"Your basin and the food, miss," the lad called from above. "Ye want I should bring it down?"
She rolled her eyes. "Nay. I want for ye to pour it upon my head." She walked to the rope ladder and glanced upward. "Of course I want ye to bring it down."
She held the swaying ladder while the boy descended and passed down a small bucket of water. Elen held it out for Munro as if he were her servant as well. The boy shimmied up and came down again, this time carrying a mug, with a loaf of bread tucked beneath his arm.
"Ye want I should bring up the ladder so's the prisoner don't escape?"
"Nay, leave it. If he tries to escape, I'll kill him." She turned to Munro with a most enchanting smile. "Something to eat and drink, sir?"
He accepted the mug that was warm to his touch and lifted it to his mouth, drinking greedily of the hot cider caudle flavored with honey and cinnamon. It was the best thing he had ever drunk.
She tore off a piece of the dark, nutty bread and handed it to him. As he chewed hungrily, she pulled off a piece for herself and tucked the rest beneath her arm.
"Back to our conversation," she said, chewing. "Ye claim ye are nae responsible and that your men would nae dare act without your sanction. One is obviously a falsehood. My guards saw men in green and burgundy plaids take my sister from my meadow. Rancoff was barred and armed when we arrived, almost as if they expected trouble." She frowned thoughtfully. "If ye were me, what would be your conclusion?"
The truth was, he didn't know what was going on. Why would his men have kidnapped the Burnard chit? Had someone taken leave of his senses? No clansmen would dare defy him in such a way... no one save one man, he concluded. And even that possibility seemed improbable.
She pulled off another hunk of bread and handed it to him. "Well?"
He washed the dry bread down with the last of the caudle, wishing there were more. "I admit something is awry," he conceded. "The most sensible thing for ye would be to release me and let me ride home to see what has happened. If your sister is indeed harbored within Rancoff's walls, she will, of course, be immediately returned."
His reasoning sounded perfectly logical.
Elen laughed. "Let ye go, indeed." Her father's last words to her had been that she must trust no one, and she intended to heed that advice. "And what leverage would I have then?"
Munro groaned and turned away. She was right of course... damn her.
Elen waited quietly, tearing off more bread and eating. She was so calm, so sure of herself that he found himself as intrigued by her manner as by her pert mouth and eyes a man could lose himself in. What creature was this who could tempt a man so and still have the stones to stand alone in a prison pit with her enemy?
Munro turned back to gaze at her. "A message, I suppose," he said.
She nodded, wiping her fingers on her tunic. "I thought the same. Now sit so I can clean your wound." She lifted the bucket of water and approached him, still obviously unafraid.
Wanting to protest, but unable to come up with a good reason why he should, he dropped to the cold stone floor, crossing his legs and drawing her mantle around him. Without thinking, his gaze fell to the dagger she wore at her waist.
Her gaze met his. "Nae even consider it. Ye injure me in any way and my men will kill ye, but nae ere they have ripped your limbs off one by one and boiled your bullocks in oil." She batted her eyelashes as if some coy maiden.
He burst into laughter as she lifted the washrag from the bucket and dabbed at the wound on his head.
Her gentleness surprised Munro. He had expected her to be rough, to enjoy causing him pain, yet she was as tender as a nursemaid... nae, a lover.
He closed his eyes as the warm water soaked his hair and she dabbed at the encrusted blood. "So ye will send a messenger to Rancoff?" he questioned, speaking softly, as if a louder voice would break the tenderness of the moment.
"Aye. I will inquire as to the safety of my sister and the terms of the surrender." She halted the movement of her hand to look down at him. "Of course, there will be no terms other than the return of the laird"—she nodded—"for the return of the maiden." She dipped the rag in the water again and returned to her task." S'truth, I am surprised that no one has come knocking upon our wall in search of ye."
In truth, he, too, was surprised. Nae, incensed. Where were his loyal clansmen, and why had no one yet come to his aid? Heads would surely roll for this.
Munro did not respond to her observation. "Send a messenger immediately and let me know when ye receive a response."
