“Actually, I begin to think ‘tis something to do with the blood,” Hervey said just as Brona decided to leave and she quickly halted, pressing herself against the wall again.
“Ye may just have the right of it,” agreed Angus. “The mon did heal and grow visibly stronger after drinking of Peter’s blood. Mayhap we err in allowing so much of it to drip into the floor. We may have been wasting something as precious as gold.”
“Aye, mayhap we should collect it and drink it. A disgusting thought, but it could hold the answer to the secret.”
“Weel, he will have to recover a wee bit first. He lost too much blood this time. Nay sure we ought to let him just feast on another prisoner either, so we shall have to leave him be for a wee while. Once he gets his strength back, we will take some of his blood and see if the secret of what he is lies within it.”
“A good plan. After all, if it is the blood that makes him what he is, it just might work for us and then we shall have to keep the MacNachtons alive, or at least some of them. I but wonder how we can ken that it works.”
“If it is his blood that makes him what he is then ye will feel some change, I am certain.”
“Any wounds we had would heal faster. Mayhap giving ourselves just a wee cut and watching how fast it heals itself will be enough to tell us. It might be that we need to drink of his blood several times before we can be sure whether that holds the secret or not.”
“Agreed. We will take a potion made of his blood each day for a fortnight. If we see naught changing in ourselves by then, then we must decide if he is worth keeping alive.”
“He will be worth it only if he begins to tell us what we need to know.”
“True. Mayhap if the arrogant bastard realizes that he is now the prey and nay the predator, he will start telling us all his secrets in some vain attempt to save his worthless hide. And now let us speak of Brona.”
“Ah, aye, my sweet wee cousin whom ye have been sniffing around for years. Are ye sure ye still want her?”
“Aye, I do and I want her soon. She is two and twenty now and ripe for a mon.”
“She doesnae seem verra interested in ye, Angus.”
“She will learn to be. She just needs to be ridden hard a few times. So? When can I marry her?”
“Soon, my friend. Verra soon. Just allow me to finish with the MacNachton first. Either the blood will hold the answer I seek or he is useless to me and I will be rid of him.”
Angus cursed. “What does that business matter? How does my wedding Brona possibly affect that?”
“Because I think my cousin willnae come to the marriage willingly and we will need to be able to watch her verra closely until the deed is done. Come, dinnae look so fierce. Ye ken that I want ye to wed with her. ‘Tis the perfect answer to both of our problems. Ye will get the woman ye have been lusting after for years and I will get her dowry to fill my empty purse. I dinnae think ye will need to wait too much longer. MacNachton will soon be dead or he will become our own source of the potion that will bring us superior strength and long lives.”
Brona heard the clink of two tankards knocking together and knew the men were giving each other a silent toast to the success of their plans. Numb with shock, she decided she had heard all she could stomach for now and she started on her way back to the solar. It was not only MacNachton she needed to worry about now. Her own life was in danger for she had no doubt that marriage to Angus Kerr would kill her, if not in body, certainly in mind and spirit.
She reached her bedchamber without anyone seeing her, much to her relief. Brona was sure that anyone meeting her would have immediately seen that something was wrong and she doubted she could have given them a plausible excuse for her obvious upset. Washing up and changing into her night shift, she crawled into her small bed. Thor immediately curled up on the sheepskin rug by the side of the bed and Havoc sought his usual place at her feet, but she did not find the comfort she usually did in their presence. She needed to think about all she had heard and make some very hard decisions.
Sir Heming MacNachton concerned her first. He truly had drunk Peter’s blood. It was hard to believe that a man would do such a thing, but she doubted Angus and Hervey were mistaken. They had obviously expected MacNachton to do just what he had done. And yet they did not think MacNachton was a demon. Despite hearing what he had done, Brona could not make herself believe it either. But what could he be if not a demon?
