Focused on what he had to do, Ethan reached out to his brother’s brow and found it burning. Satisfied with the poison’s work so far he said, “We can move him now. But first, you’ll need to dress him in my clothes,” he said as he stripped off his tunic. “Have you found a discrete path to the dungeons?”
“I located a tunnel the servants use to drop bedding to the lower level. The opening is down the hall.”
The boy had promise.
Chapter 32
“Mother, ‘tis me, Rosalyn,” she whispered. Both the women were rail thin and it appeared they had not bathed in weeks.
“Nay, you cannae be my Rosalyn,” her mother said softly, “she is in Berwick-upon-Tweed with my brother, Angus, securing Fyvie Castle for us.”
Rosalyn wanted to weep for the dream of coming back to Fyvie in full glory that had been dashed because she’d married an Englishman. A man she had hoped would learn to love her and she him. Now, that would never come to be, for she hated him with all her heart, like an enemy.
Rosalyn hung her head and sobbed before them. How could she claim to be family when she’d let them down? She would not blame them if they wanted to disown her and make her take the Luttrell name rather than the other way around.
Rosalyn continued to cry, unsure if either of them were coherent enough to communicate with her. She wished there was something she could have done to change the course of events.
A gentle touch on her forehead made her pause for a moment. The feeble fingers weren’t firm, but the gentle gesture of sweeping her bangs off her brow was genuine enough for her eyes to open.
There, gazing at her, was her mother’s sweet face, full of recognition and love. Rosalyn grinned through her tears and glanced over to her sister, Rowen, who threw her arms around Rosalyn.
Her mother put her arms around them both. Being reunited with her family made her heart soar and her disappointment disappear.
After a few moments of sheer happiness, Rosalyn drew back and took a closer look at the two women. “How are you? Have you been here since I left for England?”
Her sister and mother looked at each other as if uncertain where to begin.
“You tell her, Mother,” Rowen instructed.
Rosalyn let out a grateful sigh. Even though she’d barley recognized her mother and sister at first, now that they were sitting side by side, the two appeared more tired than traumatized.
Her sister grabbed her hands and squeezed them tightly. “Wasnae long after you left for Berwick-upon-Tweed that we came back to Fyvie thinking it was safe again, but a sennight later, Nicholas Luttrell had returned.”
“The servants are very loyal and it wasnae long before his plans were shared with mother and I. Our original instincts were to leave as soon as we could, but then we reconsidered, thinking we could hide out of his way until he left again.”
“He was distracted by a Knight of the Garter. Wasnae interested in finding us at the moment, but getting revenge against this knight.”
Rowen threw a cautionary glance toward their mother. “But then I was too bold and snuck into my chamber to sleep one night rather than in the servants’ quarters, and he caught me in the hallway.”
Her mother put her both hands across her heart. “I donna blame Rowen for the two of us being thrown in the dungeon. First, he put her down here, but I was caught trying to help her escape,” her mother explained, “but we havnae see him in weeks. I am not sure what has happened, but the servants donna know we are here. British sentries, with ugly dispositions, are sent twice a day with bad food. When this new one entered with you, we just wanted to be invisible here in the corner.”
Even though they were all prisoners at the moment, Rosalyn was happy. Her mother reached over to brush the bangs out of in her face again like she had when she was a little girl.
With the corners of her eyes crinkling into soft lines, her mother cocked her head to the side. “Now, darling Rosalyn, how is it that you have fallen into the same fate? What of my brother, Angus?”
Rosalyn let out a long sigh. “Well, we arenae leaving here anytime soon, so I have plenty of time to tell my tale. While you were dealing with one Luttrell, I was dealing with another.”
The time passed quickly and after a few more tears, Rosalyn had explained how Angus had gotten sick en route to Berwickshire and she’d left him in a monastery to recover. And most importantly, how and why she’d agreed to be married to an Englishman.
“So you see why I despise the Luttrells even more than before?” Rosalyn asked, her story finished. And none too soon, for footsteps echoed down the corridor, and fear grabbed at her heart again.
“Shh,” her mother warned.
Rosalyn pointed toward the darkest corner of the cell. Her mother and sister moved quickly and silently. As they huddled in the shadows, Rosalyn couldn’t help but hold her breath when she laid back down on the cold floor where Lachlan had left her, hoping all he was doing was checking to see if she was still unconscious, or better yet, that it was the sentry with food.
But as her heart slammed against the floor, the cool, hard surface easing the last of the burning pain in her cheek, Rosalyn was not prepared for the sound of more than one pair of boots.
As she lay facing away from the cell door, the way she’d been left by Lachlan, Rosalyn fought the urge to turn and follow what was happening in the corridor. Her common sense—no, fear—won over. Instead, she lay as still as possible, straining to hear more of what was going on outside the cell.
The echoing footsteps grew louder and closer. Then the cadence turned to scuffling just a few feet from where she lay. The cell door opened across from hers.
“This one here. I have the key,” a voice mumbled in a hushed tone. More shuffling followed, then the cell door opened and shut. A loud groan surprised her. Clearly, this was not a sentry with food.
