by Aileen Adams
“Do any of ye know how long you’ve been here?”
Confused mumbling told her they were unaware, and how could they know? There were nearly no windows. The only light came from the doorways at the far ends of the long, narrow structure. It would be too easy to lose track of time.
To fall into despair, surrounded as they were by stone and wooden walls, where animals normally lived. Squatting in the straw to relieve themselves, like as not, and fed whenever someone in the house got a mind to take food to them.
Children. She heard their quiet weeping, their whispered questions. When could they go home? When would they eat? The impulse to cover her ears with her hands was nearly too strong to overcome, but she would not shut them out. She needed to hear them.
For each word only fed her hatred as surely as new wood made a fire burn hotter.
“Can you help us?” one of the women asked. “Please. He’ll speak to ye. If ye marry him, he might soften to ye and grant us freedom.”
“You’re daft,” a man snorted. “He won’t do any such thing. If we return home, we’ll tell others of the way he treated us here. He canna take a chance.”
“All of ye, quiet,” another man hissed. “If one of ‘em hears us…”
These people. These poor, frightened people. They’d done nothing but swear loyalty to their own clans. The same as their fathers and grandfathers would have done. And that loyalty had resulted in their being locked away like cattle and treated little better.
She drew her knees to her chest and forced herself to breathe slowly. In. Out.
Donnan was there. He might have remembered her. And if he did, he would notice she’d gone missing. He might look for her, inquire after her.
Might he not?
In. Out. Do not panic. Do not.
8
Morning dawned gray and damp, mist clinging to the ground and moistening the cloak which Donnan had used to cover himself while he slept. Low clouds moved across the sky, heavy with rain which would likely fall before the day was out.
And there he was, sleeping out of doors. He might be at home, in his bedchamber, warm and dry. Instead, he’d accepted a fool’s errand such as this. His back ached after sleeping in the damp chill. He’d spent the night listening to all manner of noises coming from the sleeping men and as such was in a foul mood.
Now, it was time to find the lass. And quickly. If he couldn’t convince her to listen to reason, he’d bind and gag her. Anything to get out of that cursed place.
Just what made it cursed, he could not say. It was more than being in the presence of the Camerons, which was unpleasant enough. They’d always borne the reputation of a quarrelsome lot, traitorous and best left to themselves.
Perhaps it was the closeness to them which took his dislike and turned it to outright distaste. Their coarseness, their certainty that they’d be successful in—something. Whatever it was they intended to do.
Control the Highlands? Yes, that was the goal. That had always been the goal. To usurp the Duncans, absorb their lands and their wealth. If Angus could manage that while also marrying into Clan Gordon, he would be difficult to stop. If not impossible.
He’d arrived with the sole intention of bringing Fenella home to her father.
Now, it was clear there was much more at stake for all of them. Not just his father, or his brother. Every Highland clan.
His eyes moved over the area as he walked to the stream where several men already gathered to wash their faces, some of them using their dirks to shave. They could afford to laugh among themselves, knowing what they knew—that they intended to dominate the Highlands.
He grit his teeth, barely holding back the harsh words he longed to hurl their way. In his younger days, he might have let loose and faced whatever came his way.
These were not his younger days, and there was more at stake than just himself. Only the memory of his father and all this meant to him kept his lips sealed as he splashed icy water on his face.
“Aye, ye got that in the war, then.”
His eyes were still closed against the water which dripped from his forehead. This was to be expected, was it not? Questions.
Some had the sense to keep such questions to themselves—most, in fact, or else they were too frightened at his appearance to breathe a word in his presence.
As such, he was unaccustomed to strangers coming out and speaking of his scar.
He braced himself. “Aye, that I did.” He dried his face on the inside of his cloak, careful to conceal the frustration he knew would be plain in the set of his jaw.
The last thing he needed was to be remembered for starting a fight.
“A difficult thing,” the man observed, as though he knew of what he spoke. A brief glance revealed a smooth face, youthful.
The most he’d seen of true fighting was the training he’d received from his clan, Donnan would wager.
“It is, indeed.” He lowered the cloak and willed himself to ignore the grunts and gasps from those who stood near.
To ignore the hatred in his heart, burning with the heat of a thousand fires. Their greedy eyes taking him in, their sneers, the way they shook their heads in—in what? Relief that it was him instead of them? Sorrow on his behalf?
Did they ask themselves what they would’ve done in his place? Perhaps they would’ve rather been dead than spend a life wearing his face.
“Have ye ever seen war?” he asked over his stiff tongue. He’d not been one for conversing with strangers prior to his injury. But this… this was torture.
The men shook their heads. All of them reminded him of Ewan in a way, young, brash, certain of their strength and cunning. Certain nothing could ever go wrong.
As certain as he had once been. The day he rode away from home, a boy thinking he was a man.
“Trust me,” he grunted, straightening from a crouch at the stream’s edge. “Ye dinna wish to see it for yourself, no matter how grand ye believe it will be nor how certain ye are that you’ll avail yourself. Some of the biggest braggarts were the first to soil themselves when it came time to attack.”