She thought of the man she had seen in the cage, of his wild beauty, and hoped she was not being swayed by his appearance. It was said that the devil tempted men and women with all they desired and any woman would desire a man like Sir Heming MacNachton. Brona knew she should be horrified that he had fed upon the blood of a man, and a part of her was, and yet she could not bring herself to condemn him for it. All she could keep thinking of was that he had not killed Peter, that he had not even sought out the man for his blood but had it forced upon him. If Sir Heming needed such sustenance then having a bleeding Peter shoved under his nose in the time of his greatest need must have been no more than another torment. She sincerely doubted the man had wanted others to see him do something like that.
As if sensing her agitation, Thor sat up and rested his head on the edge of the bed. A moment later she felt Havoc curl up against her back, his deep rumbling purr sounding quite loud in the silent room. Brona smiled faintly as she scratched Thor’s ears and softly commanded him to lie back down. She left Havoc where he was, rather liking the warmth of the cat’s big body on her back. Brona just wished they could help her make some decision about what to do.
Recalling Hervey’s plan to take blood from Sir Heming, she decided that was all that should rule her decision, that and the fact that Hervey was brutally torturing a man who had never done him any harm. What the man was did not matter. What Hervey was doing was wrong and what he planned to do was even worse. On the one hand, Hervey condemned MacNachton for drinking blood and on the other, Hervey planned to do just that if he discovered that Sir Heming’s blood held the secret of a long life.
Brona realized she had already made her decision about Sir Heming. She was going to try to save his life. Whatever manner of man he was, he did not deserve what Hervey and Angus were doing to him. He certainly did not deserve being used by her cousin and his first as a source for whatever magical quality might lurk in his blood.
A shiver went through her as she recalled her cousin and Angus discussing how they would use the man, taking his blood every day in order to see if they could gain the man’s strength and longevity. She had always known that her cousin and Angus were hard, cruel men, but their plan to keep Sir Heming caged so that they could feed off him was beyond cruel. Brona had to wonder if the two men were mad, or at least edging very close to madness. Even if one believed all the tales about the MacNachtons—and she had probably only heard a few of them in the last sennight—what her cousin planned was still madness.
She would take Sir Heming away from them. Brona intended to free Peter, if he still lived, as well as Colin and Fergus. The moment she opened the door to Sir Heming’s cage she would not be able to stay at Rosscurrach, so she may as well help every man in the dungeons flee her mad cousin’s rule. None of these men had done any harm to their laird or anyone else at Rosscurrach. She also had no doubt the men would stay free once their wounds healed. Brona just hoped she would be able to save herself as well.
Thoughts of the threat hanging over her own head started to creep into her mind, but she pushed them away. If she thought about how Hervey wanted her to marry Angus, of how that man lusted after her, she would never sleep or, if she did, she would be plagued by nightmares. She was fleeing Rosscurrach and that was all she would think about.
Closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself, knowing she needed her rest. There was a lot she had to do before she could help the men in the dungeons and herself. She would need to find a place for them to hide and gather some supplies. She would need all her wits clear to prepare for her e
scape and she needed sleep for that. The sooner she, Fergus, Colin, Peter—if he still lived—and Sir Heming got out of Hervey’s reach the better.
Heming rocked slightly, struggling to fight the waves of pain washing over him. The laird of Rosscurrach had a true skill at torturing a man. Worse, Heming got the feeling the man actually enjoyed it. By the time the torture had stopped, Sir Hervey Kerr had been so enraged at Heming’s refusal to tell him anything about the MacNachtons that Heming was a little surprised he still had all his parts.
Not sure why he was fighting unconsciousness and thinking about just giving into it, Heming had his attention suddenly caught by the sound of voices. He wondered why he felt such a keen sense of disappointment when he did not hear the woman’s low husky voice. The two men Mistress Brona had been talking to before leaving were talking to each other now that they were all alone. He doubted they would say anything of any importance, but Heming eagerly grasped the chance to think about anything except the pain wracking his body.
“Do ye think she will come back and set us free?” asked one and Heming recognized the voice as the one named Fergus.
“If she can, aye,” said the man Colin.
“But ye dinnae think she can, do ye?”