Another groan sounded from across the dungeon. That ignited a second round of swearing. Then silence. “What’s going on?” a groggy male voice questioned.
The only response was a loud thwack. It sounded more serious than the slap she’d received. Could it be Lachlan with another victim? Bishop Passarelli? Then the footsteps retreated.
Silence ensued, and she wanted desperately to know what was happening. Were there two, three, or more involved in the punishment of another Fyvie guest?
Without wasting another moment, she risked her safety and rolled quietly across her back to her other side.
Lachlan? He lay curled in a ball on the ground facing her. She almost jumped up to protest her treatment and that of her family until she realized he was unconscious. For a moment, her stomach turned sour and she remembered the time in the bishop’s wagon when he’d fallen ill and she’d done everything in her power to save him. Now, she regretted it.
Why was Lachlan here? Could he and his brother James have had a falling out over Fyvie, and this is how Ethan and his Garter knight brother planned to take the castle from the new Macpherson bride and groom?
Yes, Lachlan was still alive, for his chest rose and fell. Instead of thinking how much she hated him at the moment, she wanted to rush over to help him.
He groaned again and clutched his gut, like he’d eaten something vile. As she studied him more closely, she noticed he had an ugly red ring around his right eye on its way to black.
Rosalyn flinched when she was tapped on the shoulder. So consumed by what was going on across the corridor, she’d forgotten about her mother and sister in the corner behind her. They’d both gotten brave and joined her on the floor.
“Do you know the bloke, Rosalyn?” her mother asked with a quiver in her voice. No doubt after weeks in this hell, she’d gotten sensitive to anything happening in the dungeon.
“Aye, Mother, that is my English husband.”
Chapter 33
Lachlan moaned as he drifted in and out of a strange dream. As much as he wanted to remember the events of the day, he could not quite keep them in order.
One of the images that seemed so out of place was the one before him now. The more he tried to focus, the harder it became to do so. And when he did have a moment of clarity, it was Rosalyn’s face he saw on three different women. They stared at him as if he were dead.
The eerie feeling was nothing compared to the rest of what was going on inside him. Until he’d accepted the platter of food in his chamber and downed a big portion of it, he’d been fine. Although he’d eaten his fair share of undercooked meat and near-raw vegetables, he’d never been this ill afterward. He’d been so miserable he’d contemplated ignoring Bishop Passarelli’s warning to stay in his chamber and scour Fyvie for Rosalyn.
Yes, he really needed her attention right now, and that partially explained why he was having visions of her. Three different versions of her. One with fiery-red hair, one with dark-brown hair, and one with gray-white hair.
Even though it hurt to move, he was close enough to find out if they were real or an illusion.
Reaching out, he was surprised when his fingers touched cold iron. At the same time he touched the bar, a united gasp came from the three Rosalyns.
How human they appeared. Not ghostly or ethereal as he’d imagined an illusion to appear. Nor did he expect to have the imaginary figures speak or interact with him. But he’d never had encountered anything like this before, even when he’d been too drunk to get out of his chamber bed.
“Lachlan?” one of the Rosalyns called out.
He wanted to answer, but his lips would not cooperate. He felt as if a warhorse had trampled him. He could not even part his lips to give a response. All he could manage was a nod.
“What happened to you?” the same Rosalyn asked, the one with the red hair. The woman he’d married. The healer he’d been searching for. The one he needed now.
Whispering among the Rosalyns began when he could not respond. They huddled together like a tribe and it occurred to him if there weren’t three women behind the bars, he would not see them so distinctly. They continued to focus on him in an agitated way. Could these women not see he meant them no harm?
While he was working to gain the strength to answer, all that came out was a loud, agonizing groan. It sounded to him as if his heart was trying to speak to his wife through this torment. He hoped in some way she would understand and give him some encouragement. He waited, drifting in and out of the horrible pain that consumed him.
“Well, I must thank whoever is responsible, because you are no honorable man. I hope they hang you for what you’ve done,” was the last thing he heard from Rosalyn before he passed out.
~ ~ ~
As he readied for the great hall, Ethan stared into the mirror. Smiling at his reflection, he tallied up the score. Both Lachlan and Rosalyn were out of contention and he expected them to stay that way. Gloating, Ethan turned from the mirror and strode to the door. Once in the hallway, he found his faithful squire, Benjamin, waiting and ready for orders.
“What can you tell me?” Ethan asked in a whisper.
“‘Twas only moments ago I arrived at your door from my visit to the dungeons. Both the woman and the man were unmoving. You can rest assured they will be in that state for some time,” the lad finished with a confident nod.
“Good. Then guard the door here and do not let anyone in and tell them Lachlan’s asked not to be disturbed.”
The boy nodded.
“Good, lad, you will be rewarded handsomely for your loyalty. Now keep your post and I will return to you after I have supped in the great hall.”
With that promise, Ethan spun on his heel and in a short time was striding into the great hall anxious to find his half-brother James. His hope was to make a direct appeal at dinner and have his brother agree tonight to his award of Fyvie, and ultimately, making it unnecessary for a hearing in the morning. After the castle was secured, he’d figure out what to do with the prisoners in the dungeon.
