Page 71 of Laird of Wrath

“Ye’re awake,” Rhea said, and the relief in her voice made him think that something had happened. “How are ye feelin’? How is yer head?”

“Me head?” he asked.

As if on cue, a sharp, piercing pain speared through his head. He grimaced, his hand flying up to his temple, then his forehead, where he felt a bump.

“What is this?”

He made to sit, only for a wave of nausea to hit him. Rhea pushed him back down on the bed, her concerned face hovering above him.

His confusion grew, but there was one thing that kept niggling at his mind, one thought that he couldn’t push back no matter how much he tried.

This is Barclay’s doin’. I daenae ken how, but I ken it’s all his plan.

“There was… an incident,” Rhea began hesitantly.

That was not helpful at all.

Callum didn’t argue with her, though, nor did he demand answers. He was in too much pain for that, his head pounding from more than just the injury he seemed to have sustained.

It was like an extremely bad hangover, the kind he had not had in years. He was no longer the kind of man who would drink himself to oblivion. Such things were left to his younger self, who had seldom drunk this much anyway.

“Ye got very drunk last night, Callum,” Rhea said, confirming that it had indeed been a whole night since the feast. “And in a very short time. And then, we were dancin’ and?—”

“I was dancin’?” Callum asked, frowning.

He didn’t remember the last time he had danced. Of course, he had learned as a child, as everyone of his station did, but he had never found much use or desire for it.

“Aye.” Rhea nodded, her frown mirroring his. “Why? Do ye find it strange?”

“A little,” he admitted. “And then what happened?”

“Well, ye fell.”

“I fell.”

“Aye. It was a very bad fall.”

“How exactly did I fall?”

“Awkwardly.”

It was not the answer Callum had been waiting for.

Rhea stared at him, gnawing on her bottom lip nervously, but if there was anyone nervous in the room, it was him. He had made a fool of himself. It didn’t matter why or how. All that mattered was that everyone had seen him dead drunk, and who knew what they thought of him now?

But he knew he hadn’t drunk that much. If he had been the only one so affected by it, it couldn’t have been anything in the wine either.

Unless it had been in his cup.

But who would have access to it? The servants? Are they capable of such a thing?

He had been under the impression that everyone working for him was loyal to him and the clan. Why would anyone help Laird Barclay take over? Why would anyone want to embarrass him like that or, even worse, have him killed?

Could he have died from this?Shouldhe have died from this?

Perhaps his death had been the original plan all along, and he simply hadn’t consumed enough poison for that to happen.

For a long while, Callum remained silent, staring at the far wall. Rhea continued to stroke his hair ever so gently, her fingers grazing his scalp.