“I cannae say. It willnae be easy to get us out of here and she is just a wee lass. Aye, and one who has lived here and been cared for all her life. Weel, until that bastard showed up and sat his arse in the laird’s chair. She will want to and, if I recall right from when she was a bairn, she can be a stubborn lass. Just dinnae feel too unkindly toward her if she cannae do it.”
“Och, nay, I wouldnae. As ye say, she is just a wee lass. But, if we do get free what shall we do? We cannae stay here yet what about the rest of the family?”
“We will get word to them to get away if they fear they may be in danger. S’truth, I dinnae think they will be. We really didnae commit any crime and we have been punished for the one that bastard tries to say we committed. That should be the end of it yet he keeps us here. I still think it may be to feed that beastie in the cage. Weel, the laird cannae say that, can he. I think he willnae be so verra concerned about us escaping. He will be too busy trying to get MacNachton back and mayhap Peter as weel, if the mistress can find him and he still lives.”
Fergus cursed. “The old laird was such a good mon. How could he leave us with this bastard as his heir?”
“He couldnae make Mistress Brona the laird, could he? I like to think the mon didnae really ken what sort of mon Hervey Kerr is, e’en if that makes the old laird sound a bit of a fool.”
Obviously Hervey Kerr was not the usual sort amongst the Kerrs of Rosscurrach, thought Heming. If he ever did reach his kinsmen he would have to make it clear that it was Hervey Kerr and his first who were their enemies. Them and a few of Hervey’s men. For all that he ached to avenge this treatment at Hervey’s hands, he could not allow the innocent to be caught up in that.
“Sweet Jesu, Colin, I hope she does get us out of here and soon. I dinnae want to be dragged afore that demon and have my soul eaten.”
Heming inwardly cursed. A beastie and a demon that ate souls. It was obvious the two men did not share Mistress Brona’s doubt concerning the claims about him and his clan. If there was a rescue, he might not be invited along, especially if the decision was left up to those two.
“Weel, thinking it all o’er I am nay certain he is a demon. Mistress Brona is right. Where is his power if he is a demon, eh? Why hasnae he sent those bastards straight to hell? If ye heed all the Godly men say then that mon down there shouldnae be just setting in that cage letting them torture him every night. He would be ripping those bars apart and killing the men who think themselves so strong they can torture one of the devil’s minions. Aye, and e’en if he stayed a wee while, letting the laird and his men stain their souls nice and black by their own actions, wouldnae he be trying to woo us into sinning? Into giving him our souls?”
“I heard them say he is bound by silver chains and in an iron cage. Mayhap that is what has trapped him.”
Colin’s heavy sigh echoed through the dungeon. “Och, I dinnae ken, Fergus. I just dinnae ken what to think. I saw Peter. I heard the laird say the mon or whate’er he is drank poor Peter’s blood and it healed his wounds. Yet a part of me thinks that, if a mon like our laird can capture and torment a demon, then why are we all told to be so afraid of them? Our laird is no a great warrior.”
“Aye, true enough. Yet what mon drinks another mon’s blood, Colin?”
“A verra thirsty one?”
Heming was almost able to smile as the two men laughed. Unlike so many others Colin was at least trying to reason out what he had seen and heard. Too many heeded the dark tales about his clan and ne’er searched for the truth, simply hated and feared them. It was a shame that Colin’s ability to hesitate before hating would do him little good. Heming needed a free man, a strong one who would know how to get him out of Rosscurrach. Colin was not that man.
“Get some rest, Fergus. I dinnae ken if the lass will be able to help us, but ‘tis best if we stay as strong as we can. This place sucks the strength and life right out of a mon, so resting is e’en more important.”
There followed only a few sighs and soft grunts as the two men obviously tried in vain to get comfortable. Heming closed his eyes, unable to fight the weakness anymore. He was cold and the pain in his body was so unrelenting he wanted to howl until his voice died.