She looked down at him, lifting an eyebrow.
Perhaps his tone had been a wee bit too commanding. "If ye would be so kind," he added.
Nodding, she dropped the rag into the bucket of water and took a step back. "Aye. I will keep ye abreast."
He felt the urge to stop her as she started for the rope ladder. He didn't want her to go.
"Use the water to wash," she said. "I will have bedding sent. No need for ye to catch your death whilst you wait."
"I have no intention of spending another night in this hole," Munro snapped, leaping to his feet. He'd had just about enough of the impudent chit.
She ignored him, grasping the rope ladder and shimmying upward. "And I've no intention of leaving my sister in the hands of the Forrests another day, so I see we have the same objective."
As she climbed, he caught a flash of bare legs beneath her tunic. Just that one glimpse brought heat to his groin.
Munro turned away, grasping his head with both hands. By God's bones, he swore to himself, if I get out of here in one piece, I will swear off lasses forever.
"Have a fine, day, sir," Elen called sweetly as she raised the ladder out of his reach.
Munro only wished he had something to hurl at her.
Chapter 4
"A taste, my sweet?" Cerdic offered Rosalyn a tidbit of roasted hare.
Rosalyn took the morsel between her lips, licking one of his fingers. "Mmm, tasty." She batted her blond lashes. "As are ye, my lord." She laughed wickedly and touched the tip of her nose to his.
They sat at the table in the great hall of Rancoff Castle, Cerdic in his brother's padded seat, Rosalyn to his right. Cerdic had ordered a great feast be cooked to serve his guest.
The servants had balked at first, mumbling gibberish about what the Earl of Rancoff would and would not approve. The entire castle was in an uproar over his little adventure, but a cuff or two to the head and they had remembered their place.
Conveniently, the steward was away on business for Munro. Cerdic refused to discuss the matter of his brother, and anyone in the keep who challenged him could well go to the stocks.
Cerdic could not believe his good fortune. After the exhilaration of fighting with the English had ended and he had returned to his family estate, he had thought his life over. Here he was at isolated Rancoff Castle, frittering away his life at the beck and call of his brother. Then Rosalyn came into his life and changed his fate.
They first met at her father's table, exchanging barely a few courteous words, but she had immediately taken to him. Unlike his brother, Rosalyn respected Cerdic. Unlike his brother and the rest of his bloody clansmen, she liked him. Rosalyn said she could look past what he was to see what he could be.
Just the thought made him squirm in his chair. With Rosalyn at his side, he knew he could do anything. And she was such fun. This whole scheme of kidnapping her had been her idea. It was the only way she would give herself to him.
They had plotted together, planning to merely hide her in Rancoff Castle. Though he hesitated to defy his brother in such an outlandish way, Rosalyn had convinced him that all would go well in the end. And, as she had pointed out, the laird of Rancoff had never said Cerdic could not kidnap the neighbor's daughter. She was a clever little minx, his Rosalyn.
What he had not anticipated, of course, was Rosalyn's sister attacking Munro's hunting party and taking him prisoner. Right now, Cerdic was doing his best not to think of tha
t wee glitch in the plan.
"A drink?" Rosalyn lifted Munro's double-handled cup to Cerdic's lips, and he drank of the best ale in the castle's cellars, usually saved for important guests.
The table was heaped with roasted meats, thick puddings, nuts, and sweetmeats. The servants and vaslets muttered that to prepare so much for only two was a waste, a sin. The housekeeper who served as head cook had actually dared take him by the ear, saying the laird would not approve, but Cerdic had set her straight quick enough.
"Oh, dear, I do believe I'm stuffed as a pincushion." Rosalyn sighed with content as she leaned back in her chair, slipped her feet from her leather mules, and laid them across his lap, brushing his cod with the ball of her foot. He gave an involuntary groan. The girl had been a virgin when he had taken her yesterday, but she learned quickly and seemed insatiable.
