trust that voice in yer head when it warns ye.
Morna's words from his childhood echoed in his mind, along with the memory of her teaching him to recognize various herbs and their effects.Some healed, she'd warned, but others could harm or confuse the mind.
The bitter taste lingered on his tongue, and suddenly Connor felt a wave of dizziness that had nothing to do with the ale he'd already consumed.His vision began to blur slightly around the edges, though not severely.
Poison.Or at least something meant to incapacitate him.
Fear cut through the growing fog in his mind like a blade.If someone wanted him drugged and helpless, it could only mean one thing, they intended to strike when he couldn't defend himself.Or worse, when he couldn't defend Fiona.
Connor lurched to his feet, ignoring the concerned voices of his clansmen."Need...need to get to Fiona," he said, already moving toward the stairs.
"Connor?Are ye all right?"Duncan called after him, but Connor was already making his way toward the stone steps, fighting against whatever drug was spreading through his system.
Each step felt like climbing a mountain.His vision swam slightly, and he had to grip the wall for balance.But since he'd only taken a sip of the poisoned mead, the effects were manageable—more disorienting than truly incapacitating.Fear for Fiona drove him forward, burning through the mild haze in his mind.
He had to reach her.Had to make sure she was safe.
"Fetch Ewan!"he called out to a passing servant, his voice urgent."Danger in my chambers!"