The men chuckled dismissively. No, they would not understand unless it came their time. Hand-to-hand combat was an entirely different matter, nothing compared to staring down hundreds of men bent on one’s destruction.
Fenella had better be willing to go along with him, and quickly. He was not certain how much more he could take of being out in the open, among people. It would be bad enough to be with her alone all throughout the journey home.
He thought he could stand being with her. Perhaps. If she’d learned to hold her tongue in the years since he’d last seen the lass.
She worked in the house. He would have to start there, for there was little time to lose if a wedding was being discussed.
A wedding. How far she’d fallen. She might have made a good match with a good man from any other clan, but no, she had to choose the Camerons. Her father was wealthy enough, to be sure, a great laird. Yet that wasn’t enough for her.
The pretty young lass carrying a basket full of bread who happened to cross his path at that moment jumped at the sound of his growl. She had no way of knowing he growled not at her, but at his dark, troubling thoughts of Fenella.
Combined with the horror of his face, he must have made quite an impression. The lass dropped the basket with a choked squeal.
“I willna harm ye,” he snarled, which only seemed to make the matter worse.
He bent to retrieve the fallen basket, intending to make amends, but by the time he’d risen the lass was gone. He turned in a full circle, yet there was no sign of her among the busy workers going about their morning duties outside the great house.
The basket was at least an excuse to go inside and look about the place. He pulled up his hood to ward off another such overwrought reaction before stepping inside.
He was looking for her, in particular. That lustrous brown hair with its gentle wave. Those eyes that reminded him of storm clouds. S
he’d been close to him last night, near enough that he caught the scent of something sweet and musky all at once.
He realized he longed to smell that again and saw the danger in such longing.
The memory of his father’s sunken eyes and the tunic which had hung from his thin frame was enough to turn his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Not Fenella’s comeliness.
He’d have a long ride home during which to torture himself over her.
A head full of golden curls caught his eye, and he raised a hand to capture the attention of the lass who’d been with Fenella the night before. She approached with a wary expression, her feet moving slowly.
A pretty thing, indeed. Angus chose the most pleasing lasses to tend the household.
“I… found this, lying outside,” he explained, his words coming slowly. It had been longer than he could remember since he’d spent time with a woman who was not Bronwen—at least thirty or forty winters older than himself.
This was no Bronwen standing before him.
“Ah. Thank ye.” She accepted the basket as he held it out to her, reaching slowly. As though he was not to be trusted.
He let out a long breath, reminding himself of how he needed to earn her trust. “I wondered… there was a young woman with ye last night, when I arrived. I had hoped to see her this morning, as I believe we know each other. Or we did when we were young.”
Her forehead creased when the corners of her mouth turned down. “Aye… She did seem to remember ye,” she admitted, though slowly. As though she was uncertain of whether it was wise to admit this.
“Did she?” So she’d recognized him, even with his face as it was. How? He had no memory of the last time they saw each other, but it had been at least seven years. Why would she remember him?
“Aye.” The lass looked about with sharp, green eyes. “I haven’t seen her today, and I wish I had, as I need her. She seemed to not be herself last night, sayin’ she needed time to take the air. I saw nothing of her after that.”
He swallowed against the fear her words inspired, working its way up his throat.
What if she had told Angus she knew him? What if Angus had ordered her to remain hidden, knowing it was too big a coincidence for Donnan to have suddenly arrived? He was a clever man, to be sure.
How would he ever find her if this was so?
“Donnan Ross! A good mornin’ to ye.” Angus’s voice rang out from far down the corridor, nearly on the other side of the house.
The lass beside him all but trembled. With fear? No, with pleasure. She was in love with him, as he supposed most women would be.
No distrust or hesitation from her when she looked upon Angus. Had he tried to give her a basket, she would not have reached for it as though she feared losing her very hand.
“A good mornin’,” he grunted in reply, his dislike of the man growing with every minute.
“I had hoped to see ye today, as we didna have a chance to speak much last night. I had other matters to attend to. Forgive me.” He reached them with barely a glance at the lass who seemed ready to fall at his feet.
Her disappointment was evident. Donnan nearly felt sorry for her.
“Please, join me,” Angus beckoned. Then, as an afterthought, “Bring wine to my chambers.”
The blond-haired lass jumped into service. Donnan asked himself why Angus Cameron had such a hold on unwitting lasses. Fenella, this one, likely every lass in the household.
He caught up with Angus, walking past the great hall to a smaller room much like the one his father used as a study. Unlike Clyde’s study, it stank of the smoke of many fires, felt close and stale and filthy. For a household with so many workers, it seemed not much work got done.
Donnan took it in, all the while asking himself what this meeting was about. They were alone.
No one to witness what might occur.
There was a dirk in his belt which he was more than prepared to use should the need arise, but there would be the matter of escaping.