Ethan thumbed his beard thoughtfully. As new laird and clan leader he could let his brother rot in the dungeon. Then after Lachlan’s death, his grieving widow would have to finally agree to his demands. That would suit him.
Walking toward the dais now, Ethan spotted James climbing the steps. His half-brother took his place behind a chair in the center of the head table.
A number of other wealthy lords began to gather on the dais. One big brute of a man wearing a kilt, no doubt a Macpherson or near-enough cousin, took a seat before James took his, ignoring customary courtesies.
Finally, Ethan reached the dais just as another kilted, red-faced Scot approached James. But Ethan managed to maneuver around the Scot to embrace James first. “Good to see you, Brother. Thank you for holding my place by your side.”
Following the current decorum and not waiting for a response, Ethan slammed his arse into the wooden high-backed chair just as the snubbed Highlander let out a defensive growl.
“Now, sir,” James addressed the ruffled Highlander, “there are plenty of seats here for distinguished guests.” He pointed to the two empty chairs next to Ethan, although there were five men standing on the podium.
When that didn’t appear to placate the man, Ethan tried another tactic. “Here, you may have my wine tonight. I am abstaining.” Then he lifted his full goblet from the high table and offered it to the brute hoping to diffuse his anger.
The man assessed Ethan as if he’d gone mad, but snatched the pewter cup without hesitation, spilling some of the dark, red wine in his haste. The offer of double the alcohol must have helped the Highlander get over his initial displeasure, for he then headed to where James had pointed.
But just as one scuffle was resolved, another problem surfaced. Ethan bit back a groan when he spotted the bishop climbing the dais steps. The holy man excused his way past the others to take the final empty spot. At least there was another man between them.
As James raised his goblet, the other disgruntled guest stomped off toward another trestle table nearby.
Highlanders were an unruly lot. Ethan had learned much about the Scottish clans in the four years his father had ruled over Aberdeen and his family had occupied the castle.
James waited with his goblet raised until all were seated. “Nobles, knights, ladies, and distinguished guests, welcome to Fyvie Castle. As the reigning heir to the Luttrell holdings, I invite you to dine with me tonight on the last evening of my custodianship.” He raised his mead high. “For tomorrow, Fyvie will have a new laird and ruler.”
While hushed whispers mixed with rowdy cries of huzzah, James waited for the room to stop buzzing, then continued. “Many of you have come to make a claim. Whether of Highland birth, Aberdeen clan leader, or British royalty, the most worthy will be chosen.” A loud cheer arose from the crowd, but as Ethan’s gaze roamed the room, he noticed many did not join in the revelry.
“To the new laird of Fyvie,” James shouted.
“Huzzah!” rallied the enthusiastic guests in the great hall as James took his seat between Ethan and the giant Highlander. His brother gave a nod to those at his table and the trenchers, laden with venison, pork, lamb, and turkey, began moving among the guests. Servants streamed into the great hall filling cups with mead. No doubt many where unaccustomed to the spread before them.
The Highlander to Ethan’s right, the one who had accepted his goblet, did not seem embarrassed in the least that he was two-fisting the king’s mead—perhaps celebrating a victory Ethan would never allow.
Once the other men began to eat and engage in conversation, James turned to Ethan.
“Lachlan, I assume you’ll be among those at the hearing tomorrow.”
“The name’s Ethan.”
James grunted.
“So father did not name you both Lachlan after all?”
Then his brother paused and gave Ethan an eerie stare, as if looking straight through him when he said, “I killed him by the way. He deserved to die, and I shall never regret my actions.”
Ethan did not know how to answer that. And even more disturbing, his ruse was up.
Chapter 34
Rosalyn regretted her words. They should have burned her tongue and scorched her lips. Perhaps her wish to have Lachlan hanged was a bit harsh, but she had little love left for her husband right now.
After the outburst, her mother and sister had wondered why she’d spoken so unkindly to her new husband, but she had to remind them it was because of him and his father that they were all in the dungeon and not in the great hall enjoying their reunion.
Now that Lachlan was unconscious across the corridor and his unexpected arrival had been discussed at length, the three women huddled together trying to stay warm in the drafty dungeon cell. As Rosalyn finally felt a sense of family again, she wanted to find something to uplift them while they passed the time locked away. Rosalyn decided they should share what they loved most about Fyvie.
“No matter whether I’m here in the dungeon or far away on a trail, this castle is home for me,” Rosalyn confessed. “Surely, if I were to be punished, I’d rather be locked in my chamber room than this isolated cell, but the roof above is still the same.”
That made her mother chuckle. “Well, you were locked in your chamber room more often than you werenae, darling girl,” she said to Rosalyn, but then she looked at her sister. “Both of you, I swear, may have minded me more if I have locked you down here instead.”
Even though the raw truth was ugly, the thought of her mother locking them in the dungeon was absurd and she burst out laughing.
The Golden Rose of Scotland (The Ladies of Lore Book 2) Page 20
