Page 70 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

But he wasn’t. And that meant it was a poison designed to linger.

Freya swallowed hard, forcing her mind to recall the healer’s texts, all the lessons she had stolen in the quiet of candlelit nights.

Fire in the veins… Slowin’ the body… The blood refusin’ to clot…

Then it struck her.

“Henbane,” she whispered, the realization hitting her like a lightning bolt.

It made sense. The dizziness, the sluggish limbs, the fever beginning to build beneath his skin. Henbane was often mixed with nightshade to weaken a man without killing him outright. It caused confusion, exhaustion, the slow shutting down of the body. Most importantly, there was a cure… if she worked quickly.

“Freya?” Michael’s voice was hoarse, barely above a breath now.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark with pain, but he was still fighting. He was still watching her, trusting her.

“It’s henbane,” she said quickly, shifting closer to support him before he collapsed entirely. “I ken what to do. But I need—” She cut herself off, eyeing the area.

She needed willow bark. Yarrow, if she could find it. A way to purge the poison before it took full hold. Her gaze darted toward the trees. The forest was thick, the underbrush wild, but she had spent enough time gathering herbs back home. She knew where to look.

“Stay here,” she ordered, although she knew he had little choice.

He gave a dry, breathless grin. “Daenae think of runnin’ off now, do ye hear?”

She almost chuckled out loud. She caressed his sweaty cheek with the palm of her hand, then nodded. The scent of bloodlingered in the air and she knew it would remain there for a long time, tainting the ground, until nature purged itself.

She searched frantically, her fingers scraping through damp earth, through tangled roots and fallen leaves.

Come on…

Then, she found a patch of willow, with its slender branches hanging low, half-hidden between the trees. She grabbed the bark, continuing to tear strips away with trembling hands before turning back. Michael was slumped where she’d left him. His breath was even more shallow.

“Michael!” She fell to her knees beside him, pressing a hand to his face. His skin burned hot now, as fever licked at the edges of his strength.

“I have it,” she breathed, quickly working to crush the willow bark between her fingers. “Ye need to chew this.”

His eyes fluttered open, dark with exhaustion. He looked as if he had no strength left, but he did as she commanded. His jaw tightened as he forced the bitter bark past his lips. Freya exhaled sharply. It would help ease the fever, but she needed something stronger, something to drive the poison out completely.

She looked around again, her pulse jumping when she spotted a cluster of small, white flowers peeking through the grass.

“Yarrow,” she whispered in relief.

Ripping the stems free, she crushed them swiftly, then mixed them with the remnants of the willow bark before pressing them to Michael’s lips.

“You have to swallow, Michael,” she urged softly. “It’ll force the poison out.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “If it doesnae kill me first, ye mean.”

“I’ll kill ye meself if ye daenae do as I say,” she shot back, trembling but soothed by the fact that he was still well enough to jest.

His lips twitched weakly, something akin to amusement, but once again, he did as he was told. His throat worked slowly, painfully, as the herbs slid down. Then, all they had to do was wait.

Freya kept a firm hold on him, watching every flicker of his expression, every rough breath. The minutes stretched, agonizingly slow.

Suddenly, he shuddered violently as his muscles tensed. A strangled groan escaped his throat as his body rejected the poison, and he turned sharply to the side, retching into the dirt.

Freya held onto him, whispering quiet reassurances, ignoring the tears that pricked her eyes. It was working.

“That’s it,” she murmured, running a hand down his back as he trembled. “Let it pass. It all needs to go out.”