Finding Fenella and escaping before anyone discovered the body.
“Ye told me ye were away from home until not long ago.” Angus motioned for Donnan to sit. “What brought ye here?”
Donnan did what he could to appear relaxed, even as every muscle in his body tensed in case the need to spring should arise. “I’d heard some of yer men were riding the Highlands, reaching out to clan leaders. Speaking of uniting us.”
“Aye.” Angus perched upon the edge of a table, hands folded. He appeared at ease. “My father wasted so many years striving, working to—to what? To dominate larger, wealthier clans. To take their land and their wealth for his own. Such practices go on today, all throughout Scotland. Why? Why not unite under a single banner, with the leaders of each clan—as they stand now—having a say in the decisions of the clan as a whole? We could come together once, twice a year. Would that not be simpler?”
Simpler? It would not be. It would also never work. There were far too many strong, stubborn men involved for them to ever come together and agree on a single point.
Many of them had enough trouble keeping their clans intact with so many strong opinions on all sides. Bringing them together would merely make those opinions louder, multiply them until there was nothing but noise.
Yet this was not Angus’s intention at all. They both knew it.
“What of the larger clans? I’ve seen no one here to represent the Duncans, for instance. What say they about this?”
Angus’s dark brows knitted together when he frowned, but it was a frown which did not last long. It might as well have been Donnan’s imagination.
The blond lass entered, bearing a tray with two mugs and a pitcher. They waited until she was gone to speak again—she tried to linger, bless her, but Angus ignored the poor thing until she left.
At least he tried to be faithful to Fenella. Not that it was much comfort.
Not that he would allow such a marriage to take place.
Angus drank deep, then sighed. “Ye asked about the Duncans. My hope is that once we’ve united enough clans and shown them this is possible as we’ve planned it, we can take the notion to them and allow them to decide if they wish to join us.”
Donnan raised his brows. “What if they decide against it?”
“I suppose we’ll take care of that if the time comes.”
He knew what that meant and decided to allow the subject to rest there. No sense in starting a fight he had no wish to find himself in.
Were they elsewhere—alone in the woods, for example—he would have loved nothing more than to challenge the man. While being outnumbered had never deterred him, the odds were not in his favor now.
Not with a hundred men outside.
A knock at the door proved a blessed distraction. A young, redheaded man Donnan remembered seeing with Angus entered, murmured into his ear.
The smile which touched the corners of Angus’s mouth chilled Donnan’s blood and reminded him of a wolf about to pounce on its prey.
“Very well,” he said to the man. Then, turning to Donnan, “Forgive me, but duty calls. I have another bit of business to talk over.”
“I understand. Thank ye for the wine.” He rose and left the room, relieved for whatever—whoever—had been the cause of their meeting breaking when it did.
He was not certain he’d have been able to keep up the pretense of friendliness much longer.
9
Fenella held her head high, teeth clenched, lip curled in a snarl as two of Angus’s men led her from the stables and into the house through a rear door.
It would not do to let too many of the others see her in the daylight. Carrying her off in the dark of night was another thing entirely.
They led her by the arms, their hands tight and unforgiving, certain to leave bruises. She did not dare show the pain.
To think, she was able to move freely through the house until last night. Now, she was a prisoner.
Perhaps she’d been a prisoner all
along and simply hadn’t known it. He’d already planned their wedding, after all. He’d always known what he wanted from her.
And so had she.
There had been more than enough time in which to think things over during the long, sleepless night. She’d heard snores, murmurings, the shifting of bodies. Some of them had slept, if not all of them.
They could sleep. They were accustomed to being there.
She was not.
In the absence of sleep, she’d thought quite a bit. Gone back over every day since her arrival. Every time Angus had gazed upon her in that possessive manner, as if she’d been created for his enjoyment.
And still, she’d stayed. Knowing in her heart the type of man he was, she’d stayed.
Because she’d convinced herself that she could be of service to her clan, to all of the clans the Camerons were seeking to use for their own gain. She could collect information, eavesdrop on meetings, tell her father what she’d found. Prove worthwhile. Make him proud. Show him he need not regret only having a daughter.
She’d stayed, when she ought to have fled the first time he looked at her with those possessive eyes. The first time he’d lingered too long upon their crossing paths, the first time he’d stood in her way when she tried to get past him.
So many warnings she’d ignored, and for what?
Now, as they led her to Angus at her request, she fought fatigue and rising dismay in order to think with a clear head. She would need her wits about her.
He waited in his chambers, his face as smug as ever when she entered the room. Alone. Her escorts waited outside, closing the door.
While she had no desire to spend time with them, their absence caused her heart to clench long with her stomach.
The last thing she wanted was to be alone with this man. No witnesses. No one to make him think twice about what he might have in mind to do.
Yet she’d been the one demanding to see him, which meant she had at least a bit of control over what happened. Did she not? He would wish to know why she’d demanded to see him, rather than bringing her in to see him with dark purposes in mind.