The soft sound of something dripping caused him to open his eyes enough to look down. A small part of his mind was pleased that his ability to see in the dark still lingered, but what he saw chilled him even more than being naked in a cold, damp dungeon. He was still bleeding. It was a slow bleeding, one small drop at a time, but it was an ominous sign. His wounds should have closed enough by now to halt his bleeding.
Heming realized that he might well die in this cursed place. He had thought it before a time or two but had been able to push the thought aside. It was impossible to do that this time. Unless he got some blood soon, he would die. A bone deep chill in his body told him he had lost too much blood to simply rest and recover this time.
Closing his eyes again, he gave himself over to the encroaching blackness as despair swept over him. He did not want to die this way, but it was time to make his peace with it. His kinsmen would avenge him. That infuriated him, for he wanted to kill Hervey with his own hands, wanted to watch the bastard quiver with terror just before he ripped his throat out, but Heming could see no hope of accomplishing that now. He prayed that Tearlach fared better than he. At the moment his only hope of getting out of the trap he had fallen into, of escaping the torment, was a wee lass named Brona. Heming decided it might be time to make his peace with God.
Three
Her heart was pounding so hard, Brona was surprised she could not see the front of her gown moving from the force of it. She could hear the rapid beating inside her head as she crept from cell to cell in the dungeon. Hervey had few prisoners, which made her search much easier. She did not have to keep trying to see if the huddled pile of rags and misery in the corner of each cell was Peter or some other poor soul Hervey felt had wronged him in some way. It also meant she did not have to make any hard decisions about who should be freed and who should be left behind. It appeared that the four men she intended to set free were the only ones in the dungeon.
Finally the light from the lantern she carried fell upon the huddled form of a man. The fair hair falling in soft waves to a pair of broad shoulders told her that it was probably Peter. His face was pressed against his upraised knees so she could not be certain of that yet, however. It was no surprise that the man was curled up so tightly, either, for he was naked. Brona decided she did not wish to know or understand why her cousin had stripped the poor man of all his clothes. She had brought two shirts and two sets of breeches for Sir Heming, but would now use one set for Peter.
“Peter?” she called and was a little startled by how quickly the man respond
ed to her tentative call, moving his head up enough to stare at her.
“Mistress Brona?” he asked in a raspy voice and even in the wavering glow of light from her lantern she could see him blush.
“Aye, Peter. I have brought ye some clothes. I didnae ken ye would have none at all and had brought two sets of clothing for the other mon, but I think they will fit ye as weel.” When he did not move, she turned her head away and held the rough woolen breeches and jupon in through the bars. “Get dressed and I will let ye out of there.”
She heard a sound as if he was dragging himself across the floor and it was several moments before he took the clothes from her hand. Brona resisted the urge to look at him and try to see why he was moving so slowly. She had the sinking feeling she was going to need Colin and Fergus to help with Peter as well as with Sir Heming, and hoped the brothers had not weakened from the lashes her cousin had given them.
“I wish naught more than to flee from this hell, mistress, but I dinnae think I am strong enough to do so.”
“Are ye dressed now?”
“Aye, mistress.”
Brona looked at him and had to hastily swallow a gasp of horror. She knew she had probably gone nearly as pale as Peter was for she could feel all the blood draining from her head. For a brief moment she had to clutch at the bars of his cell to steady herself. Peter’s throat was not really torn out, but there was a gruesome wound there. She wondered how much of that injury had been caused by her cousin and how much by Sir Heming, but now was not the time to satisfy her curiosity.
As her horror and dizziness eased, her ability to think clearly returned and she frowned. Peter wore no bandage and had no stitches, yet he did not bleed. In truth, he should be dead, having bled his life away soon after the wound was made. Horrible as the wound looked, it was closed tight, not even oozing a small drop of blood now and again. There was livid bruising and a raw, ragged mark, but the skin was not open at any point along the wound. Since he had been wounded only a mere two days ago and she doubted he had any care taken of his wound, that made no sense at all. She was abruptly yanked from her thoughts over that puzzle when Peter began to sink to his knees, the simple matter of tugging on his clothing enough to weaken him badly.
Highland Thirst Page 3