Rosalyn's blue eyes twinkled as she caught a lock of her unbound golden hair and twirled it round her finger. She wore an English silk dressing gown that had been Cerdic's father's and now belonged to Munro. She was naked beneath it, and as she leaned forward, he caught a flash of bare breast and pert nipple. He licked his suddenly dry lips, despite the ale he had consumed.
"Are ye ready to retire to the chamber?" she asked.
In truth, Cerdic could use a rest, but he had no intention of saying so. "If that is what—"
"Sir." One of the vaslets entered the great hall and bounded toward them, his eyes downcast. "A message from Dunblane."
Cerdic bolted upright. He knew sooner or later he would have to deal with the consequences of his little exploit, but he'd hoped it would be later. How was he to know Rosalyn's manly sister would capture Munro in retaliation for the kidnapping?
Cerdic held out his hand for the rolled missive. "How did ye come by it?"
"One of the Burnards, sir. He rode it o'er." The vaslet's gaze strayed to Cerdic's half-dressed guest.
Cerdic's fingers curled around the parchment. If Rosalyn didn't mind the servant gawking, he didn't. "Ye didn't harm the courier, I pray?"
"Nay," the vaslet pshawed. "Threw some shit o'er the wall upon him, is all."
Rosalyn burst into delighted laughter, clapping her hands together.
The snarly-haired churl chuckled, as if pleased he could entertain the Burnard maiden. "But no harm come to him that can't be fixed with a dunk in the pond."
"Ye set him free?"
"Methinks he waits for an answer."
Cerdic's gaze met Rosalyn's with uncertainty. She was much better at this than he.
"I think my lord should take time to consider the message," she said softly, rubbing Cerdic's groin beneath the table with her bare foot. "No need to make a hasty decision that might put the laird of Rancoff's welfare in jeopardy." She batted her lashes. "My sister can be shrewd. Ye can nae trust her."
Cerdic turned back to the vaslet. "Send the Burnard on his way. Rancoff will respond in good time."
"Aye, sir."
As the young vaslet took his leave, Rosalyn left her chair and slid into Cerdic's lap. She looped her arms around his neck, the dressing gown falling open. "What a clever mon ye are," she purred in his ear. "We can put them off for days."
"Days?" Cerdic blinked.
She pressed her pink tongue to his jawline and swept it upward to his cheek. When she did things like this, it made it difficult for him to think. To breathe.
"More time for us to be alone together," she whispered, sliding her hand downward from his chest to beneath the hem of his tunic.
Cerdic gulped. He had honestly thought the fun could last only a day, and then Munro would be back, shouting and giving ultimatums again. But maybe Rosalyn was right. Maybe he could put Dunblane and that silly woman off a few more days. Certainly he would be in trouble with Munro, but what difference did it make now? One day, two, or three? And just what could Munro do to him when he did return? Cerdic would do as he always did when he angered his brother. He would apologize humbly and beg forgiveness. It always worked.
"To the chamber?" Cerdic asked Rosalyn as she slipped one leg over his thigh and straddled him.
"Nae." She giggled as she grasped his tunic and lifted it upward until he was bare beneath his waist. "Right here, my lord."
* * *
"What do ye mean there is no word?" Munro hollered up.
"What do I mean?" Elen pressed her fingers to her temples, as irritated as her prisoner sounded. The headache was coming; she could feel the pressure, the cold fingers of pain creeping through her head. By morning it would be full blown. She took a deep breath, knowing she must remain calm and in complete control of this situation.
The headache could not have come at a worse time. At noonday, she had sent a messenger to Rancoff Castle demanding the safe return of Rosalyn for the return of the Laird of Rancoff. He had been turned away with no response but the insult of a filthy tunic.
"I mean, sir, that Rancoff refused to respond," she answered slowly from the oubliette grate where she stood, her hands planted on her hips. "My messenger said your men on the wall, after emptying several chamber pots upon his head, promised a reply in good time."
"Has he lost complete control of his senses?" Munro bellowed.
She winced, the sound of his voice reverberating painfully inside her head. "I do nae know, sir," she said slowly, carefully, "because I do nae know who he is."
He glanced up at her, scowled, and looked away without answering.
Again she pressed her fingers to her temples. It had never occurred to her that those at Rancoff might not respond at all to her demands. What madness was that? She held their laird prisoner. He could be sick, injured, even dead for all they knew, and they made no response? The thought was so ridiculous as to be almost funny. Almost.
"Elen, ye should rest," said Finley, coming down the great hall steps to the entranceway. He touched his hand to her shoulder. "Ye look tired."
The evening meal was already under way. Men supped or played cards or diced. Someone played the pipe. Ordinarily, this was Elen's favorite time of day, when her clan gathered together to take and share bread. Sometimes they sat around the great stone fireplace to sing songs and tell tales of old. Other times they merely enjoyed each other's company in conversation.
Elen glanced at Finley, who still stood behind her, hovering like a mother hen. It annoyed her when he did this, annoyed her more when she could feel the pressure of a headache coming on.
"I nae need rest," she said tightly. "What I need is to have my sister returned. What I need is for someone at Rancoff Castle to respond!" she shouted into the oubliette.
"And ye think I do not?" Munro shouted back.
Elen ground her teeth. She hated this distance between her and her prisoner. How could she argue with a man twelve feet below her? She stepped off the grate. "Open it," she ordered Finley.
"Elen—"
She leaned over and began to tug on the grate, though it probably weighed more than she did.
Finley brushed her hands aside. "I just don't think it wise for ye to get near him."
"He wouldn't dare harm me." She turned and dropped to her knees on the stone floor to lower herself into the oubliette.
"Elen, please," Finley begged.
Holding the edge with her fingers, she lowered herself into the prison hole so she dangled by her arms. She felt her prisoner's warm hands around her legs and she let go, trusting him instinctively.
"Nice of ye to drop in, m'lady," Munro said as she turned to face him.
She pushed down her rumpled tunic and straightened one sagging woolen stocking.
"And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"
In truth, she didn't know why she was down here again. There was something about this man that made her think and do things contrary to her nature.
"God's teeth, it's dark down here," she muttered.
"'Tis a dungeon."
She ignored Munro's sarcasm. "Finley," she called. "Toss down some candles and a light." She paced the tiny ce
ll, taking care not to get too near her prisoner. "How can I interrogate a man without any light with which to see him?"
Elen and Munro eyed each other in darkness as they waited for Finley to return with light. He smelled better tonight. She had ordered he be given water to bathe with and a covered pot for his waste. A pallet and a thick woolen blanket made in Dunblane's own weaver's shop had been added to the floor.
"Elen," Finley called. His voice echoed in the oppressive chamber, then inside her head.
She glanced upward.
"Ye want me to bring them down?" He stood above her, candles in one hand, a small torch in the other.
"Nay." She waved him on. "Drop them."
Giving up the fight, Finley dropped the bundle of candles. She caught them and tossed them to Munro.
"Ready?" Finley called.
She glared at her steward and he dropped the smoking torch. She caught it by its handle and tossed it to Munro.
"Whoa," he exclaimed, just catching it. "Ye be a dangerous woman."
She watched him light three candles and press them into the floor so they stood upright. "Nae as dangerous as I will become if I dinnae receive word on my sister," she snapped.
Munro dropped the stinking, smoky torch and ground the flame out with his boot. They were fine boots of deer hide with fur trim at the tops.
"Ye speak as if ye think I want to be here," he remarked dryly.
She shook her head, turning away. In the dim light he seemed to draw her as if she were a moth and he a flame. Finley was right. It had been a mistake to come down here tonight. She was not herself. She trembled inside and felt as if she was not quite in control. It was the headache coming on, of course.
"Just explain to me what is happening here," she said, backing to the nearest wall. "Why has there been no word? Why do your men nae respond to my missive?"
He dropped to the floor on his pallet and leaned against the wall, drawing up one knee to rest his elbow upon. "I nae know."
"Who is in charge of your keep when ye are gone?"
He refused to look away from her; he followed her with his gaze, watched her every movement. "My brother, Cerdic."
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